Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 45

The book 'Insurrection' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle download until Wednesday 15th March 2017

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Insurrection...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Insurrection-A...
Hi

Just to let you know that my book 'Insurrection' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Saturday 11th to Wednesday 15th March 2017. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.
A group of well-heeled, geriatric friends, all ex service men and women, are so incensed at the callous and sustained ruination of their country that they resolve to make a stand, to arm themselves and to fight, to rid the land of their greedy leaders, to attack the political elites in their haven, the Houses of Parliament, even if it means making the ultimate sacrifice - will they go through with their murderous plans? A mad-eyed Preacher - is he all that he seems to be? What links them? Where will they all end up?

Sample below:
All around him lay his comrades, brave men of the 24th. The crack of rifles mingled with the cries of the wounded. He loaded a cartridge into the breach of his Martini-Henry and levelled the bayonet to meet the oncoming Zulus. He felt the warmth against his face, eyes closed he smelt the dry air, a slight breeze ruffled through his hair as he slowly exhaled. He heard the tune of Hound Dog and Elvis blasting away, then a heavy banging...

"Alb, you alright in there?"

"What the...?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, "Bugger."

"Alb?" Gerry sounded concerned; next step would be the warden and the master key.

"Yeah, yeah," he responded, struggling out his chair. His current favourite book, 'The Washing of the Spears ' slid off his lap and onto the floor, "Coming, give us a chance, won't you."
∞
During the years they’d lived in the Eden Hall Retirement Village, as residents died and apartments became vacant, Alb Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot had contrived re-locations until they now lived next door to one another; best friends as children, best man at each other’s wedding, they’d billeted together in the army and saw no reason why they shouldn’t support each other in their dotage. (Alb’s words)

Now Gerry's hands trembled slightly as he put the two mugs of tea on the low table and slumped gratefully into the armchair. He looked across the room; at the lines of bookshelves that held the non-fiction that had sustained his friend for all the years he'd known him. For once Alb had no book in his hand, although one was lying open nearby, instead his attention was fixed on the TV, a large flat screened, surround-sound, effort bought so recently that the excitement of watching even boring shows on such a large and loud scale had yet to wear off. Alb had justified the purchase with the stridently voiced comment that since 'not a lot else' was going on in his life except counting the days to death and since he'd no-one to leave his money to even when that happened he would spend it while he could.

“You're just in time, some people’s issues programme's about to start," he muttered, remote in hand, "that poncey prick Tommy Boyle.”

“Ah, the lie detector show, that crap, turn it up, will ya.” There was apparently even less going on in Gerry's life.

"Did you see old Pete died?" Alb was a font of local knowledge, mostly from reading the obituaries.

"A real shame, he wasn't that old either," said Gerry, for once he too had heard the gossip.

"76 next birthday," said Alb; to them at 80 and 81 respectively Pete had been a mere stripling. "Not yet 76 and his bloody kids bunged him in a dump like that." He shivered; 'that' had been a state-run nursing home and could've been his fate too if it weren't for his Army pension and some good investments. His greatest terror, something that could wake him at night sweating, was the loss of his freedom and his beloved books.

"You'd have thought they could've looked after him, bloody selfish little shits." Gerry was instantly outraged, like blue touch paper lit on a firecracker, "You remember, when my old mum moved in with me and Gwen after dad died, we knew how to look after our own in those days."

"Yep," said Alb, who'd done the same for his dad, "it wasn't all me, me, me back then, people were a community."

"We looked out for each other," Gerry was warming to the theme; though they'd gone over the ground time and again, "no-one would've put their parents away, even in places like this."

He waved his hand to take in the whole set up; thirty-two separate one bedroom, ground floor apartments, arranged in a figure of eight around two central courtyards. Each had its own kitchen and lounge but there were communal facilities; a kitchenette, a sun room, a casual dining area and a large TV lounge. The Eden Hall Retirement Village was well equipped with all manner of amenities; available to all with the money to pay for it.

They fell silent, both taking a sip of tea and staring at the TV, the music started and they were entranced in an instant, part of the show, ready to be introduced to the mess-ups some people call their lives, ready to be entertained.

The host of the show, Tommy Boyle, tall, debonair and utterly lethal, his frame dominating the scene, turned to the large, amorphous mass on his right, “Felicity, please, tell us why you’re here.”

“Well, Tommy,” Felicity (all 22 stone of her) bounced in the chair, her arms gesticulating this way and that, “I’m pregnant right an’ Randall, my boyfriend won’t believe I ‘aven’t ‘ad sex wiv no-one else, just ‘im.”

"Bugger me, I'd believe her," Gerry was leaning out of his chair, nearly spilling his tea, "I'm surprised she's had sex with anybody, I mean who the hell could fancy that?"

The crux of the story laid bare the audience relaxed, waiting for the maestro to begin his dissection; “So for you, Felicity, it's clear, it's your boyfriend's baby.”

“Yeah,” said Felicity, the coquettish look she produced sat uneasily on her shapeless face.

"Right, let's get him in here," said Tommy. He put out one arm in a welcoming gesture and onto the stage slouched a tall and skinny youth with a spotty complexion. He made a face at the audience, some hissing at him having already made up their minds, and slumped into a chair.

"Okay Randall," started Tommy, "Felicity has told us that she's pregnant and that you don't believe it's yours."

"I know it ain't," spat Randall, adjusting his position, angling his body away from Felicity's.

"Gawd, will you look at that," guffawed Alb.

"What a bloody mess," said Gerry, trying to make up his mind if the youth's hair was wet or simply greasy. "A quick spell in the army wouldn't do him any harm."

"Too bloody right," agreed Alb, "reckon that goes for most of the lay-abouts."

"Yor a liar," barked Felicity, rising monstrously from her chair. The two book-end bouncers waiting in the wings moved closer at a quick signal from Tommy but she subsided into her chair as quickly as she'd risen from it.

The argument raged back and forth on screen, the all too familiar pattern of lies and deceit; baring your lives to the studio audience's ridicule as well as that of the watching millions, all in the name of entertainment.

Gerry sighed heavily; the repetition was depressing, "We got any biscuits?"

"No, you got any in your place?"

"No," said Gerry, "but I bet Ken has."

Ken Grewcock lived in one of the apartments along the way, a mere minute's walk yet neither could summon the energy to move; they continued to stare at the TV.

Tommy was in command again, doing his showman bit, playing to the audience, "Okay, Randall, we get the general idea, you don't trust Felicity." He paused for effect, “So, if you don’t trust her, why is it that you’re still with her?"

Randall fidgeted in his seat and played with his nose, then picked it with his thumb, "'Cause I luv 'er, doan I." The camera homed in on Randall's tears and then cut to Felicity. She put out a chubby arm and looked tenderly at him.

"Well, if you love each other so much, why are we here?" asked Tommy, "Surely you can make it work together, for the sake of the baby."

"It ain't my fuckin' kid," retorted Randall, tears dried.

"What makes you think it isn't?" asked Tommy.

"I just know, ok," sullen now, head on chest, his voice a low mumble.

"It's your baby," Felicity's voice was ragged with tears, "I love you an' I ain't been wiv no-one else, on my muvver's life."

"Well, we can establish the truth of that statement," said Tommy, stretching his hand out for the 'golden envelope of truth' in a theatrical gesture, "Felicity took the lie detector test this morning and we asked her 'have you had sex with anyone else since dating Randall?'"

Both Gerry and Alb had leaned forward, breath bated, in an unconscious mirroring of the studio audience's reaction.

Tommy glanced round at the audience and then looked at Felicity, ".....and she said 'No'."

He paused for effect and the audience, expectant, leant further forwards in their seats, a pin dropping would have caused mayhem, "and the lie detector test said.....she was........LYING."

At that the audience erupted with gasps, groans, laughs and general abuse directed at both individuals on the stage. Gerry added his own tirade to the general cacophony.

"D'you know," Alb's voice sounded strained, "I blame Thatcher, her and her 'no such thing as society'. We used to look after each other, in the old days, but it's different today." Gerry had half an ear on the TV and half on Alb, never a good thing to do as he would keep talking until he got proper acknowledgement of his point. "No-one looks out for anyone anymore, as soon as you're old they bung you somewhere to die, 'cause that's what they want to do... forget us until we die, then they whisk us away and bung us in the ground, just like that."

"Yeah," said Gerry, "know what you mean."

"And everything we were, everything we stood for, our experiences...."
Gerry caught his drift, "Yeah ...it's a real shame, a man like Pete, all his memories and now they're all gone, lost forever."

He was now quite depressed and was about to say more when Alb, in one of his quick mood changes muttered, "Still, no use cryin' over spilt milk," whilst pulling himself up and out of the chair. He fiddled with the remote, turning off the TV, "Come on; let's go see about those biscuits."

Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Insurrection...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Insurrection-A...
 

The book 'Insurrection' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle download until Wednesday 15th March 2017

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Insurrection...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Insurrection-A...
Hi

Just to let you know that my book 'Insurrection' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Saturday 11th to Wednesday 15th March 2017. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.
A group of well-heeled, geriatric friends, all ex service men and women, are so incensed at the callous and sustained ruination of their country that they resolve to make a stand, to arm themselves and to fight, to rid the land of their greedy leaders, to attack the political elites in their haven, the Houses of Parliament, even if it means making the ultimate sacrifice - will they go through with their murderous plans? A mad-eyed Preacher - is he all that he seems to be? What links them? Where will they all end up?

Sample below:
All around him lay his comrades, brave men of the 24th. The crack of rifles mingled with the cries of the wounded. He loaded a cartridge into the breach of his Martini-Henry and levelled the bayonet to meet the oncoming Zulus. He felt the warmth against his face, eyes closed he smelt the dry air, a slight breeze ruffled through his hair as he slowly exhaled. He heard the tune of Hound Dog and Elvis blasting away, then a heavy banging...

"Alb, you alright in there?"

"What the...?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, "Bugger."

"Alb?" Gerry sounded concerned; next step would be the warden and the master key.

"Yeah, yeah," he responded, struggling out his chair. His current favourite book, 'The Washing of the Spears ' slid off his lap and onto the floor, "Coming, give us a chance, won't you."
∞
During the years they’d lived in the Eden Hall Retirement Village, as residents died and apartments became vacant, Alb Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot had contrived re-locations until they now lived next door to one another; best friends as children, best man at each other’s wedding, they’d billeted together in the army and saw no reason why they shouldn’t support each other in their dotage. (Alb’s words)

Now Gerry's hands trembled slightly as he put the two mugs of tea on the low table and slumped gratefully into the armchair. He looked across the room; at the lines of bookshelves that held the non-fiction that had sustained his friend for all the years he'd known him. For once Alb had no book in his hand, although one was lying open nearby, instead his attention was fixed on the TV, a large flat screened, surround-sound, effort bought so recently that the excitement of watching even boring shows on such a large and loud scale had yet to wear off. Alb had justified the purchase with the stridently voiced comment that since 'not a lot else' was going on in his life except counting the days to death and since he'd no-one to leave his money to even when that happened he would spend it while he could.

“You're just in time, some people’s issues programme's about to start," he muttered, remote in hand, "that poncey prick Tommy Boyle.”

“Ah, the lie detector show, that crap, turn it up, will ya.” There was apparently even less going on in Gerry's life.

"Did you see old Pete died?" Alb was a font of local knowledge, mostly from reading the obituaries.

"A real shame, he wasn't that old either," said Gerry, for once he too had heard the gossip.

"76 next birthday," said Alb; to them at 80 and 81 respectively Pete had been a mere stripling. "Not yet 76 and his bloody kids bunged him in a dump like that." He shivered; 'that' had been a state-run nursing home and could've been his fate too if it weren't for his Army pension and some good investments. His greatest terror, something that could wake him at night sweating, was the loss of his freedom and his beloved books.

"You'd have thought they could've looked after him, bloody selfish little shits." Gerry was instantly outraged, like blue touch paper lit on a firecracker, "You remember, when my old mum moved in with me and Gwen after dad died, we knew how to look after our own in those days."

"Yep," said Alb, who'd done the same for his dad, "it wasn't all me, me, me back then, people were a community."

"We looked out for each other," Gerry was warming to the theme; though they'd gone over the ground time and again, "no-one would've put their parents away, even in places like this."

He waved his hand to take in the whole set up; thirty-two separate one bedroom, ground floor apartments, arranged in a figure of eight around two central courtyards. Each had its own kitchen and lounge but there were communal facilities; a kitchenette, a sun room, a casual dining area and a large TV lounge. The Eden Hall Retirement Village was well equipped with all manner of amenities; available to all with the money to pay for it.

They fell silent, both taking a sip of tea and staring at the TV, the music started and they were entranced in an instant, part of the show, ready to be introduced to the mess-ups some people call their lives, ready to be entertained.

The host of the show, Tommy Boyle, tall, debonair and utterly lethal, his frame dominating the scene, turned to the large, amorphous mass on his right, “Felicity, please, tell us why you’re here.”

“Well, Tommy,” Felicity (all 22 stone of her) bounced in the chair, her arms gesticulating this way and that, “I’m pregnant right an’ Randall, my boyfriend won’t believe I ‘aven’t ‘ad sex wiv no-one else, just ‘im.”

"Bugger me, I'd believe her," Gerry was leaning out of his chair, nearly spilling his tea, "I'm surprised she's had sex with anybody, I mean who the hell could fancy that?"

The crux of the story laid bare the audience relaxed, waiting for the maestro to begin his dissection; “So for you, Felicity, it's clear, it's your boyfriend's baby.”

“Yeah,” said Felicity, the coquettish look she produced sat uneasily on her shapeless face.

"Right, let's get him in here," said Tommy. He put out one arm in a welcoming gesture and onto the stage slouched a tall and skinny youth with a spotty complexion. He made a face at the audience, some hissing at him having already made up their minds, and slumped into a chair.

"Okay Randall," started Tommy, "Felicity has told us that she's pregnant and that you don't believe it's yours."

"I know it ain't," spat Randall, adjusting his position, angling his body away from Felicity's.

"Gawd, will you look at that," guffawed Alb.

"What a bloody mess," said Gerry, trying to make up his mind if the youth's hair was wet or simply greasy. "A quick spell in the army wouldn't do him any harm."

"Too bloody right," agreed Alb, "reckon that goes for most of the lay-abouts."

"Yor a liar," barked Felicity, rising monstrously from her chair. The two book-end bouncers waiting in the wings moved closer at a quick signal from Tommy but she subsided into her chair as quickly as she'd risen from it.

The argument raged back and forth on screen, the all too familiar pattern of lies and deceit; baring your lives to the studio audience's ridicule as well as that of the watching millions, all in the name of entertainment.

Gerry sighed heavily; the repetition was depressing, "We got any biscuits?"

"No, you got any in your place?"

"No," said Gerry, "but I bet Ken has."

Ken Grewcock lived in one of the apartments along the way, a mere minute's walk yet neither could summon the energy to move; they continued to stare at the TV.

Tommy was in command again, doing his showman bit, playing to the audience, "Okay, Randall, we get the general idea, you don't trust Felicity." He paused for effect, “So, if you don’t trust her, why is it that you’re still with her?"

Randall fidgeted in his seat and played with his nose, then picked it with his thumb, "'Cause I luv 'er, doan I." The camera homed in on Randall's tears and then cut to Felicity. She put out a chubby arm and looked tenderly at him.

"Well, if you love each other so much, why are we here?" asked Tommy, "Surely you can make it work together, for the sake of the baby."

"It ain't my fuckin' kid," retorted Randall, tears dried.

"What makes you think it isn't?" asked Tommy.

"I just know, ok," sullen now, head on chest, his voice a low mumble.

"It's your baby," Felicity's voice was ragged with tears, "I love you an' I ain't been wiv no-one else, on my muvver's life."

"Well, we can establish the truth of that statement," said Tommy, stretching his hand out for the 'golden envelope of truth' in a theatrical gesture, "Felicity took the lie detector test this morning and we asked her 'have you had sex with anyone else since dating Randall?'"

Both Gerry and Alb had leaned forward, breath bated, in an unconscious mirroring of the studio audience's reaction.

Tommy glanced round at the audience and then looked at Felicity, ".....and she said 'No'."

He paused for effect and the audience, expectant, leant further forwards in their seats, a pin dropping would have caused mayhem, "and the lie detector test said.....she was........LYING."

At that the audience erupted with gasps, groans, laughs and general abuse directed at both individuals on the stage. Gerry added his own tirade to the general cacophony.

"D'you know," Alb's voice sounded strained, "I blame Thatcher, her and her 'no such thing as society'. We used to look after each other, in the old days, but it's different today." Gerry had half an ear on the TV and half on Alb, never a good thing to do as he would keep talking until he got proper acknowledgement of his point. "No-one looks out for anyone anymore, as soon as you're old they bung you somewhere to die, 'cause that's what they want to do... forget us until we die, then they whisk us away and bung us in the ground, just like that."

"Yeah," said Gerry, "know what you mean."

"And everything we were, everything we stood for, our experiences...."
Gerry caught his drift, "Yeah ...it's a real shame, a man like Pete, all his memories and now they're all gone, lost forever."

He was now quite depressed and was about to say more when Alb, in one of his quick mood changes muttered, "Still, no use cryin' over spilt milk," whilst pulling himself up and out of the chair. He fiddled with the remote, turning off the TV, "Come on; let's go see about those biscuits."

Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Insurrection...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Insurrection-A...
 

The book 'Insurrection' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle download until Wednesday 15th March 2017

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Insurrection...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Insurrection-A...
Hi

Just to let you know that my book 'Insurrection' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Saturday 11th to Wednesday 15th March 2017. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.

A group of well-heeled, geriatric friends, all ex service men and women, are so incensed at the callous and sustained ruination of their country that they resolve to make a stand, to arm themselves and to fight, to rid the land of their greedy leaders, to attack the political elites in their haven, the Houses of Parliament, even if it means making the ultimate sacrifice - will they go through with their murderous plans? A mad-eyed Preacher - is he all that he seems to be? What links them? Where will they all end up?

Sample below:

All around him lay his comrades, brave men of the 24th. The crack of rifles mingled with the cries of the wounded. He loaded a cartridge into the breach of his Martini-Henry and levelled the bayonet to meet the oncoming Zulus. He felt the warmth against his face, eyes closed he smelt the dry air, a slight breeze ruffled through his hair as he slowly exhaled. He heard the tune of Hound Dog and Elvis blasting away, then a heavy banging...

"Alb, you alright in there?"

"What the...?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, "Bugger."

"Alb?" Gerry sounded concerned; next step would be the warden and the master key.

"Yeah, yeah," he responded, struggling out his chair. His current favourite book, 'The Washing of the Spears ' slid off his lap and onto the floor, "Coming, give us a chance, won't you."
∞
During the years they’d lived in the Eden Hall Retirement Village, as residents died and apartments became vacant, Alb Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot had contrived re-locations until they now lived next door to one another; best friends as children, best man at each other’s wedding, they’d billeted together in the army and saw no reason why they shouldn’t support each other in their dotage. (Alb’s words)

Now Gerry's hands trembled slightly as he put the two mugs of tea on the low table and slumped gratefully into the armchair. He looked across the room; at the lines of bookshelves that held the non-fiction that had sustained his friend for all the years he'd known him. For once Alb had no book in his hand, although one was lying open nearby, instead his attention was fixed on the TV, a large flat screened, surround-sound, effort bought so recently that the excitement of watching even boring shows on such a large and loud scale had yet to wear off. Alb had justified the purchase with the stridently voiced comment that since 'not a lot else' was going on in his life except counting the days to death and since he'd no-one to leave his money to even when that happened he would spend it while he could.

“You're just in time, some people’s issues programme's about to start," he muttered, remote in hand, "that poncey prick Tommy Boyle.”

“Ah, the lie detector show, that crap, turn it up, will ya.” There was apparently even less going on in Gerry's life.

"Did you see old Pete died?" Alb was a font of local knowledge, mostly from reading the obituaries.

"A real shame, he wasn't that old either," said Gerry, for once he too had heard the gossip.

"76 next birthday," said Alb; to them at 80 and 81 respectively Pete had been a mere stripling. "Not yet 76 and his bloody kids bunged him in a dump like that." He shivered; 'that' had been a state-run nursing home and could've been his fate too if it weren't for his Army pension and some good investments. His greatest terror, something that could wake him at night sweating, was the loss of his freedom and his beloved books.

"You'd have thought they could've looked after him, bloody selfish little shits." Gerry was instantly outraged, like blue touch paper lit on a firecracker, "You remember, when my old mum moved in with me and Gwen after dad died, we knew how to look after our own in those days."

"Yep," said Alb, who'd done the same for his dad, "it wasn't all me, me, me back then, people were a community."

"We looked out for each other," Gerry was warming to the theme; though they'd gone over the ground time and again, "no-one would've put their parents away, even in places like this."

He waved his hand to take in the whole set up; thirty-two separate one bedroom, ground floor apartments, arranged in a figure of eight around two central courtyards. Each had its own kitchen and lounge but there were communal facilities; a kitchenette, a sun room, a casual dining area and a large TV lounge. The Eden Hall Retirement Village was well equipped with all manner of amenities; available to all with the money to pay for it.

They fell silent, both taking a sip of tea and staring at the TV, the music started and they were entranced in an instant, part of the show, ready to be introduced to the mess-ups some people call their lives, ready to be entertained.

The host of the show, Tommy Boyle, tall, debonair and utterly lethal, his frame dominating the scene, turned to the large, amorphous mass on his right, “Felicity, please, tell us why you’re here.”

“Well, Tommy,” Felicity (all 22 stone of her) bounced in the chair, her arms gesticulating this way and that, “I’m pregnant right an’ Randall, my boyfriend won’t believe I ‘aven’t ‘ad sex wiv no-one else, just ‘im.”

"Bugger me, I'd believe her," Gerry was leaning out of his chair, nearly spilling his tea, "I'm surprised she's had sex with anybody, I mean who the hell could fancy that?"

The crux of the story laid bare the audience relaxed, waiting for the maestro to begin his dissection; “So for you, Felicity, it's clear, it's your boyfriend's baby.”

“Yeah,” said Felicity, the coquettish look she produced sat uneasily on her shapeless face.

"Right, let's get him in here," said Tommy. He put out one arm in a welcoming gesture and onto the stage slouched a tall and skinny youth with a spotty complexion. He made a face at the audience, some hissing at him having already made up their minds, and slumped into a chair.

"Okay Randall," started Tommy, "Felicity has told us that she's pregnant and that you don't believe it's yours."

"I know it ain't," spat Randall, adjusting his position, angling his body away from Felicity's.

"Gawd, will you look at that," guffawed Alb.

"What a bloody mess," said Gerry, trying to make up his mind if the youth's hair was wet or simply greasy. "A quick spell in the army wouldn't do him any harm."

"Too bloody right," agreed Alb, "reckon that goes for most of the lay-abouts."

"Yor a liar," barked Felicity, rising monstrously from her chair. The two book-end bouncers waiting in the wings moved closer at a quick signal from Tommy but she subsided into her chair as quickly as she'd risen from it.

The argument raged back and forth on screen, the all too familiar pattern of lies and deceit; baring your lives to the studio audience's ridicule as well as that of the watching millions, all in the name of entertainment.

Gerry sighed heavily; the repetition was depressing, "We got any biscuits?"

"No, you got any in your place?"

"No," said Gerry, "but I bet Ken has."

Ken Grewcock lived in one of the apartments along the way, a mere minute's walk yet neither could summon the energy to move; they continued to stare at the TV.

Tommy was in command again, doing his showman bit, playing to the audience, "Okay, Randall, we get the general idea, you don't trust Felicity." He paused for effect, “So, if you don’t trust her, why is it that you’re still with her?"

Randall fidgeted in his seat and played with his nose, then picked it with his thumb, "'Cause I luv 'er, doan I." The camera homed in on Randall's tears and then cut to Felicity. She put out a chubby arm and looked tenderly at him.

"Well, if you love each other so much, why are we here?" asked Tommy, "Surely you can make it work together, for the sake of the baby."

"It ain't my fuckin' kid," retorted Randall, tears dried.

"What makes you think it isn't?" asked Tommy.

"I just know, ok," sullen now, head on chest, his voice a low mumble.

"It's your baby," Felicity's voice was ragged with tears, "I love you an' I ain't been wiv no-one else, on my muvver's life."

"Well, we can establish the truth of that statement," said Tommy, stretching his hand out for the 'golden envelope of truth' in a theatrical gesture, "Felicity took the lie detector test this morning and we asked her 'have you had sex with anyone else since dating Randall?'"

Both Gerry and Alb had leaned forward, breath bated, in an unconscious mirroring of the studio audience's reaction.

Tommy glanced round at the audience and then looked at Felicity, ".....and she said 'No'."

He paused for effect and the audience, expectant, leant further forwards in their seats, a pin dropping would have caused mayhem, "and the lie detector test said.....she was........LYING."

At that the audience erupted with gasps, groans, laughs and general abuse directed at both individuals on the stage. Gerry added his own tirade to the general cacophony.

"D'you know," Alb's voice sounded strained, "I blame Thatcher, her and her 'no such thing as society'. We used to look after each other, in the old days, but it's different today." Gerry had half an ear on the TV and half on Alb, never a good thing to do as he would keep talking until he got proper acknowledgement of his point. "No-one looks out for anyone anymore, as soon as you're old they bung you somewhere to die, 'cause that's what they want to do... forget us until we die, then they whisk us away and bung us in the ground, just like that."

"Yeah," said Gerry, "know what you mean."

"And everything we were, everything we stood for, our experiences...."
Gerry caught his drift, "Yeah ...it's a real shame, a man like Pete, all his memories and now they're all gone, lost forever."

He was now quite depressed and was about to say more when Alb, in one of his quick mood changes muttered, "Still, no use cryin' over spilt milk," whilst pulling himself up and out of the chair. He fiddled with the remote, turning off the TV, "Come on; let's go see about those biscuits."

Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Insurrection...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Insurrection-A...

The book 'Insurrection' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle download until Wednesday 15th March 2017

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Insurrection...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Insurrection-A...
Hi

Just to let you know that my book 'Insurrection' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Saturday 11th to Wednesday 15th March 2017. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.
A group of well-heeled, geriatric friends, all ex service men and women, are so incensed at the callous and sustained ruination of their country that they resolve to make a stand, to arm themselves and to fight, to rid the land of their greedy leaders, to attack the political elites in their haven, the Houses of Parliament, even if it means making the ultimate sacrifice - will they go through with their murderous plans? A mad-eyed Preacher - is he all that he seems to be? What links them? Where will they all end up?

Sample below:
All around him lay his comrades, brave men of the 24th. The crack of rifles mingled with the cries of the wounded. He loaded a cartridge into the breach of his Martini-Henry and levelled the bayonet to meet the oncoming Zulus. He felt the warmth against his face, eyes closed he smelt the dry air, a slight breeze ruffled through his hair as he slowly exhaled. He heard the tune of Hound Dog and Elvis blasting away, then a heavy banging...

"Alb, you alright in there?"

"What the...?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, "Bugger."

"Alb?" Gerry sounded concerned; next step would be the warden and the master key.

"Yeah, yeah," he responded, struggling out his chair. His current favourite book, 'The Washing of the Spears ' slid off his lap and onto the floor, "Coming, give us a chance, won't you."
∞
During the years they’d lived in the Eden Hall Retirement Village, as residents died and apartments became vacant, Alb Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot had contrived re-locations until they now lived next door to one another; best friends as children, best man at each other’s wedding, they’d billeted together in the army and saw no reason why they shouldn’t support each other in their dotage. (Alb’s words)

Now Gerry's hands trembled slightly as he put the two mugs of tea on the low table and slumped gratefully into the armchair. He looked across the room; at the lines of bookshelves that held the non-fiction that had sustained his friend for all the years he'd known him. For once Alb had no book in his hand, although one was lying open nearby, instead his attention was fixed on the TV, a large flat screened, surround-sound, effort bought so recently that the excitement of watching even boring shows on such a large and loud scale had yet to wear off. Alb had justified the purchase with the stridently voiced comment that since 'not a lot else' was going on in his life except counting the days to death and since he'd no-one to leave his money to even when that happened he would spend it while he could.

“You're just in time, some people’s issues programme's about to start," he muttered, remote in hand, "that poncey prick Tommy Boyle.”

“Ah, the lie detector show, that crap, turn it up, will ya.” There was apparently even less going on in Gerry's life.

"Did you see old Pete died?" Alb was a font of local knowledge, mostly from reading the obituaries.

"A real shame, he wasn't that old either," said Gerry, for once he too had heard the gossip.

"76 next birthday," said Alb; to them at 80 and 81 respectively Pete had been a mere stripling. "Not yet 76 and his bloody kids bunged him in a dump like that." He shivered; 'that' had been a state-run nursing home and could've been his fate too if it weren't for his Army pension and some good investments. His greatest terror, something that could wake him at night sweating, was the loss of his freedom and his beloved books.

"You'd have thought they could've looked after him, bloody selfish little shits." Gerry was instantly outraged, like blue touch paper lit on a firecracker, "You remember, when my old mum moved in with me and Gwen after dad died, we knew how to look after our own in those days."

"Yep," said Alb, who'd done the same for his dad, "it wasn't all me, me, me back then, people were a community."

"We looked out for each other," Gerry was warming to the theme; though they'd gone over the ground time and again, "no-one would've put their parents away, even in places like this."

He waved his hand to take in the whole set up; thirty-two separate one bedroom, ground floor apartments, arranged in a figure of eight around two central courtyards. Each had its own kitchen and lounge but there were communal facilities; a kitchenette, a sun room, a casual dining area and a large TV lounge. The Eden Hall Retirement Village was well equipped with all manner of amenities; available to all with the money to pay for it.

They fell silent, both taking a sip of tea and staring at the TV, the music started and they were entranced in an instant, part of the show, ready to be introduced to the mess-ups some people call their lives, ready to be entertained.

The host of the show, Tommy Boyle, tall, debonair and utterly lethal, his frame dominating the scene, turned to the large, amorphous mass on his right, “Felicity, please, tell us why you’re here.”

“Well, Tommy,” Felicity (all 22 stone of her) bounced in the chair, her arms gesticulating this way and that, “I’m pregnant right an’ Randall, my boyfriend won’t believe I ‘aven’t ‘ad sex wiv no-one else, just ‘im.”

"Bugger me, I'd believe her," Gerry was leaning out of his chair, nearly spilling his tea, "I'm surprised she's had sex with anybody, I mean who the hell could fancy that?"

The crux of the story laid bare the audience relaxed, waiting for the maestro to begin his dissection; “So for you, Felicity, it's clear, it's your boyfriend's baby.”

“Yeah,” said Felicity, the coquettish look she produced sat uneasily on her shapeless face.

"Right, let's get him in here," said Tommy. He put out one arm in a welcoming gesture and onto the stage slouched a tall and skinny youth with a spotty complexion. He made a face at the audience, some hissing at him having already made up their minds, and slumped into a chair.

"Okay Randall," started Tommy, "Felicity has told us that she's pregnant and that you don't believe it's yours."

"I know it ain't," spat Randall, adjusting his position, angling his body away from Felicity's.

"Gawd, will you look at that," guffawed Alb.

"What a bloody mess," said Gerry, trying to make up his mind if the youth's hair was wet or simply greasy. "A quick spell in the army wouldn't do him any harm."

"Too bloody right," agreed Alb, "reckon that goes for most of the lay-abouts."

"Yor a liar," barked Felicity, rising monstrously from her chair. The two book-end bouncers waiting in the wings moved closer at a quick signal from Tommy but she subsided into her chair as quickly as she'd risen from it.

The argument raged back and forth on screen, the all too familiar pattern of lies and deceit; baring your lives to the studio audience's ridicule as well as that of the watching millions, all in the name of entertainment.

Gerry sighed heavily; the repetition was depressing, "We got any biscuits?"

"No, you got any in your place?"

"No," said Gerry, "but I bet Ken has."

Ken Grewcock lived in one of the apartments along the way, a mere minute's walk yet neither could summon the energy to move; they continued to stare at the TV.

Tommy was in command again, doing his showman bit, playing to the audience, "Okay, Randall, we get the general idea, you don't trust Felicity." He paused for effect, “So, if you don’t trust her, why is it that you’re still with her?"

Randall fidgeted in his seat and played with his nose, then picked it with his thumb, "'Cause I luv 'er, doan I." The camera homed in on Randall's tears and then cut to Felicity. She put out a chubby arm and looked tenderly at him.

"Well, if you love each other so much, why are we here?" asked Tommy, "Surely you can make it work together, for the sake of the baby."

"It ain't my fuckin' kid," retorted Randall, tears dried.

"What makes you think it isn't?" asked Tommy.

"I just know, ok," sullen now, head on chest, his voice a low mumble.

"It's your baby," Felicity's voice was ragged with tears, "I love you an' I ain't been wiv no-one else, on my muvver's life."

"Well, we can establish the truth of that statement," said Tommy, stretching his hand out for the 'golden envelope of truth' in a theatrical gesture, "Felicity took the lie detector test this morning and we asked her 'have you had sex with anyone else since dating Randall?'"

Both Gerry and Alb had leaned forward, breath bated, in an unconscious mirroring of the studio audience's reaction.

Tommy glanced round at the audience and then looked at Felicity, ".....and she said 'No'."

He paused for effect and the audience, expectant, leant further forwards in their seats, a pin dropping would have caused mayhem, "and the lie detector test said.....she was........LYING."

At that the audience erupted with gasps, groans, laughs and general abuse directed at both individuals on the stage. Gerry added his own tirade to the general cacophony.

"D'you know," Alb's voice sounded strained, "I blame Thatcher, her and her 'no such thing as society'. We used to look after each other, in the old days, but it's different today." Gerry had half an ear on the TV and half on Alb, never a good thing to do as he would keep talking until he got proper acknowledgement of his point. "No-one looks out for anyone anymore, as soon as you're old they bung you somewhere to die, 'cause that's what they want to do... forget us until we die, then they whisk us away and bung us in the ground, just like that."

"Yeah," said Gerry, "know what you mean."

"And everything we were, everything we stood for, our experiences...."
Gerry caught his drift, "Yeah ...it's a real shame, a man like Pete, all his memories and now they're all gone, lost forever."

He was now quite depressed and was about to say more when Alb, in one of his quick mood changes muttered, "Still, no use cryin' over spilt milk," whilst pulling himself up and out of the chair. He fiddled with the remote, turning off the TV, "Come on; let's go see about those biscuits."

Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Insurrection...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Insurrection-A...
 

Hi - today 10th March 2017 is the last chance to get your copy of Uprising FREE from Amazon as a kindle download - hope you enjoy it Arun

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uprising-Aru...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Arun-...

Hi

Just to let you know that my book 'Uprising' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Monday 6th to Friday 10th March 2017. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.

Set in a dystopian future; all wealth is in the hands of the Corporations, the 1% whilst the 99% live in economic debt or poverty on sink estates in the North. Terry works for Relocations, his job is to relocate undesirables to these estates. Unfortunately for Terry he is late for work once too often and is himself relocated to a sink. But Terry is not all he seems. Why is he there and who does he really work for?

Sample below:

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office. He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.
Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.
Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”
The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”


Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uprising-Aru...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Arun-...

Reminder that tomorrow, Friday 10th March' will be the last day you can download 'Uprising' for FREE from Amazon Kindle.

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uprising-Aru...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Arun-...

Hi

Just to let you know that my book 'Uprising' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Monday 6th to Friday 10th March 2017. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.

Set in a dystopian future; all wealth is in the hands of the Corporations, the 1% whilst the 99% live in economic debt or poverty on sink estates in the North. Terry works for Relocations, his job is to relocate undesirables to these estates. Unfortunately for Terry he is late for work once too often and is himself relocated to a sink. But Terry is not all he seems. Why is he there and who does he really work for?

Sample below:

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office. He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.
Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.
Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”
The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”


Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uprising-Aru...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Arun-...

Reminder that 'Uprising' is only FREE on Amazon Kindle download until Friday 10th March

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uprising-Aru...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Arun-...

Hi

Just to let you know that my book 'Uprising' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Monday 6th to Friday 10th March 2017. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.

Set in a dystopian future; all wealth is in the hands of the Corporations, the 1% whilst the 99% live in economic debt or poverty on sink estates in the North. Terry works for Relocations, his job is to relocate undesirables to these estates. Unfortunately for Terry he is late for work once too often and is himself relocated to a sink. But Terry is not all he seems. Why is he there and who does he really work for?

Sample below:

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office. He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.
Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.
Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”
The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”


Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uprising-Aru...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Arun-...

The book 'Uprising' is FREE until Friday 10th March 2017

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uprising-Aru...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Arun-...

Hi

Just to let you know that my book 'Uprising' will be FREE on Amazon for Kindle/PC download from Monday 6th to Friday 10th March 2017. All I ask is that you tell your friends and leave a review.

Set in a dystopian future; all wealth is in the hands of the Corporations, the 1% whilst the 99% live in economic debt or poverty on sink estates in the North. Terry works for Relocations, his job is to relocate undesirables to these estates. Unfortunately for Terry he is late for work once too often and is himself relocated to a sink. But Terry is not all he seems. Why is he there and who does he really work for?

Sample below:

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office. He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.
Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.
Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”
The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”


Happy reading, hope you have a good week.

Cheers

Arun

Amazon .co.uk
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uprising-Aru...
Amazon.com
https://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Arun-...

Extract from the book 'Daydream Believers

Something in the wind - 12



Milton Friedman's misfortune is that his economic policies have been tried
John K Galbraith

The Preacher stood in front of the studio audience. He'd come far since those days on London Bridge, and the empty seats in the old, draughty theatre. Now he had a universal platform; he was on TV and he could access more people than he had ever dreamt possible. Was what he had to say worth risking that? Was Barry right; he should temper his comments, consider what was at stake? If he went ahead with his idea for tonight's show it could all end. He rubbed his face, the mandatory studio make-up irritating his skin. No more time for doubt; he was live.

He didn't bother with the formalities, he went straight in, "Things that bother me, that drive me to distraction, that make me insane, that have me raging at the TV or throwing clenched fists at imaginary targets," he paused, "I used to have a Christian name but now I have a forename, why? Why? Because of the Muslims, because they don't have Christian names we can't have Christian names. Does that make sense to you? There are over 55 million Anglo Saxon Britons in this country; we make up nearly 90% of the population yet because of the Muslims, who make up less than 5%, we no longer have a Christian name, we have a forename."
He resumed pacing, "If they wanted to make the Muslims feel more comfortable why didn't they just put the option, 'Christian name or forename,' on every form?" he stopped and looked out at the camera's red eye, "Makes sense to me."
The studio audience, having started out a little uneasy, was starting to relax.

"Another thing that bothers me, I'm English, born in England, I've always lived in England. I love this country. My ancestors on my father's side are all English, admittedly there has been some degradation on my mother's side, she's Scottish you see," he was laughing now, "I have Scottish family and they're always giving it all that about us English, so ignore that." He continued pacing, "I love England, I support all English club sides when they're playing other countries. Where the Olympics are concerned I support all Britons, even Scottish ones, but the thing that bothers me is that when I complete a form I want to tick the box marked English or British, but I can only find UK National. What the hell is a UK National?" he didn't wait for an answer, "Apparently it is a term used to cover British subjects, but what does that mean?

The audience waited, they wanted to know.

"Well, it means you and me and ex-pats overseas, but it also covers immigrants, asylum seekers and under the Borders, Citizenship and Immigration Act of 2009 anyone who has been here for 5 years," he raised the palms of his hands, "these people are all UK nationals."

He started to pace, "My ancestors have been here for thousands of years, as I am sure have many of yours. My ancestors fought to keep these islands British, to keep them for us, but our leaders, our politicians have conspired to give away our country to foreigners," he paused, "you thought you were British, that you were English or Scottish or Welsh or Irish but you're not. You thought you had a special meaning, that you belonged to a special group of people, that you meant something, well you don't, you're not special, you're just a UK National, the same as any Johnny-come-lately foreigner who turns up at passport control, who wanders in with no empathy and no love of this country, no love of its history, its people, its culture, its heritage, its customs, its religion, its armed forces or its sports teams. Your rights are being eradicated in favour of foreign nationals who have countries of their own to go back to," his voice rose in a shout, "YOU COUNT FOR NOTHING! And you have nowhere to go. This is it."

He paused, the unforgiving studio lights catching a glistening in his eyes, he swallowed hard and continued, "Another thing that bothers me, every poster, every advert, every Government issue leaflet, every NHS leaflet has 1 token white person, all the others are black and Asian, Sikhs and Muslims, Chinese or whatever, in spite of the fact that there are 55 MILLION OF US!"

He picked up the pace, "Now I'm willing to bet that if you find yourself agreeing with what I've just said, if it annoys you as much as it does me then you will find yourself worrying that you're racist. I'll bet that most of you are thinking that about me right now, 'he's racist' so, I will answer that burning question, 'No, I'm not racist'. And on that topic, isn't it funny how one always has to say, 'I'm not a racist but....' You can't say anything about nationhood without feeling the pressure that someone is going to call you racist."

He stopped and stared out into the audience, his concern evident. They looked pressured, but had the safety of silence knowing his questions were rhetorical. A few nodded discreetly but several others seemed to be looking worriedly at black or Muslim members of the audience.

"You are a racist," yelled out a young white male sitting in the centre of a multi-ethnic group.

"I'm a patriot and I want to maintain England's Englishness." Some cheered, others, emboldened by the heckler, booed. "Ask yourself, why are the people coming here so intent on making this country a facsimile of the one they chose to leave? Who gave them leave to change our mores and culture in order to feel more at home? Why are we, the indigenous population finding our rights eroded by laws designed to prevent us raising our objections?"

He let them stew on that for a few moments and then continued, "Precedents from history for you; after the collapse of the Hapsburg Empire in 1918 various countries were created out of the collection of small states and principalities, countries such as Yugoslavia, made up of Croats, Serbs, Bosnians amongst others; Czechoslovakia, comprising Czechs, Hungarians, Germans, Poles Slovakians and Ukrainians; Poland was re-created and given back a huge slice of eastern Prussia, the population being made up of Poles, Ukrainians, Belarussians, Lithuanians, Czechs and Germans."

He walked to the back of the stage and took a sip of water, then walked quickly back, "Thus, a mish-mash of countries were created, populated by dozens of different nationalities, with different religious beliefs; Jews, Christians, Muslims, Greek Orthodox, who all wanted their culture and their religion to be paramount and who wanted their language to take precedence. A great deal of ethnic cleansing took place during World War II, concealed by the war and nothing to do with the Germans. In the latter part of the 20th century Yugoslavia broke apart and descended into the brutal ethnic cleansing that we all saw on our TV screens. In my view, this is where we are headed if immigration to this small island is not curbed."

He paused, "But why are we in this muddle? What's its origin? I believe it is linked not only to the EU but also to the Thatcher and Blair years." He took a deep breath; now was the moment of truth. Barry was right, it was one thing saying this sort of thing in the confines of a theatre albeit being recorded on iPhone and the like, it was quite another saying it on live TV. He faced the camera, "I think we need look no further for our answer than Milton Friedman and Sir Keith Joseph," he paused, there was no reaction; no-one knew what he was going to say, "and I think it is primarily because of their Jewish religion and their belief in a form of Jewish economics."

There was an uneasy stirring in the audience, this was very unsettling for some of those present, "But don't take my word for it, listen to Milton Friedman on YouTube, or read his presentation, 'Capitalism and the Jews,' he is more than willing to propound his view that the Jewish form of capitalism can only thrive in a totally free market and it is this idea that lead directly to the neo Liberal policies of the last three decades." He paced a little, he knew the danger of the line he was treading, "Friedman promotes the free market economy completely and I believe that his economic principles have been adapted to form the basis of the free movement of labour across European borders culminating in the aberration known as multiculturalism."

There was a lot of murmuring; some seemed resolved to leave, others to fidgeting.

"Friedman believed in a free market, a totally free movement of capital and total freedom to make as much profit as possible. Again don't take my word for it, listen to Friedman, read what Sir Keith Joseph wrote. They preached less state control so that the individual could be free to do what they wanted economically. As a result of his ideas, in both Britain and the US, we have an economy run along Neo Liberal lines, the aims of which are to make as much profit as possible for the shareholder with scant regard for the state or the national economy. The argument being that those things will look after themselves. Tell me, how can things look after themselves when the rich offshore their profits and evade paying taxes, refuse to contribute to the rest of society? How can things look after themselves when the rich pay themselves 400 times as much as the average worker? How can things look after themselves when it's the law of the jungle that presides here? Not the Nazi law of survival of the fittest; this is Friedman's law of survival of the greediest. And I ask you, how can we defend ourselves against this evil when we no longer stand together but are separated by the divisive curse of multiculturalism?"

He paused for breath, then was off again, "This conforms to Friedman's teachings; the individual seeking the maximum profit for himself; off-shoring accounts is the natural thing to do, as is sending your jobs abroad to dictatorships where wages are a pittance, as is running the NHS into the ground until it can no longer function, to privatise it and deny us free health care at the point of need. It is free enterprise capitalism that allows them to run down social services, abandon the people, abandon the nation state, abandon the concept of Britishness."

He paused, then changed tack, "It is quite natural that people from countries poorer than ours should want to come here. In of itself, this is not a problem; we have been absorbing small and regulated numbers of immigrants for years. What causes the problem is when the numbers are unregulated, when those coming in are so poor that they will work here for a pittance, when the numbers are so great that whole towns are changed irrevocably. This is happening because the powers that be want us to be swamped, want to destroy our culture, our sense of community and who now aim to destroy our national fabric so that they can fully command our economy and achieve even greater wealth at our expense via the doctrine of Neo Liberalism."

He looked exhausted, the studio lights unforgiving, visible sweat on his face. He spoke more gently now, as if conserving energy, "Friedman explained that his economic policies had been those of the Jews for two thousand years and that they were the most effective policies. This, he said, is why Jews have thrived everywhere. However, he seems to have forgotten that Jesus was a Jew who lived two thousand years ago and he was fundamentally the first Socialist."

His voice took on a desperate note, "The realities of what Friedman and Joseph preached are everywhere around us. This is why our society is collapsing, our social services shrinking and our economy is in ruins. It's why the NHS will be privatised, and it's why this country is being swamped by cheap foreign labour."
"I beg you to turn away from the teachings of Friedman and Joseph and instead look to the lessons taught by the other great Jewish leader, Jesus hrist."

Then he was gone from the stage.

Extract from the book 'Daydream Believers'

Something in the Wind - 16

The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe.
You have to make it fall.
Che Guevara

The Preacher stood at the edge of the stage and stared out, "The time has come," he said, "we are perilously close to the tipping point. If we don't take back our world soon then there is the distinct possibility we will never be able to, that the inheritors of our planet, namely our children, have no idea what it is they are meant to take back."

He started to pace slowly, "Our world is defined by greed, we are led by acquisitive individuals, seduced by beautiful and airbrushed images of damaged individuals. Our souls and minds have been corrupted to the extent that we see only the desperate need for more, a remorseless quest to own this or that, to live vicariously in this PS game, this or that soap, mimic this celebrity or that, use this perfume or have that phone or iPad or tablet. Even more devastating is the fact that the minds and souls of our children have become so corrupted from such an early stage in their development that they have no concept of life before the new religion of greed and selfishness, of self-aggrandisement at the expense of others, at the expense of nature and of our very world."

"This has been nurtured by our leaders for they are the most avaricious amongst us. It is our leaders who have allowed this disease to infest our society where our children are unable to empathise with the each other, with nature, with mankind as a whole. Where our children live their lives via the internet, watching porn, or texting and tweeting nonsense back and forth, where they are unremittingly seduced by adverts on TV, on their PCs, on their tablets or on their mobiles, where they are encouraged to engage in mindless drivel such as 'text your name and your boyfriend’s name and we will tell you if your relationship will last' for which they end up paying a fee, ad infinitum."

He paused, "Our leaders have allowed total commercialism to engulf humanity and they have fostered our basest instincts and our most corrupt urges. They have allowed the high priests of the commercial world to invade our minds and the minds of our young with images of superiority, images that will appear to make us better than others when all the while our actions are making us possibly the worst generation of humans to have ever existed on this planet."

He ignored the gasps of denial that met his words and stopped in the centre of the stage, "Our leaders have created this egotistical and maniacal world of the diseased mind and corrupt soul simply to enable them to rise above everyone else like gods. They have allowed the devil to roam free upon the land, the devil who stokes our most base and evil emotions and desires. Our leaders have encouraged our fall from grace."

He started to pace again, "They have actively consorted with those who would foist the urges of greed and selfishness not just upon us but also upon our weak and developing young, so much so that if we were to try and change our world it is possible that the young would resist us."

He stopped again, "Our leaders have created the religion of consumerism and they have nurtured its growth within the belly of society, they have pandered to the high priests in advertising, in marketing and they have prostituted themselves to the commercial bankers, to the energy giants, to the business consortiums, to the city and they have sold our world and our future and the future of our children who don't know, and may possibly never know, what they have lost."

He started to pace again, "Our leaders have created a religion that has now become greater and stronger than even they could've imagined. This evil beast is now more powerful than its high priests, than its managing directors, than any banking community, than the city itself, for this beast lives off its own energy."

He turned, "It is alive and will resist its destruction, it will send our children out against us, to fight and resist every change that we try to make, every effort at self-discipline, every effort at self-improvement, every effort at changing and improving the world, every attempt to assist the helpless and downtrodden will be crushed by the forces of consumerism, of the forces of greed, of the forces of EVIL."

He raced to the front of the stage, "For be assured the beast does indeed walk the earth!" he shouted, "but it is not as some biblical horned animal, it is as the seed of contempt and selfishness planted deep in the minds and souls of every one of us and it is made manifest in the form of pride, envy, gluttony, lust, anger, avarice and sloth."

He stood and raised his arms, "For these deadly sins are no longer considered to be such, now they are held aloft as goals and ambitions, they are sold to us daily, hourly and sold to our children the minute they can sit and watch a TV, the minute they can operate a mobile or play on a tablet."

He raced across the front of the stage, "All the evil of the world exists in our new government approved and government endorsed religion. So I say to you it is our leaders who have failed us. It is our leaders who have literally lead us down this path. It is our leaders who we must hold responsible and it is our leaders who we must remove forthwith."

Then he was gone. Barry was shaken to his core; this was a call for revolution and it was on camera.