There are two ways to express the word cunt.

One, the Australian way, everyone’s a cunt. Cunt this; he’s a good cunt. It’s a term of endearment. Or, said dismissively, like how you’d say, oh, what an idiot that person is. Your eyes roll like an 80s sitcom parent regarding their well-meaning but wayward child.

The other, the aggressor, only works if you mean it. You embrace the word, give in to its guttural pronunciations and let the spit fly as you splatter it onto someone. Like a creampie in a Year 6 Bugsy Malone production, not the ones you watch alone in your room, you dirty CUN…

The man at the bar was letting go of the latter. His eyes bulging, sunglasses nearly falling off his head, hands shaking with the power he was wielding, the taboos he was shattering. The recipient was a female member of the bar staff who had just informed him that they’d run out of that Pink Gordon’s Gin he was after. If you are going to drop bombs like that, it may as well be for reasons like that.

As the sharp ‘t’ leaves his mouth with additional spittle, everyone in the pub looks around. Conversations shelved, greetings forgotten, text messages abandoned, their focus was on what would happen next. What would CUNT bring to their evening?

Noah was standing next to the man whilst it was all going on. He had just come up for a Guinness and was now in the middle of a murder scene. Would he be glassed in the interim? As security made their way to the bar, he took a step back, feet and shoes moving from one sticky spot to another. The first security guard put his arm consolingly around the aggressor, and the other placed his hand in his, and together they led him out of the bar slowly and peacefully. The words ‘It’s alright mate, we’ve all had a few’ held in the air and stuck with Noah as he stood there.

‘Can I help you?’ The girl at the bar asked, nonplussed by what had happened.
‘Ummm, two pints of Guinness, please.’ Noah offers meekly, slightly ashamed that he had just stood and watched as the scene unfolded.
‘Great, ten pounds, please.’
In light of current events, Noah didn’t dare to show his displeasure at paying such excessive or is it just standard fare now, prices. The woman didn’t deserve his pettiness.
‘How’s your day been?’ Move on, get back on the saddle. The British way. As the first Guinness sits and waits.
‘Yeah, fine, long. The weather’s good, so it’s been busy. But I’ll be off soon to enjoy some of it.’
‘Any plans?’
‘Party, maybe. Friend of a friend. We’ll see. I want something, though.’
‘I get you.’
‘What about you?’ As she fills the first Guinness to its brim and moves it towards Noah. She gets started on number two.
‘Erm. I’m not too sure. It’s a friend’s birthday. So, I guess it is up to him to decide.’
The second Guinness countdown is on. Other patrons are waiting, but she remains engaged with Noah.
‘Fairs. Just don’t stay here too long; it gets shit in here after half 9.’
Noah smiles. Her honesty is appreciated. I mean, who doesn’t love badmouthing an employer. It’s what they are there for.
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ The second Guinness is being topped up. She slides it over to him with no spillage, although serious wobbles.

Noah collects the two Guinness’s. He smiles a proper genuine smile at the woman. She returns the smile, and they stand looking at one another. The words that should come now don’t, as Noah nods his appreciation and begins to wander back to where his friends are seated.
‘Can I help?’

London, 08.15 am 

Boris didn’t like the smashing at the door. It was too violent for a Wednesday morning. He manoeuvred himself out of bed, stood, and whilst his vest was able to cover his torso, his cock hung limply, unprotected from the world. No morning erection, that’s a shame, he sighed. His head told him it was time to look at his phone. His hands reached out to the bedside table overflowing with useless trinkets, until he could feel the comforting hardness of his phone. However, apart from the emails promising to melt his belly fat away and have his partner look at him with lust again, Boris hadn’t received anything. 

Boris was disappointed. Normally, his love would have sent him a wake-up text and a saucy picture to get him raring for the day. But today, like the entire week, Boris had nothing. It was as dead as a nun’s pants, he mused angrily.  

The banging continued. He moved towards the window and peeked his head out from behind the velvet curtains and cast his eyes down to the source of the furore. On his front doorstep were a couple of bulky looking gentlemen in high-vis jackets. An additional member of the troupe was sitting in a white van, his two hands cradling his phone, which was so close to his face Boris wondered how the light of his obviously titillating video didn’t blind him. 

Boris, bemused and ratty to have been woken up by this peculiar scene, wanted them to fuck off. He didn’t care who they were, or what they wanted, they could be raising money for orphans in some despot state for all he cared, but they weren’t going to get anything from him today or ever. He pulled up the window and poked his head out.  

My good man. What are you doing? 

The high-vises looked up. Boris ran his hands through his hair, and bits of dandruff flew down upon his wake-up call. 

Are you BorisBigBoy69? The high vis with the Ben Chilwell haircut shouted. 

Shocked to hear that name being aired in public, Boris was lost for words.  

How, what, who are you? Explain yourselves. Boris challenged these intruders who knew far too much for his liking. 

His cock was getting cold as the breeze blew in through the window. He pushed his legs together, and his penis fell comfortably between his legs, just like the times at university when he used to do the fruit bowl routine that everyone adored.  

We’re from Only Fans, the high-vis with the skin-fade declared, you’ve not paid your subscription fees, so we’re here to collect what’s due. 

Boris was perplexed. But rather than rationally ask why this happening or look to reach a settlement, he did as he always did, he flared up, lips pursed and told the gentlemen to fuck off to wherever you come from. And with that he closed the window.  

His home was now silent. He peeked out the windows and saw the high-vises looking stunned. Ha, I’ve taught them, Boris crowed triumphantly. One of the high-vises, Ben Chilwell, headed to the van to talk to his comrade. Boris could see there was a bit of debate raging until the sedentary high vis flippantly waved his arm to the back of the van. Ben Chilwell opened the van and appeared to be lifting something out. A ram. Boris gulped. He opened the window again and set to reason with the man below. 

Look, really, is that necessary. This is all a misunderstanding. I’ve got an agreement, well, it’s more than that really. We’re in a relationship you see, and she well, understands my financial situation is a bit fluid currently. Is that really necessary? 

Desperation floods his voice as the ram enters his front garden. The lady at number 55 looks shocked as she leads her children past this ugly scene briskly. The high-vises prepare themselves. Gloves on and they clear their path of anything that could disrupt their smashing of the door. The plants and wellington boots are moved tenderly to a place out of harm’s way. They may be blunt tools, but they aren’t in it for wanton destruction.  

Oh, fuck it, Boris moans. 

He re-enters his bedroom and grabs at his phone.  

Allegra, my dear. What has happened? 

Los Angeles, 12.37am 

Dwayne Johnson, not that one, is woken up by a phone. His six phones lie on the chest of drawers opposite his mattress. No beds here, just a mattress on the floor. He’s been dozing and would happily embrace sleep, but he knows that not answering the phones could mean he can’t pay rent this month. For this grandeur, as he looks around his basement room, the submerged windows flashing with light as Ubers drive past and the constantly sickly smell of weed. Not the good, healthy bud that the state is famed for, but the weed at the end of the bag shit, the stuff you use in emergencies, with the accumulated THC from the grinder, stigs and stems and way too much tobacco.  

Fucking life. Dwayne sits up and pushes himself off the mattress, vest on but nothing below. He moves towards the sound. He goes through each phone till he finds the one causing the commotion. It’s the cash pig line. 

Dwayne must answer this. Cash pigs have to be responded to within ten minutes. They pay that much, it’s the least they deserve. Dwayne needs to get into the right headspace. The phone comes back to the bed with him, and he lies down, trying to get comfortable. He takes his job seriously, and although he could phone it in, rush off answers to peculiar requests and lonely people, he feels a sense of obligation. The partners, as his Boss calls them, are looking for something. Dwayne doesn’t know what but the least he can do is put a smile on their face. He often wonders if they know that instead of their fantasy girls, they are messaging their fears, dreams and daily life with a 27-year-old Dustbowl spawn living in a basement. That might crack the illusion somewhat. 

Dwayne opened the phone. It was BorisBigBoy69. He was one of Allegra’s top partners. In the last twenty-four months, he’d spent over $80,000 on her, buying her everything she asked for and was a member of the High Roller Loverboy Society. The pinnacle of Only Fan subscriptions.  

BorisBigBoy69 was a harmless egg, Dwayne thought, he wasn’t weird, didn’t ask for anything outlandish and his desires of Allegra / Dwayne was straightforward. Something in the morning and a few reassurances during the day. But BorisBigBoy69 hadn’t paid his subscription the past six weeks and to maintain membership he was expected to pay weekly. This has moved BorisBigBoy69 onto the Naughty List, where interest was high for non-payment grew daily and there wasn’t any possibility of credit. 

BorisBigBoy69 sounded frantic. 

Allegra, my darling. What is happening?? Strange men are at my door, they’re trying to knock it down!  

Oh shit, Dwayne reached for the glass of water that had been lurking by his mattress for far too long. He’d heard that OF were pretty hardcore about getting what was owed to them but didn’t expect it to happen so soon. Dwayne played some imaginary keys to loosen his fingers as he thought about the best way to respond. 

Heyyy Hun xxx Oh noooo, emoji, crying face. I’m sooory. But you’ve not paid your subscription. For six weeks! I thought you’d forgotten about me, found yourself someone new… 

The ellipsis should really add to the guilt trip. Dwayne grabbed his laptop to look at Allegra’s account. BorisBigBoy69 had read Dwayne’s message, would he respond? Dwayne saw that BorisBigBoy69 was in her top ten customers worldwide. Fucking crazy. The phone beeped. 

I know my darling. I’ve been a silly boy…It’s all my fault. But never think there is anyone else, cast that thought into the air, my love for you is eternal. How could anyone compare?? But I was hoping that because I’ve been a good boy for so long, you could call off this madness? It’s not the best look for me, having these hooligans break into my home…can’t I have more time to get more financially flexible? Please for me…Your Love… 

What the fuck is a hooligan, Dwayne wondered. 

No can-do darling boy. It’s company policy… and you don’t want your baby to starve, emoji, sad face. 

Dwayne rattled that off quick. Too quick perhaps. He should’ve waited a bit, don’t want anyone thinking this service is automated, which is becoming more of a thing. As well as adding to the drama of it all. He could have made BorisBigBoy69 feel that she was stuck in emotional turmoil about this decision, instead of following a well-trodden script. 

Dwayne moved his legs, so his ball sack wasn’t stuck to his inner thigh. He scrolled through his, Allegra’s, message history with BorisBigBoy69. So, as a member of the High Roller Lover Boy Society, he received an ‘I love you’ in the morning and one other gift every day. In Boris’ case that was a compilation of breast pictures every afternoon. Like clockwork every day. The man needs his after-lunch sustenance. A couple of texts from BorisBigBoy69 exalting, worshipping Allegra’s body and beauty. But apart from that they hardly interacted. What did BorisBigBoy69 do? Dwayne wondered. 

London, 09.01am 

Boris could hear movement inside his home. Blast it all he shouted, grabbing at some pyjamas bottoms and putting them on. His vest tucked into his trousers, because he isn’t an animal. He leaves his bedroom, feels the softness of the carpet under his flat feet and plunges down the stairs into devil knows what.  

Footsteps crashing around, hammers, power tools, voices and their common vernacular being splashed around like a local Wetherspoons. Heathens, Boris thought. He enters the living room; the TV had disappeared. Fine, he can deal with that, he needs to start working on his novel anyway. The two high-vises stand staring at his portrait of a brooding Napoleon Bonaparte. A very impressive piece by Hippolyte Paul Delaroche. Boris had got it at a snip of its market price from a Russian who was selling up shop quickly, he basically handed it to him.  

Nice piece you’ve got here, Napoleon, right? Ben Chilwell shouts without turning around, hearing Boris’ breathing from a mile off. 

How much did you pay for it, skin fade adds. 

Boris, taken back by the attempts at cordial engagement by these looters, is only able to throw together some sounds. 

Thousands, yes thousands it was. Why? What do you want with it? Leave off, I say! 

How much does he owe? Ben Chilwell asks. 

47 grand, skin fade responds. 

Boris gulps.  

Let’s take it. Looks quality. Once we’ve got this, we’ll grab a couple of little extras to make sure we get the full balance, skin fade declares. 

They approach the wall ready to rip it off. Boris is speechless. How dare they? Allegra, I must get her to help me. She can call this off, I’m certain. He runs out of the room, his legs moving like a little cartoon pig up the stairs, to his sanctuary and phone.  

Los Angeles, 01.22am 

The phone beeped. It was Boris. 

Look darling… This is a bit of a hassle now. They’ve taken my TV and my painting of Napoleon Bonaparte which I spent a fortune on. C’mon it is time to call this off please. I’ll pay double, triple even, next month if you can stop these bastards now. What do you say? 

Dwayne was feeling uncomfortable. So, he reached for the handbook given to him on his first day. He flicked through the pages until he found what he was looking for. When dealing a difficult customer about money. Send two texts, if they get funny, report it to HQ and then you can ignore. Was that it? Dwayne wondered. But if that means he can get to bed, then thank the Lord. Boris will calm down, he’ll go back to normal, paying his subscription and adoring Allegra. Yeah, it will be fine. 

Having read the company policy, the last flicker of compassion and concern disappeared. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Dwayne was relieved. BorisBigBoy69 was being a pain anyway. Dwayne took screenshots and sent it onto his bosses. And then, he turned his phone off. He stood up, returned the phone its resting place and got back into bed. Worries flood his mind, not for BorisBigBoy69, but if he’d done the right thing workwise. Had he complied with company policy. Dwayne needed a joint to sleep and the whole room concurred. 

London, 09.55am 

Boris could hear power tools. No reply to his request. He was alone. He could hear the wall being dismembered as the picture was removed. He peeked out the window as Ben Chilwell carried it to the van, skin fade had some candle sticks and other goodies in a box. But Boris was too shocked to care.  

Skin fade returned to close the door. He looked up at the open window. 

Thank you for your cooperation but pay your bills next time.  

He turned and left. Boris was alone. Love in the Modern Age, Boris harumphed. He opened his phone, logged into NatWest and moved all his savings to his OF account. He wouldn’t be caught with his pants down again! 

Hi.

I’m Rupert the Bear, and I’m a porn addict.

Like many of you, I’ve been working home for the past, I’d say, coming up to two full years now. And it has had its benefits. No more commute, I’ve saved a ton of money, more time to myself, to eat better and exercise more. Even manage a bit more of a lie-in now. Some days I just roll out of bed, sit at my rickety desk, laptop supported by numerous text books, pyjamas bottoms and denim shirt on and get cracking with the day. No one the wiser as I pick the sleep crust out of my eye during our morning check-in.

Of course, there are elements of work culture I miss. The ease of people around you, the freestyling conversations, I mean, you can still have those via Slack or video calls, but it seems more formal, forced, the hosting platform like a third wheel in the conversation, ensuring us workers are receiving our daily dose of human interaction.

And I guess another impact of WFH is the increase in my Internet time. I would say I’m probably among the last generation who remembers the Shit Internet. The primitive Internet. No super fast connection. I remember, when I was around 11 or 12, my family had a computer, a big beast of a thing, and we had to dial up connect to get on the Internet. Tiscali, anyone use it? The screeching throughout the house, the waiting.

And phones, no cameras. You could just about play ridiculous versions of popular songs at an exorbitant cost. I had a stupid In Da Club on mine, it sounded like it was made on a shitty school keyboard, I paid £6 for it.

So, I guess I’m saying, as I grew older the Internet progressed and I have benefitted from that, without being actively part of it. I took it for what it was, a tool, a way to A and to B, rather than a new world to immerse myself in. The sub-cultures, games, reality refracted and spiralling. I guess it just didn’t interest me.

But WFH changed all that. Filling the gaps that were appearing my life now. YouTube, that became a thing, David Dobrik, Sidemen, I didn’t give a scooby before all this, but a couple of months into lockdown, these sugar-crack videos became omnipresent in my life. With so much shit going on, and uncertainty, the sliding into another place relaxed me and allowed me to forget about it all. I now knew all the Vloggers, the world inside the box, I know when they drop and to schedule my life around their latest offerings. I’m at their mercy. It’s an addiction, or have I just caught up with the world?

And once the Internet became more of a presence in my everyday, you can bet incognito tabs came into the equation. Porn. Look, we’ve grown up with it, school friends talking during lunch breaks of seeing this, that, curiosity and desire propelling us to go hunting for what we knew so little about.

I would say it is a part of any, predominately, male’s growing up. I remember my first cum, the first real porn video I watched, beyond the soft porn offered to me via Babestation, lesbians kissing, blonde lesbians. My Dad telling me to not look at porn on the family computer as I hadn’t learnt the crucial task of deleting my Internet history, or my brother walking into our shared room, catching me in the act, and I reacted by saying I was just scratching my balls. Embarrassing moments, but part of life. I didn’t care back then, because they couldn’t stop me unless they cut my hands off.

As I grew up, learning to speak and interact with girls/women, my porn habit oscillated. Sometimes a lot, other times not. Depending on my situation, but never a problem. I used to watch porn when I was stoned but that stopped once I realized my brain seriously couldn’t handle weed. But WFH, I’m growing concerned about it.

It is just so easy to do. To pass time, when nothing is happening. And it was fun I mean who doesn’t love that momentary pleasure you receive. The exhalation of tension. But with more time spent consuming this product, the more I was trying to snatch at these moments. It’s a real thing to be de-sensitized to explicit material and it can really frighten the fuck out of you when you fail to get an erection over something that should to all extents and purposes get you hard. To feel nothing. I’d try and touch myself through my trousers as I watched porn just to get something, to spark some form of reaction. To fill the gaps with porn is a sad state of life.

And then the aftermath. The dullness you’d feel. Motivation sapped. Your head a thicc grey. You close your eyes and all you see is sexual acts. Your go to, porn. Not doing anything, porn. It became so easy to just fall into its embrace.

I had/have a partner at the same time. And fortunately it never affected our sex life, I still had desire for them and could perform, as well as I can, so I guess I was lucky. I know it doesn’t always work out like that. But still you’d think that actual physical connection would be enough for me? Why isn’t it enough? And so, it makes watching porn a guilty experience. I’m doing something wrong. How would I feel if they walked in on me doing it, or that you think of someone else, different hair, colour, body shape, ethnicity, gender, are they not good enough?

I’ve now gone a week without watching anything. Let’s see how it looks a couple of months down the line.

The cocky man has left the building. And in his place, there’s a man not quite sure of anything. The man who once professed to ‘smash heads, and bounce’, is now defeated. Leg fucked, ice strapped to his calf, but doing fuck all, in a changing room, that although spacious is more like dead space, surrounded by three people that he truly loves and the rest who he wonders why they are even here. But, he likes them around when he wins. The highest highs can’t last forever, however, and in defeat, there’s just silence. And no one knows what to do.

The cocky man’s head falls back on the wall, he rocks back and forwards, and feels the hardness of the wall on the back of his skull. What do I do now, he muses internally. The work that went into tonight, he knows deep down, whatever he said in the build-up, wasn’t good enough. Not enough training, too many distractions and an underestimation of an opponent who is hungry for their flowers. He remembers that feeling. But knows it sailed away a long time for him. 400 million in the bank can do that to you. He can’t rely on name or a knockout every time. Ah, for fucks sake, he shouts. People look in his direction, but nothing comes from it.

His pregnant wife, there from the beginning, drags a chair across the room and sits down next to him. In the quiet way only women know when their person needs them, she slides her hand into his and squeezes. Injuries and broken bodies can repair, her man is the strongest in the world, but mentally she needs to give him all the strength she can muster. As he feels her hand, the tears begin to fall. The killer, Mr Charisma, the star, has gone, she sees the man she fell in love with all those years ago, the man beyond the bravado. What have I done, he whispers. She squeezes again, to shake him out of this headspace.

The boss enters the room. Greetings exchanged, meaningless words exchanged, promises exchanged. He leaves to talk to the next hot thing. The hanger-ons begin to leave. The agents, PR, randoms who follow the shining star go into the night as the light wanes. The coaches stick around, going through their own post-fight rituals, win or lose. He lifts his fucked leg off the chair and sits upright. Her eyes look for a connection with his. Go and shower, she says calmly, clean yourself up. He nods. She smiles at him. We go again, she squeezes. He looks into her. Does she mean it? For if she doesn’t, and it is more of the same sycophantic pawing he is now accustomed to, then he has no hope. However, all he sees is iron resolve. It’s the same face he sees when he remembers his first amateur loss, with fuck all to his name, the person who supported him, fed and nursed him. Still there, always. Forever.

Everything is fixable, he says. She smiles, her man is coming back to her. But death, she replies. They smile together. He stands. The coaches look to him, one walks over. No, I’ve got this, the wife pushes herself up from the chair. She stands, gathers herself, and puts her man’s arm around her shoulders, transferring some of his body weight onto her. They hop slowly towards the bathroom. You get a good wash now, and I’ll have your clothes all ready for you when you’re done. What are you thinking? Suit. Yes, good plan.

“Hello. I am Teacher James. What’s your name?”

“My name is Kobe.”

“Excellent, Kobe. How old are you?”

“I am eight years old.”

The Aide walks past the child sitting at a table that could eat him up if it wanted to. It could fold into eight or even sixteen parts and leave no trace of the child left. No custom-made Off-White boiler suit and Louboutin trainers. The things that would help you recognize an average eight-year-old child.

The child’s eyes are fixed to his tablet and the bespectacled face and peculiar curly hair of his evening English teacher. The Aide did not know the child was called Kobe. He wanders past, heading towards where his colleagues are, contemplating two questions. One is why do parents choose such ridiculous names for their children. To strengthen or cripple them? Or is it because the teachers are too thick to pronounce their real names correctly.

The other Aides are sitting in the corner of one of the living rooms. On the floor. There are two chairs in the very center of the room. These cost more than the Aides would earn in ten years. They are made from a particular tree that has just recently gone extinct in the Amazon. The Aides are forbidden from sitting on them. A Rothko and some British artist’s work which cost 47 million dollars on the room’s west and east walls. The north and south are all glass, looking out to the dark. No stars to be seen, which is understandable given the air pollution levels grow by the day like it is an unspoken competition amongst all the cities inhabitants to see how high it can go. The Aides only have the birds and helicopters for company.

There is only one plug socket in the cavern that those in the know have described as their bosses’ minimal monastery’. So, they tend to orientate themselves around this life source. They huddle around it each day, like early man and the fire that kept the monsters at bay. They make do with their surroundings. One time, an Aide brought an extension cord in, but the Industrialist’s husband lost his shit about it, saying it ruined the aesthetic. The Aide in question works somewhere in Influencer PR now. Their boss could buy half of Latin America but scrimps on electricity bills.

The Aide sits down. Opens the laptop and starts skimming emails. Tapping on keys. The Aides rarely speak to one another. Unless there is something that needs six eyes rather than two. They work through time zones. They siphon through what-ifs. A terrorist attack in a third-world country, maybe not of interest. But in London and New York, the money gets quacking, and property value starts plummeting. Elections, Famines. Fury. Monopolies rise and fall. Anything happening that The Industrialist may find illuminating.

Currently, however, the inbox marked potentially problematic has been growing alarmingly. The Aides think that she is aware of these and have tried to raise their heads above the parapets subtly, but The Industrialist does not seem to care.

The Aides have taken the pulse of the city and country. The press, the people, the tentacles and demands for oversight are tightening the noose on people like the Industrialist. Desperate for the people’s support, the politicians turn on those who put them in their positions. This is how the Aides perceive it, sitting above the city. This worries the Aides. Not in a life-or-death way, but more all this expensive education and expensive contacts for what? Those hours spent learning enough Bengali to negotiate acres, fridges, ships, and if they want to build an island in their territory, who the fuck’s business is it?

“This place has changed quite a bit.” The Aide offers to the others, seeing if they will take the bait.

Surprisingly, the most experienced Aide responds, eyes never leaving the screen, “Yes, her husband has become obsessed with getting a feature in AD. He’s had me organize a lunch with Advance Publications to get it done.”

The Aide replies, happy for the dialogue, “Don’t you remember when it was all gold and ceramic tigers everywhere?”

The most experienced Aide speaks, “He’s become obsessed with this Danish thing, Hygge I think it is called. He says he wants a cosy home, white, clean looking. Thinks it is very vogue.”

“Yeah, minimalism and functionality suit a 10,000 sq.m2 palace in the heavens. It looks like the aftermath of the Romanovs. Everything’s been plundered.” The Aide says tongue loose through lack of use.

“Whatever keeps them even.” The most experienced Aide retorts, the tone indicating that it may be wise if this conversation ceased.

Silence. And the tapping again.

A reminder pops up on all three Aide’s computers. 

“I’m going now.” The most experienced Aide says. The other two say nothing. The experienced Aide gets up, closes the laptop, places it in a bag, and leaves the tapping and silence behind. 

The Aide walks back through the apartment. Sounds of a child saying Big A, little a, fade from earshot and then a man’s voice screaming at something that had not quite worked out. Another day’s problem. The Aide sees a trench coat and momentarily contemplates taking it for the journey. Then remembers they are going by helicopter. The Aide does not want to feel cramped against a seatbelt and in a heavy, heady silence amidst the clouds with the Industrialist’s breath circling. The Aide takes the stairs up to the helipad. No elevator. The Aide does not want to get trapped and delay the Industrialist.

There is a waterfall running down the middle of the spiral staircase, accompanied by rubber trees and passion flowers, and Bromelia always seeming to be in bloom. The Macaw that used to call this home got sliced up by the helicopter rotor a couple of months ago. It was replaced by Sulawesi Bear Cuscus’s, which were an absolute pain to import and required several greased palms. They shit everywhere.

Why are they taking the helicopter again, the Aide wonders. They once heard the Industrialist and her husband discuss how being stuck in traffic is a poor person’s problem. And until the Government gives the go-ahead for the super expressway for select clientele, which the Industrialist has been demanding built. Especially since a friend of hers was carjacked when she was made to slum it with the pond scum. When that is built, and the Industrialist has received the money from the building contracts, they will stop taking the helicopter around the city.

The Aide opens the door to the night. The Aide is not a massive fan of heights and moves swiftly to the helicopter’s relative safety. If the building explodes, at least the Aide has a shot at survival if inside the aircraft. The Industrialist is already inside the helicopter. She is just staring out the window. The Industrialist says nothing as the Aide sits down, buckles up, and opens the laptop. The meeting that has been called is a bit last minute, but everyone knows it has been on the cards for a while. There has been no desire from the Industrialist to prepare any think points, any requests for cold statistics, or silent calls to allies or possible enemies. The Industrialist is quite decent like that the Aides think. She at least allows her enemies to kowtow gracefully rather than see the family dirt spread across the sixteen tabloids the Industrialist owns globally. Nothing but decent.

The pilot joins them and the co-pilot too. They do not turn around; they get on. The Industrialist is still focussing on the nothing outside her window. The Aide texts the group chat.

Off we go. See you afterwards.

Two immediate blue ticks.

The helicopter lifts off the building.

The Aide has been in the helicopter many times but will never stop loving the view of the city beneath them. Towers everywhere. Flashing in every which color. Surrealist tourist traps that look like floating turds and homes continually growing upwards, like NBA stickmen centers, all gangly and uncouth. People are moving around, doing whatever, unimportant really, behind their double glazing. Every question, strain, and issue are now at a meaningful distance for the Aide, a chance to relax momentarily.

There is not much traffic tonight.

The Industrialist sips on water, unaffected by the skyline. The skyline that she forged out of dust and barren land. You would have thought there would be a touch of pride as she surveyed her city, but her face is sclerotic. It has been seized in an uncompromising pinch, pursed lips, no sign of life, anger, love, nothing. How can she care when her life exists solely in the clouds? She only returns to the squabbling masses to take something she wants or to face down a threat.

The Industrialist wished to kill someone this evening. She had thought about it as the rage grew and grew inside of her, it would be possible, and she would probably get away with it as well.

How dare they?

The cancer at the centre of the country veiling their greed and fear because that is what tonight is about, the Industrialist is sure of this, behind the high-minded declarations and noble soundbites. Preserving their weakening hold on the people by clinging to nationalistic pride and the belief ‘the country’ should be the number one priority. Nation-states, fuck them.

They pass fifteen miles of new residential areas and business districts. Lazy in creativity but full marks for functionality. These buildings just spring up, no one knows who commissions them or who they belong to, they just appear. Ready for another family, another new business to take over its lease. And then the helicopter veers left towards the core of the city. Towards the parks and monuments that the Industrialist paid for. No cars are allowed in this area. The rarefied air aplenty. A decree of the government to protect the virgin lungs of the princelings and tycoon’s daughters who live and school here. The future must be protected at all costs. And screw the rest of the inhabitants, let them suck on the exhausts.

The Industrialist looks down. She hates this part of the city.

She sees where their exulted leader summoned all his sycophants to plant Macondo trees commemorating the glorious new age they were embarking upon. The Industrialist used to sit beneath them on summer days when life was far simpler. The leaves of the Macondo and the Sun, splitting the minuscule gaps between the leaves, made the Industrialist feel like she was under the most wonderful patchwork quilt in the sky. All golden light and deep green. The Industrialist opens the window and spits.

They are nearly there. The Aide sees the nondescript building calling to the helicopter. You would think they would have done something to improve it, the Aide wonders. But they like it like that; no one asks questions about boring places or what goes on there. The Aide tightens, bracing herself, straining as if she was the helicopter landing on the concrete tarmac of the roof. The helicopter lowers, lowers and settles onto the roof: no pop, no bump, no recoil, no whiplash. The rotor starts to slow with nowhere to go. The Aide waits for the thumbs up from the Pilot. It comes, the doors open. The cold night air invades the helicopter. The Aide gathers the things whilst the Industrialist is already out the door and walking towards the rooftop entrance of the building. The Aide must jog around the front of the helicopter to catch up. The thump of the Industrialist’s footsteps on the stairs suggests there is no waiting around. The Aide tries to compose herself, less jogging, wheezing mess more confident business professional, taking the stairs two at a time, trying to compel the body that is far too human and as such limited in its capabilities, to catch up with the Industrialist. It takes three flights of stairs to catch up with the Industrialist. They get to another door and enter a hallway. Red carpet, spotless, washed and ironed this evening: trim hedges, green life, line either side. There is nothing on the walls, no windows, no sounds but the Industrialist’s purposeful steps and the Aide’s scurrying to maintain a respectful distance between them both.

The Aide does not have a clue where they are going. But the Industrialist seems to. She has made this journey before, clandestine chats, favours cashed in and rewarded, information acquired, dragged out of its possessors like a babe, feet first.

They turn left, not a sharp left like those seen in a rabbit warren but a gradual one, a slow change of direction, their bodies leaning into the shift. At the end of the stretch is a door.

“Write down a list of everyone you see at this meeting.” The Industrialist speaks to the air in front of her, and the particles of speech are dragged backwards to reach the Aide’s ears. The Aide nods. They get to the door and pull. Security guards rise, hands move somewhere threatening. The Aide’s heart always goes funny in these instances, and to appease the fears, the Aide’s brain seeks to admit to anyone with the slightest whiff of authority of buying coke semi-regularly. The Industrialist walks in-between the guards, ghosting past like they were nothing. Which for the Industrialist is nearly everyone she comes into contact with. She passes through the room and into another. Gone from the Aide’s view.

The Aide smiles at the security guards who seat themselves. A coop of Aides. The Aide recognizes some of them socially, some from boarding school, one or two are the children of prominent individuals who have been touted as potential matches for marriage. All were carrying the coats, bags, and various shit of their lieges in the next room.

The Industrialist is in a room of people who all know one another, but no one speaks. Associates, you could call them, all belonging to the same exalted category of class. The Untouchables. Some she has known for a long time, worked with, made billions with, hated, betrayed, fucked, loved, just the once, and that was a childish crush. Others, she is surprised they even got through the front door. Yokels from the sticks lucked out one day digging for shit in their backwater villages where incest is a viable life choice and found some minerals that go in all our electronic devices. The Industrialist hates these nouveau hicks. There is a solemn awkwardness amidst all these individuals who make up some of the most influential companies and organizations the country and the world has ever seen. They are all waiting to hear news and have their knuckles smacked like they were all still in school. The Industrialist stays standing and stares out the window. Awake for all extents and purposes to the rest of the world. But her brain is in a state of nothing.

The door opens, and a slim, balding man enters. He looks leaner, more athletic than when she last saw him. His skin taut, the frame of a long-distance runner, with a slightly bouncy walk. He looks like he does not eat anything but dry porridge all day. They went to the same school, the Industrialist, and this gentleman, and looking around the room and in the children’s pen in the accompanying space, accounts for two-thirds of the people summoned to this meeting. Their families were friends, and they would sometimes holiday together in the summer and spring and go skiing when they had the time. He was the youngest of three boys. The Industrialist was the second of four. There is always a healthy disregard for the youngest at gatherings of young people. The endearing image the Industrialist has of this impressive government official, now going through the room, telling these CEOs and visionaries to humbly stay seated whilst loving their fawning and the fear they have of him, him being at the helm of the biggest, nastiest beast who could mince them all into nugget matter, is him weeping under a table. The Industrialist keeps staring at this impressive man. The Official had gone to retrieve a napkin that he had dropped during one of those laborious Sunday family lunches. Once he had gone under the table, he had experienced a barrage of kicks delivered with such venom by all those seated at the children’s table; he broke down and cried. His parents did not care. His Dad complained that he was a constant source of embarrassment. The Industrialist felt no guilt about her participation. She would hate if it were one of her children taking the hits, but she knows they would bite any legs that even dared to look at them funny. In any social setting anyways, there is always one who must be targeted to establish hierarchy. The Official was at the bottom. The Industrialist considers if this experience drove him to get to where he was today. To eradicate that sense of powerlessness, you climb to be something or become a serial killer.

“Please everyone be seated.” The Official smiles, and those who had remained standing so they could twitch in a more open space find a seat swiftly. The Industrialist, too, takes a seat, her eyes still directed to the life outside the window.

“It’s fantastic you are all here. Especially those who have had to travel most of today. We appreciate the respect you have shown.” Respect or fear of house arrest and the seizure of assets, the Industrialist muses.

The Official paces in an eight-shape on the floor, hands mechanically open, palms welcoming and a warm, gleaming smile. “We believe that the time is right to have a little chat with our esteemed business and industry leaders.” The Official breaking them into what is inevitably going to be a vigorous and distressing arse fucking.

“As you may have heard, we are embarking on a new trajectory. Disorderly capital expansion threatens our economy, the people and what we have all built. If this keeps going unchecked, it will push us off course for societal and technological progress.”

Some of the mineral farmers looked a tad unsure. All these big words have knocked them out of their comfort zone. The Official notes the faces, seeing how his audience is reacting.

“This meeting was called not to scare you all,” The Official laughs, like that would immediately dissipate the fears rich people have night and day when someone starts talking to them about taking their money away, “but to simply make you aware of a new perspective, which we are excited about.”

“We foresee coordination of industrial and competition policy. Bringing us and you all closer together. For the betterment of all.” The Official’s face beamed. The smile of an idiot man lost in his dogma. As he brings the hammer down on free enterprise.

“We want your help to drive our great nation to supremacy. To be part of a whole country effort to innovate. We do not oppose your accumulation of capital and power. But feel that your focus has been distracted by short-term profits. Understandable. But we believe that you would all be better served to help us become a scientific and technological leader.”

The Official had finished. The message delivered had been understood by all those present. What was being asked of them and the repercussions if the line was not toed. The Official’s smile kept growing.

The Industrialist spoke, “So, we build you, those you claim to represent, this country, and this is what we get? We put you on the map.”

The tigers and titans in the room sank deeper into their chairs. The snails retract into their shells to avoid being caught by the machetes whirring and thudding overhead.

The Official’s face has taken on an even madder look, the smile so far extended you think the skin around his mouth will rip with all this pressure. He is excited for the jousting which he hoped would come, to defend the Motherland. “No, not in the slightest. We are so proud of you all. See it as us channelling expansion in an orderly fashion. And enacting an industrial policy to take us into the next decade and beyond. Private and public forces united for the betterment of this great nation.”

“You mean stopping anything outside of your agenda.” The Industrialist does not want to stop. If she does not speak now, what was the point of everything? “You are reining us in. You advance, and we are left doing the heavy lifting for no gain. What do we get? Seriously. We spend billions already on your little pet projects, help you keep the public under lock and key. And I see no benefit to myself, my company or any of those around me today.”

The Industrialist keeps staring into the Official to look beyond the fanaticism in his eyes. “Without us, you would still be shitting outside, desperate for World Bank handouts. Let us grow, so when we think it is appropriate, we will share our hard work with the country. It is not the other way, I’m afraid.”

Those in the room look shellshocked. The Official wanders slightly and then calmly and slowly to ensure that the following words he utters are entirely understood by the recording devices currently taping the meeting. He speaks, “So, is this truly what you believe?”

The Industrialist, brash and tired of the child-friendly tone the Official has adopted, responds, “Wholeheartedly.”

The Official moves towards the door and pushes it open. His tone is as cold as an automated customer service system. “Well, on behalf of myself and my ilk, I would like to thank you deeply for your contributions and dynamism in bringing our nation a step closer to its rightful place. If you wish to leave, then you are welcome to do so. I’m sure we will be in touch.”

The Industrialist stands. She is aware that she may have just listened to her eulogy. Was it rash for her to speak like this? Those thoughts linger in the atrium of her brain. Doubt, confusion, anger. She tries to bring clarity to absolve her mind. She has done what she feels was right. But the doubt has moved to her whole body. She tries to carry her body with confidence and poise as she leaves her seat and walks past those cowed and ready to bend the knee at a moment’s notice. If one or two had raised their voice in agreement, something could have been done. But that is life. She leaves the room, strides past the Aides, her own desperate to keep up.

Managers prowl like expectant fathers in their little rectangle. Turning on their heels in their £500 clunky trainers, with their pronounced white sole. Their well rehearsed words and 10 syllable instructions go out the window as soon as the players step onto the pitch. Run, hope for a mistake, find space or trick the referee into giving a penalty for your all-hopping Portuguese superstar to score. This is all they can hope for. And it is all they dream about. A win’s a win, and after three defeats on the bounce, The Sun having a field day making witty headlines about your imminent departure, betting companies making money and slashing odds that you will be the next to be sacked (Any other profession that would be disgraceful, can you imagine teachers, firemen, office workers) or Twitter fiends offering their wisdom and intuition, the manager will take the win however which way, for a moment out of the heat, as some other poor sod gets fed to the beast called public opinion, or until the next defeat at least.

All they can do is walk, pace, a prisoner in a 6×6 grassy knell, waiting like Lee Harvey for the CIA to do the work. They hope that their flapping and elaborate gestures are understood by someone, or their voices carry over the fanatical streams of bored YouTubers, saying it as it is, the voice of the bored, common man.

The young 10, Emile Smith-Rowe runs hard. All over the pitch, haring about, you can hear his feet pounding upon the fake grass. His boots ground down, plastic studs left gnarled all over the pitch.

When will they make an environmentally friendly football boot?

Always making himself available, Smith-Rowe finds pockets and helps to link play that would previously have remained unstitched, the ball played backwards rather than pass and move, forward, forward, forward, play into the space manufactured by dummy runs, overlaps, transitions and cock-ups.

The advertising hoards at pitch side pass you by in 30 or 60 second patterns. All depending on how much you are willing to pay for the privilege. 30 seconds will set you back 50K, 60 is double. So what companies do we find ourselves with? Who is happy to splash the cash for the potential screen time in the hope that it will catch someone’s attention. Driving more customers, profits, Google traffic their way. So many ways to make money. We have a pesticide producer from Arkansas, their solution to your crop issues is to reduce the local insect population by a third. A Brazilian accountancy firm, happy to help move your money seamlessly and silently between continents. ‘We don’t ask questions, we don’t need references, just help us to help you.’ What a kind group! A much loved European clothing brand, praised for its utilitarian designs (very a la mode) and its fixed place on the fashion circuit, who acquire all their cotton stocks from the Uighur region of China, picked by those placed in concentration camps because of their religious beliefs. Or even a British cleaning product company, their omnipotent CEO, tired of market domination in the fields of hoovers and toilet brushes, has decided to channel his heft and technical nous into the mass production of drones for active service, soon to replace the police on every street.

Or even #POGBOOM. #POG4PMOFTHEWORLD.

It’s coming though isn’t it?

Eric opens the door. It is Simon. They smile at one another and hug. “Nice to see you.” “Hey man, you good?” Neither pleasantry gets answered, they just kind of say it for forms sake. Simon steps into the flat, “Shoes off?” he asks. “If you wouldn’t mind yeah,” Eric replies. Simon hands Eric the bag which has 8 cans of Red Stripe and Tyskie inside. “Oh, cheers for this man,” Eric says gratefully. “I’ll put them in the fridge.” He wanders down the hallway, takes a sudden right and he is out of sight. Simon bends over and undoes his laces; he opens it up a bit and then pulls the shoe off. He does the same with the other foot and is now standing in green striped socks on a carpet less floor. He moves a step further into the house and closes the door behind him. He places his shoes neatly together against the wall, horizontally, so not to take up too much of the already cramped walking space or to lead to anyone tripping over because of carelessness or inebriation. He proceeds down the hallway, walking past a bedroom on the left, a toilet on the right, another bedroom to the left, a bathroom to the right, he notices another bedroom straight on, but he instead takes the same sharp right that Eric had only moments ago, which has brought him to another area of the flat. He hears a fridge door opening so heads towards the sound, he walks past the living room and into the kitchen opposite. Eric is placing the beers in the fridge although two have been left out on the dining table. “How you been?” Simon asks. “Yeah, pretty good my man,” Eric turns and smiles at Simon. “Busy with work you know, just getting on. You?” Simon moves himself out of the doorway and next to chair, but he does not sit as he knows this isn’t the final destination. He looks around the kitchen and of all the things that stick in his mind is the fact that they must have recently eaten because there are pans and plates performing a form of kitchen Jenga on the rack next to the sink, drying under the prosthetic light. “Yeah same,” Simon says.

“For fuck’s sake.” They both look to the door and beyond, to trace the expletive to its source. “It’s Jonah,” Eric says. “Hi Jonah!” Simon shouts. No response. “You go in,” Eric looks at Simon. “Just need to sort some things.” Simon takes a beer from the table and leaves the kitchen. He walks two steps across the hall and into the living room, where Jonah is sitting on a leather sofa opposite a Television propped up on a dusty stand, PS4 controller in hand. Simon notices the new bookshelf they have got. It’s bigger than the last one he remarks to himself or it may just have more books in it. “New bookshelf?” Simon inquires. “Yeah, they were getting rid downstairs, couldn’t turn it down,” Jonah replies and then coughs. He pauses the game of FIFA he is currently occupied with. “Hello chum.” Jonah smiles in the direction of Simon but doesn’t look at him in the eyes. His body following the accords of social protocols, but his mind is elsewhere. A vacant, warm greeting. He returns to the game. Simon sits on the sofa next to Jonah but far enough away that they aren’t in such close proximity. He places his beer on the coffee table in front, amidst the Rizlas, exercise books and what looks like a multicoloured ash tray with a clay penis stuck to it. He picks up his beer and opens, taking a steady slurp. Simon looks around him, he sees The Streets poster to the left of the TV, he looks behind and sees some arty poster of a club night in the not so distant past. He doesn’t remember being invited to that, but never mind. He can hear activity in the kitchen, it sounds like Eric is putting the plates in their second home, post-Ikea non- acrimonious split. In the sitting room, there is no noise bar the incessant button mashing, the stillness punctured by the jabbing and manoeuvring of joysticks and XOsquaretriangle.  Jonah is making no sound; Simon can’t even hear signs of breathing from his friend sitting less than a metre away. Simon looks to the screen and sees that Jonah is losing 2-0 and the game is at the 60-minute mark. Aware that shame can be an immensely powerful stimulant, Simon keeps his comments about the score line to himself. He’ll wait to the end to start ribbing, Unless Jonah uncovers a secret strength or his opponent has a brain fart, it seems likely that he will lose. His opponent, who the fuck knows who they are, is seriously good. Their passing is sleek and purposeful, it moves through the lines in as quick an amount of time as possible. Jonah is parked in his half. His blocks of four and five stationary as his opponent zips around, waiting for that one intelligent run to get their chance with the keeper, the ball never goes wide, Simon notices, there are no obvious wingers, no Robben’s hugging the touchline. All this person’s team are fixed within a quadrant on the edge of Jonah’s box, they just keep on moving the ball, always in control. Jonah doesn’t seem willing to press in case his opponent slips into the space he has vacated so it seems like the game will die a death, Jonah stuck in his half, as the game is playing on around him, a disappointing, flaccid conclusion. Simon looks at Jonah. He looks pissed and strained. 85 minutes on the screen. Simon thinks it might be safe to take the piss when Eric walks in. Eric is holding a beer and a piece of cucumber. He wanders towards the screen, stares, and then looks towards Jonah. Jonah doesn’t break focus. He seems desperate to protect the score line even though he is losing. Eric guffaws, throws himself into the seat closest to the door and to the right of the sofa and declares, “Jonah, you’re so wank.” He takes a bite of cucumber and waits for Jonah’s riposte. The full-time whistle goes. Jonah exhales deeply, his death by a thousand passes finally granted and he is now able to go in peace. Jonah runs his hand through his hair, “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “That was painful.” “You got battered,” Simon jumps in. Simon feels the precocious balance of power in the room against Jonah at this point, loyalty, friendship cast aside, thus, the perfect time to stick the boot in. Eric, he too riding the current, continues the attack, “You spend your days doing this shit and lose to a 12-year-old Chinese kid?” Simon snorts his beer up his nose as he tries to control his laughter. Jonah stands, obviously pissed off, “Fuck off you cunt,” and walks out of the room. They’ve won and Simon and Eric share a knowing smile. “He never could take it,” Simon says. “I know right,” Eric responds. “Still a child.” They both swig their beers and Eric takes a bite of cucumber. There is silence throughout the apartment. Simon laughs to himself and looks to Eric, Eric looks at Simon unaware that eyes are already planted upon him. They catch eyes and both ping their eyes away, in any direction and to any destination, so to avoid unnecessary contact. “How’s work?” Eric asks. “Yeah, busy, which is good,” Simon responds easily. “Had to work a couple of weekends till things calmed down, but okay-ish now. How about yourself?” “Yeah,” Eric replies flippantly. “No stress my man. Thinking of maybe moving on now, think I’ve got enough experience from this job now. Think it is time to move into the private sector and make some serious money.” “Haha.” They both laugh at this. Simon doesn’t really know what to say to this. He still remembers the guy who would rant about the murderous grip of Capitalism on all our lives. Music is a safe territory for them, their tastes overlap quite frequently, so he thinks he should steer the conversation in that direction. “Have you listened to the new Dylan song? So, fucking good man. So, fucking long though.” They both laugh. “If I’m his age and still able to piss by myself, I’ll be happy. And he’s out here writing songs,” Eric says. “I know it’s crazy,” Simon says excitedly. “Touched by an angel.” Jonah enters the room, a beer from the fridge in his hand, opened. He puts his beer on the coffee table and approaches the sofa. He launches himself into it and now the room is silent. Jonah turns to Simon, smiles, and moves closer towards him. He moves closer, another bit closer and then leaps onto Simon to straddle him. Simon, although taken by surprise, has endured Jonah’s moods, the peaks, and troughs, and so knows to expect the unexpected. “Daddy!” Jonah says in this mock-kawai sickening child voice. Simon is pushing against Jonah with considerable might to deny him any foothold. He punches Jonah twice in the leg, quickfire hits, the second connecting far better, yet this still doesn’t deter Jonah. “Fuck off you prick,” Simon seethes. Eric is laughing at this ridiculous display but the noise he emanates is drowned out by the struggle on the sofa. Jonah makes a low, moaning noise which rankles Simon. “Will you not just fuck off!” Simon punches him again and knees him in the chest. Jonah breaks from the struggle and recoils to his side of the sofa slowly. That latest blow seems to have hurt him, but he is not letting it show. Jonah is smiling, pleased with himself for pissing off Simon but aware enough to know it is not worth anymore physical exertion or pain. “You’re so fucking weird,” Eric says exasperated by what he just saw. Simon is still pissed, “And you’re shit at FIFA.” The real low blow to Jonah. Jonah’s laughing. “Play me then dickhead.” He looks seriously to Simon. “OK.” Simon agrees.

 Jonah picks up the controller he had been using earlier, his special one, imprinted with all his knowledge. Simon must search around for the other as Eric has no clue and is tucked away within his phone, and Jonah wouldn’t do anything to help a rival. He goes over to the bookshelf where he has spotted the other controller laying dormant, Jonah is working his way through the menu’s. “Are we doing random?” Jonah queries as Simon sits back down. “Yeah,” replies Simon. “You have to move your controller;” Jonah says patronisingly. “I know fucktard, I’m just taking my phone out.” Simon removes his phone and wallet out of his pocket and places them on the coffee table. “Hold on.” Simon switches controller settings to match his upbringing on Pro Evo. “Pro Evo?” Jonah guffaws, “Pro Evo is for wankers.” “For you perhaps, you uncultured swine.” Eric laughs at this and then returns to his phone-induced silence. “I’ll go first,” Jonah demands. Simon doesn’t give a shit so shrugs. Jonah hits X, Dutch league, X, French league. Reserve, Jonah says. X, Scottish league, X, International. “Yes, I’ll take that.” X, France. “That’s me done,” Jonah laughs. His mind already racing with the formations and squad he will have to choose from. Simon’s turn. X, Portuguese league, X, Brazilian league, X, Other, X, English league. Ok, Simon says. X, Crystal Palace, X, Aston Villa, X, Burnley. “Reserve,” Simon utters. “Hahahaha,” Jonah chortles. X, Leicester. “I’ll take this lot,” Simon says. “Not going to risk it?” Jonah teases. “Nah, I’ll end up with Watford and be shat on.” They both laugh. “France and Leicester though, seems like a fair match,” Simon says sarcastically. “You can’t dispute the shuffle,” Jonah replies piously. They proceed to Team Management. Simon gets about the business of altering his team swiftly, he goes to a 4-5-1 formation and swaps Albrighton for Harvey Barnes. “You’re such a gimp for doing it, but I appreciate the updated squads,” Simon admits somewhat reluctantly. Jonah is lost in his French squad. He seems stuck, weighing up the age old dilemma of all out attack and trying to fit in as many creative players as possible, which you see if your opponent is a bit shit, or in the instance that your rival may actually be pretty decent, you respectfully go with a solid base with streaks of lower C conservatism. One Nation Tory FIFA. Jonah settles for a 4-4-2, Mbappé and Griezmann up front. “So much pace,” Jonah purrs over Mbappé. “Beep beep beep, boner alert.” Simon reaches over and swings a punch at Jonah’s arm which he moves out of the way of. “Night-time?” “Night-time.” They agree this easily. They move into the pre-game lobby. Jonah game face on, starts doing the drills available in this window, his fingers move around the controller, connecting to combinations, joystick clicking, needlessly stretched. Simon is nonplussed. He looks to the screen and then to Eric. He enquires, “Is there anyone else joining us?” “Daniel,” Eric replies, without looking up. “Cool.” “He’s on his way, think he’s on the train, he doesn’t live too far away, so won’t be long.” “I haven’t seen him in a while,” Jonah joins in, his tongue protruding slightly to the left. “He’s got a new GF,” Simon says. Simon moves his concentration back to the Television and the controller in his hands. He hits start. “Really?” Jonah questions with a surprised tone. The pre-match rigmarole begins, the walk to the pitch, the players shaking out their nerves. “Yeah,” Eric adds a bit more colour to the story, “She’s cool apparently. He seems happy.” “We met her,” Simon says, “They came round to ours a couple of weeks ago. She’s Swedish, I think.” Jonah reaches out his hand. “Good luck Simon.” Simon is unsure if he is being polite or just a plain dick. Simon reaches out his hand and they shake. “Good luck, dick.” Simon says. The game starts. The button mashing drowns out the same old commentary and the same old cliches. Eric is still fixed to his phone and the repetitive upward swipe he is doing would suggest that he is on Instagram. “She’s pretty,” Eric mutters finally. “That was a lot of scrolling you did there. Did you go back to her in high school? You wrong-un,” Jonah laughs. Simon makes a slide tackle, and the referee blows for a foul. “I know right,” he says in response to Eric’s declaration, “She’s a bit quiet but imagine she was just nervous.” “When did you meet?” Eric asks. Simon responds as Jonny Evans heads the ball away. “They came round to ours, a couple of weeks ago, for a drink.” Eric feels upset suddenly for not having been involved in this meet-up. FOMO hits hard. “Cheers for the invite mate,” Eric says childishly. Simon looks to Eric almost apologetically; he would hate to disappoint his friend. Simon is on the attack; a couple of quick passes and Maddison is away. Jonah brings him down quickly. “You cheat!” Simon turns to Jonah disgusted. Jonah, dead eye. “Tactical,” he says. Jonah pauses the game. “What are you doing?” Jonah stands and moves towards Eric. “Let’s see her,” Jonah asks. Eric lifts his arm up, his phone still ensconced in his claw. Jonah grabs the phone and starts scrolling. “She’s pretty hot,” he admits, as his scrolling intensifies, “She doesn’t post anything with him,” Jonah comments. “He doesn’t have Instagram,” Eric says. Jonah processes a couple more pictures. “She’s hot,” Jonah confirms. He sits back down and takes the controller in his hand once more. “May we continue?” Simon says reverentially. Jonah doesn’t respond. Tielemans passes out to Pereira who lines up a cross which is kicked clear by Varane. Corner. Jonah states, “Daniel dates hot girls. It’s quite surprising.” Eric looks up from his phone and is smiling. “What?” he says perplexed. “Well, he’s not classically good looking, is he?” Jonah says this as if he is talking about the sky being blue. “What does that even mean?” Simon joins in confused by this remark. “He’s not ugly, but come on… The girls he dates always seem to be a rung above. I’m simply curious to how he does it. I’m not hating on him or anything. “Jonah doubles down on his offhand comments but is aware enough to add the caveat at the end to avoid any ruckus. Eric laughs loudly, which sounds more forced than natural, at the ridiculousness of Jonah. Simon is on the attack; the ball is being passed around with speed in Jonah’s half. Tielemans receives the ball, just outside the box, Simon goes for a shot, goal. “Woo.” “Fuck sake,” Jonah spits out. Simon takes a sip of beer, revelling in his sudden lead and he allows for the replays of his goal to go over, and over again. “Fluke,” utters Jonah. Simon smiles at this but says nothing. Jonah stops the replays and gets the match going again. The silence returns to the room with the exception once more of the ferocious button mashing and the plastic echo it is making. Jonah, dismayed by the prospect of losing to Simon, has upped his focus and his aggression, whipping his players to press faster. Simon’s passing is slick to get around the kamikaze runners coming at him from all angles, but he is being cautious and is playing short sidewards balls, more as a time wasting exercise than a strategy to create a second goal. Jonah catches Simon late. “Foul.” “Fuck off!” Jonah erupts. “Took the man not the ball,” Simon retorts calmly. Simon cannot resist trying to wind Jonah up further. Jonah is a shit loser and looks pissed whilst Simon appears to have all the cream.

Eric gets up and goes into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and takes out two beers. He places them on the dining table and gets his phone out of his pocket. Mia has texted. “What’s going on? x” Eric responds, “Leaving soon. Waiting on Daniel x” He grabs the beers and wanders back into the living room. Jonah it seems is on the cusp of a goal. Mbappé, finesse shot. “Pow,” Jonah smiles. Eric puts the beer in front of Simon. Simon grabs his phone and starts texting. “Hurry up. Don’t take the piss,” Jonah says impatiently. “Don’t be a cunt,” Simon replies. Simon puts his phone back on the coffee table and picks up his controller. He notices the new beer in front of him and turns to Eric. “Cheers man.” “No stress.” The game continues and Jonah is happy with how dominant he now is. He’s smiling as his tricks and general play all seem to be clicking. Kanté takes a shot from distance which goes wide but the exaggerated oof that comes from Jonah would have suggested to a blind person that he had a goal denied by a heroic last-ditch clearance. “Ooo close.” Jonah jumps onto Simon. Simon hates this version of Jonah. He pushes him off and punches him on the leg. “Stop being a dick,” Simon says to Jonah. Schmeichel boots the ball downfield, who knows where it will end and in whose favour. Eric is playing around on Spotify, he connects his phone to the Bluetooth speakers and the sound of Athletic Progression, a new band he’s been getting himself into, tries to cover up the guffaws, heavy breathing and fingers tapping fanatically. The first song given to them by the all-powerful algorithm otherwise known as Shuffle finishes and Simon says, “I like that, can you send it to me?” “Yeah sure,” Eric replies. 5 seconds later. “Sent.” “Thanks.” Jonah wins the ball in Simon’s half. Pogba passes to Griezmann, “Oh my beautiful boy,” Jonah mutters. He Y’s it to Mbappé running in at an angle. Space. Time. Goal. “Ha haha haha.” Simon exhales distinctly. The loss does not bother Simon, it is a game after all, but the fact it is to Jonah is a thing. He’ll cherish this victory and won’t let it go, annoying everyone around him with his grandiose reimagining’s of what took place. Half time.

Jonah, smiling like a twat, declares “Good game so far!” Simon gets up and heads out of the room. “Toilet,” he mumbles. Jonah regales the room as if he’s looking for something. Eric is on his phone. Jonah doesn’t like silence, he needs voices. “I’ve been thinking,” Jonah says. “Hmm,” Eric responds uninterested. “Daniel is like Unai Emery.” “What?” Eric is flabbergasted by the randomness of this. He’s so shocked that his voice travels up an octave and is followed by a high-pitched laugh. This isn’t a full deep laugh which you associate with something truly funny, but a meagre few note of a laugh that has come about from an awkward situation, where shock has squeezed out this truly malformed creation. Jonah starts his hypothesis, “Emery coaches at top teams, PSG, Arsenal. And you always wonder how he does it? He’s not that good but is always there you know. In the running for the big jobs. It’s like Daniel and girls. They’re always maybe a couple of rungs above and you wonder how that happened?” “That’s the rarest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Eric says dismissively. “And then like what happens with Emery, the girls always work out that maybe Daniel isn’t up to their level, so he gets sacked,” Jonah concludes. The high-pitched laugh returns from Eric, this one endures a bit longer. Simon wanders back in. “What’s up,” he says. “Jonah just said that Daniel was like Unai Emery because he dates girls that are prettier than him,” Eric chuckles. “You’re a weird fuck, you know that” Simon says. “And you’re shit at FIFA,” Jonah shouts. Children in men’s bodies. “Good one dickhead,” Simon replies wittily. Jonah and Simon sit back in their positions, the second half ready to begin. Controllers in hand. Kick off. Eric is curious about where this conversation prompted by Jonah will take them and doesn’t want it to fade into the mire called their attention spans. Thanks, Tik-Tok. “What does that make us?” Eric says his face in his phone and his tone non-committal. He tries to give off a cool detachment but that only works with actual cool people. “Simon, you’re Fergie,” Jonah responds with a tone full of certainty and conviction. Something the other two were not used to coming out of his mouth. “You’ve been together for a while, the relationship is a success obviously, as why else would you still be doing it and you seem happy together,” Jonah says. Simon is surprised. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Simon speaks mock-touched by the sentiments. Jonah scores again, very easy. Focus has switched off from FIFA and is now on this conversation. “Would you agree with Jonah’s assessment?” Eric asks Simon. “Every year trophies, yeah, that would be great. Don’t know though,” Simon laughs. Silence. Simon continues, “Obviously we love each other and don’t want to be with anyone else. But that doesn’t make it easy. I have my things, she has hers too, issues you know, things you wish you could improve.” “Like your Ketamine habit and the fact that you’re shit at FIFA,” Jonah interjects. “Fuck off,” Simon says to Jonah. He picks up his train of thought, “But it’s different definitely. Different from when we started.” Eric grabs the Rizlas off the coffee table and a bag of backy from under a notebook. “More responsibilities.” Eric chimes in and sits back down. “Yeah,” Simon says. “So, what you’re saying is that you are the Sean Dyche of relationships?” Eric questions. “In the Premiership, great, but every season is a bit of a battle, but not like a full-on nuclear war but more constant Stoke on a cold Tuesday night kind of things. You do get your 40 points though.” Simon smiles and nods. “Interesting way of looking at it. Perhaps. I think all relationships as they get older are like that a bit maybe.” Eric with a rolled cigarette in his hand stands and walks over to the other end of the room and opens the door to the balcony which is attached to the living space. The room is a bit quiet now. “Can I make subs?” Jonah asks. “Go for it,” Simon replies with a tone that would suggest his heart and attention aren’t in it anymore. “What about Eric?” Simon says, as Jonah’s hands move swiftly swapping players and formations for what he hopes will be a final blowout. Eric was looking out to the world of North West London but returns to the room with a smile, liking the attention. “What do you think?” Eric smiles. “They’re basically the same person, aren’t they? Him and Mia,” Simon says considerately. “Both a bit weird, kooky,” Jonah joins in. “Hahaha.” They all laugh. United by shared history that prompted by as little a thing as a word, memories and moments flood their brains. “She likes crystals. There’s some passion there,” Simon adds. Eric’s face starts to turn a little strained, uncomfortable at the way this conversation is going, the attention always appreciated but not if the focus goes beyond skin-level to like actual feelings and stuff. “I imagine it can be interesting, definitely not boring,” Jonah continues. “Hmm,” Eric murmurs as he drags the cigarette hoping that he can suck the life out of this conversation. “Klopp?” Simon offers up. “Ha haha, I’ll take that,” Eric says with a relieved tone. Eric’s phone begins to buzz. He leaves the cigarette on the windowsill. “Mind the curtains!” An irate Jonah shouts as notices the potential fire hazard. Eric takes a millisecond longer crossing in front of the Television so to block Jonah’s vision. “Dick,” Jonah utters poisonously. Eric answers the phone. “Hi. Cool yeah, I’m here with Jonah and Si.” “Is that Daniel?” Simon queries. “Yeah,” Eric responds to Simon. “Tell him to suck his mother,” Simon says. “Si tells you to suck your mother,” Eric speaks down the phone. He listens. “He says you’re cool,” Eric says to Simon, his role as conduit finished. The game has 10 minutes left, Jonah is passing it around and Simon can’t be arsed to chase. “Yeah 3^rd floor, 4^th on the left at the top of the stairs. Jonah’s bike is outside,” Eric says and then stop to listen to the reply. “Because it’s wank.” “Fuck off,” Jonah reacts weakly to this insult of his property. “Do we need anything? Beers please. Cool. See you in 10. Bye.” Eric hangs up the phone. “Daniel will be here in 10,” Eric reiterates the information for the group. “Cool,” Simon speaks. Eric walks back across to the balcony, picks up his cigarette, sparks it again as it seems to have died and looks outwards to the Builder’s depot behind their flat, empty on a Saturday night, as the FIFA game peters out.

It’s warm this morning. There is a kind of white light, white heat coming from the sky as I trudge across the field and leave the walls behind me. My eyes are down at my feet as it is muddy in patches, due to the recent spate of rain we have had, so I need to pick my path carefully and find the ground that has been sufficiently dried out by the Sun. My eyes being so focussed on my feet also provides a good excuse to ignore any eye contact with anyone I may come across and avoid any greetings or communication this hypothetical eye contact may lead to. As you can probably tell, I am not in the mood for this. But to be honest, I have come so far already without any human interaction that I reckon I am safe from it for now. I look up and see the chocolate brown cows laying in a crescent-moon formation, tightly bound, and giving absolutely no shit whatsoever about my presence on their field. I look at my boots and notice that the front is getting wet, the tips of the grass still has remnants of dew from the chill of the night and early morning. I come to the kissing gates; I push it open with a thrust of my lower chest as my hands are recoiled inside my jacket arms to avoid directly touching the metal. Once in I do the same for my exit strategy, a push forwards and slaloming through to the other side before the gate swings back to its resting place. Now I’m in the secondary field. There is a slight ascent to this one and bramble and shoe bushes border the rising rectangle. I am heading for the bench at the top of this field which I’ve always enjoyed sitting and looking out from, and where I know I’ll be alone here. The ground is steadier, the path less trampled by man or animal, more predictable, so I can move at a quicker pace. I want this bench now.

The cows are starting to move around now. Green and blue. Green grass going forth in front of you and the blue sky, cloudless, just there. The trees, in their spring mode, are half full of leaves whilst the other is bare, the black branches scraggly, jagged, jut into the blankness of the blue. If I look further into the distance, beyond the fields, I see the brutal YMCA building and a crane building another set of luxury one bedroomed apartments. I take a deep breath, the first conscious one of the day. The inhale feels tight as it has been on and off for the last few weeks. This sends my mind wandering and I notice my attachment to the world around me weakening, my focus turned inwards, amplifying my thoughts and spiralling my worries. Am I ill, what is wrong? What has happened, why is it like that. What have I done wrong? I know I am capable of breathing, the unconscious act is keeping me going and has allowed me to walk through the fields without a concern, but when I try and take the wheel, that is when I am running into issues. I would like to get a hold on this. I close my eyes and start to imagine a brick wall, auburn bricks, with an invisible hand spelling out NOTHING in white chalk upon it. I focus on a letter at a time, the building blocks of each, the strokes of chalk to construct one after the other, my mind exclaiming each letter upon completion. Following this same process over and over. The world has properly gone. The fields, the trees, the cows, grass, sky, YMCA. My eyes are focussed on my immediacy, my mind and mouth repeating NOTHING. My eyes see the things that you miss moving about you. The dust, the skin particles moving in the air, lit up by the Sun, a wasp hovers, looking at me, I look blankly at it, our eyes connected, searching the other for threat. NOTHING. I close my eyes, open, and I feel a bit better now.

Someone is coming near. I can hear their feet moving on the path behind me. Though when I turn around to put a face to the shoe size, they are hidden from view by the towering bush. I may not know what they look like, but I can hazard that they will be going either of two ways. They may go straight, following the path and a route that I have never frequented, to an end destination that I will never know. Or imminently, by the sound of it, they will look left, coming to a gap in the bushes where there is a gate, and if they proceed through it, they will enter the field where I am currently its sole inhabitant. They will walk past me with not a word spoken, too wrapped in their own thoughts, thinking about their destination, which again, I will never know. The sound of wood on wood, the gate being pushed and gravity closing it. They have chosen my field. I look further into the distance, trying to spot an old friend from 10 miles away, hoping that my obvious focus will deter any possible interaction. I’m still looking, and all is silent around me. The footsteps have stopped. Are they too gazing out into the world? I don’t want to look round so I keep perfectly still. “May I sit here?” I’m confused and I’m startled by this sudden interaction. And in these moments your brain does not quite connect. Rather than say no, as I wish 5 seconds later I had of done, I slide to the left, offer my hand out like a waiter bringing a patron to the table and utter, “Please”. All whilst keeping my eyes firmly grounded. I do not know who I’m sitting next to. And now we are less than a metre apart. I bring my eyes up from the grass and aim them into the distance, acting as nonchalantly as I can to this invasion of space and time. They seem to be doing the same from the sideways glances that I am casting but I still can’t get a proper look. The cows are starting to move around now, their day’s grazing commencing, although some are still laying, heads up and aware but content in their current situ. The grass will still be there in an hour I guess is their mindset.

I hear movement next to me. It sounds like someone is unwrapping tin foil. That reverbing crackling which scratches your ears. I’m going to look properly now. It is a he. And yes, he’s opening a large bundle of something cocooned in tinfoil. It’s a sandwich. He must have felt my eyes boring into him and he looks up at me and smiles. I smile and return my focus to the cows. Some more have decided that breakfast time is now and so a few less are laying down. He is wearing a blue duffel coat I remember that. And a red hat. I know he smiled but I cannot remember his face. There is some munching now. Close mouthed so at least he has remembered his manners. Intermittent mm’s. He seems happy with his lot. I keep looking onwards into the field and see my first dog and human double act of the morning. The dog so full of life, glad to be stretching out its paws and amazed by the buzz of everything around it, whilst its human accomplice bumbles along still half asleep and their mind somewhere else. “Delicious!” I hear him whisper ecstatically, as if the peak of life on Earth had just been toppled. I turn to him. He’s smiling, looking out onto the world, his face so full of joy, enraptured. “Marmalade. Is there anything better? A slathering of butter, generous heaving’s of marmalade, and there you are. The most fantastic way to start a day!” Unsure of whether that outburst was to me or to no one in particular, I keep looking at him, waiting for a follow-up or anything to indicate my role in this so far one-man monologue. He turns and looks at me. “Do you not agree?” I nod, still unsure of the etiquette in this situation. He continues, maintaining a strong eye contact “Would you like one?” Before I can get out any words of polite refusal, a marmalade sandwich has been rustled out of the tin foil and is in front of my face. “Thank you” I say. “You’re most welcome.” He responds, breaking the eye contact and returning his gaze to the field in front of him. As I stare at the sandwich now in my hand, he has magicked another one for himself and is getting stuck into it. He is kicking his legs in the air; they swing delicately like they were underwater. He seems to be wearing yellow wellington boots. Although unsure of the sandwich and him next to me, I do not want to appear rude, plus my stomach and brain are tag-teaming me with the reminder that I had not yet had breakfast. I take a bite of the sandwich. It is quite delicious. Butter and marmalade make such a good combination and the bread is soft and has that slightly mushed quality that occurs when compressing an item within tin foil. “So, what brought you here?” He asks. “I needed to get out, get some space.” The generosity and sugar seem to have woken me up. “I can understand that, these are strange times.” “Yeah. It’s nice up here. No one really ever sits…on this bench.” I stroke the wood of the seat, thump my knuckles against it. “Yes, you are right. You could walk by here thousands of times and not see anyone. But, here, today, you find us two.” I look to him and see that he has a new sandwich in his hand, how fast did he eat the last one? Whilst I still have over half left. “You could eat those all day, couldn’t you?” I laugh out, looking him direct in the eye to let him know that there is no maliciousness behind my question. “Ha-ha, yes, my one vice. They do tend to prick me up. They are made with love as my aunt used to say, so I’m eating love you know. Like viaticum, food for the journey, it sends me on my way, ready for the world. You know.” I nod in agreement and we both look out onto the land as if we had created it ourselves, taking pride in our toil. The sky is a bit bluer now, the Sun flexing itself onto its canvas, the cows all now standing. “I like coming here. It makes me happy. I feel comfortable and don’t have to worry about what is going on there.” I point to the world below us. I do not know where that outburst came from, I would normally be quite reticent around complete strangers, but he feels different. He may turn out to be a serial killer but right now he feels safe. He smiles when I look to him for understanding, for approval, for anything, I’m not sure. He looks at me and smiles brightly. I feel my confidence and sense of self burgeoned. It’s as if light has been beamed into all the dark parts of me and has forcibly flushed away the shit. I must take a big breath to relieve the head rush I am experiencing. He laughs and slaps my shoulder. “You’ll be alright, everything will be alright. Finish your sandwich and I’ll get you another.” I do as I’m told and finish what’s left in two big bites. He hands me another. He’s staring intensely into the distance, leaning forward to the very edge of the chair like he was looking for someone or something in a crowd. It’s like someone trying to reconnect with their friends at the end of a concert, inspecting each passer-by’s hair, matching voice patterns and accent, clothing, shoes, till they are reunited, or not, and have to take the train home alone. He smiles. And then he laughs, a gentle laugh. He leans back and giggles some more, slouching somewhat as if the exhalation of laughter and the force it required is sinking him into the seat. He points and I follow his finger into the field to a dog and its owner. “Do you know what makes me laugh?” He states. “I see that dog and its owner every day or every time I’m here. And at some point, in the new few minutes, the dog will stop and lick itself all over. Bum, bits, bobs. Totally natural behaviour. I don’t know why they do it, but they do and that’s that. It’s not the licking that makes me laugh. It’s the thought that at some point during the day the owner will want a kiss from the dog, a recognition that they are bonded together by more than food, walks and warm rooms. It’s nice to be affectionate, but those lips, the slobber. I know human beings are a haven of germs and all manner of delights, but every time I see a dog start licking, I can’t help but laugh. It has tickled me since I was a boy, teenager, man and now. Happy or sad, rain or shine, it reminds me of the joy to be found in daily life. Somewhere, even when it is hard to see.” I nod at him, to acknowledge that I have been listening. He continues “Circumstances change. It can lead us up good paths or into pits where we feel…meh. That does not stop our ability to laugh or to be happy. We can feel that the badness is sometimes all there is, but it is not. Dogs licking themselves and kissing their owners, whatever makes a smile break out, keep these thoughts, memories close. It helps.”

It goes quiet again. I think about the things that make me laugh, that make me happy, they swill around my head. He pulls back the blue duffel sleeve and checks his watch. “Oh dear. That the time. The Browns will be wondering where I’ve got to.” He stands. Stretches, hands reaching into the sky like he was about to snatch the Sun from its perch and pocket it for another day. He looks at me and smiles. “Here’s another sandwich, enjoy it. Goodbye!” He turns and walks off down the hill. The colours, the red hat, the dark blue coat, the yellow wellington boots pop against the green and azure of the day. I take a bite of sandwich, not quite sure how I am not yet full or sick of these. I’ll stay here a bit longer I think, I feel comfortable. As he gets to the kissing gates, the cows closest look up and pay attention to this strange looking concept in front of them. He slows his pace, taking little steps to not frighten the cows I imagine.  As he carefully navigates the gates entrance and exit, he raises a hand, a salute, to the wary, observing cows. Still bemused, as he walks past, the cows return to their grazing. Cautious about this strange sight in front of them they will add it to the extensive rolodex of the herd’s, of peculiar human interactions they face daily. He’s becoming a smaller and smaller figure in the distance, head up, absorbing, delighting himself in each new step or new smell or new sight that he comes across, like an alien who has just dropped into Bushey fields. More and more characters, runners, dog walkers, morning strollers have entered the stage in front of me. He’s almost gone, nearly at a point, where he will disappear behind a chain of bushes. He appears to turn at the last moment of visibility and waves in the direction of the bench. I feel his smile on me, as if it were as large as the Sun.

I woke up warm so opened the window and felt the cold breeze. Stuck my head out like a dog with its tongue flapping in the coolness. I felt very much at peace. It rained during the night and looks like it may continue on and off during the day.

Weather Update: It’s very grey but no menacing banks of darkness that would indicate a downpour of biblical proportions. Wash away the sin.

Get your facts and story right, and then you can think about adorning your prose.

Stalin smoking Russian cigarettes and doodling on a piece of paper. He liked to draw pictures of wolves, filling in the background with red pencil. If I ever see a child of mine start doing this, will proceed with care.

Criteria for TARGET SELECTION (Manhattan Project)

1. Obtaining the greatest psychological effect unto Japan.
2. Making the initial use sufficiently spectacular for the importance of the weapon to be internationally recognised when publicity on it is released.

Shock and Awe.

White cherry blossom, they look like snowballs stuck on a stick. Amazing how they appear fully fledged in what seems to be a day. It will be a fleeting joy but what a joy to behold.

Moo cows in the field, lying down in a crescent moon formation with chocolate brown hides.

Jah Wobble- A Very British Coup featuring Mark Stewart

Jackass is making me laugh.

When anxious, sit in the garden if it is sunny. Listen to the world and not my thoughts. See and breathe the outside and not a screen or walls. Count NOTHING in your mind until it all goes away.

Exercise or raising my heart rate causes me to feel light headed. Check this with masturbation. UPDATE. No adverse side effects.

Early morning walks before starting work.

Very windy outside and it seems to be the only sound around as it pushes against the trees, the only thing awake.

Black birds soaring and dropping, catching currents.

Thinking about K alot.

Grey, black clouds on their way out, blue and white wisps are what I can now see from the window.

The jingle of chimes.

The Strokes- Eternal Summer

Pa Salieu- Frontline (Yusuf Dayes Remix)

Hop scotch on the asphalt. The Sun filling your eyes, you close them and all you can see is light.

FIFA is proving difficult to sink into. Maybe it has been too long? I push the buttons but am met with resistance. My reactions need sharpening, knowing when to tackle, execute plays. The game play has evolved and with my time away the intricacies that repeated use secrets you has gone. I don’t understand what works, formations, players. Choosing players based on the correct attributes rather than names. Maybe it is better to go smaller, limited money so you have to spend wisely, only when you have to, on the right player. Slow, slow building of a team working with what you have. More exciting don’t you think, keeps you interested.

Playing your way out from the back, first touches, trying to one touch pass around and being let down by someone’s loss of control. The computer’s countering ability. Saul. A perfect all-rounder but not quick enough. Aubameyang gone. Shall I start defensively as a counter-attacking unit until I feel comfortable in my ability to control a game? And am confident that a loss of possession won’t lead to a goal.

My life is seriously dull if this is preoccupying my mind.

Benny Benny Gantz got into bed with Bibi.

The faces you pull as you swill mouthwash. Utterly ridiculous but you can’t help it. The puffing of my cheeks forces the other areas of my face to move, to react to the somewhat burning sensation in my mouth. Eyebrows raise, eyes moving, nose sniffing. If only I could move my Dumbo ears.

A citrus smell, though one that has rotted in the ground for a number of days and just now been uncovered by a curious dog or hungry human.

I’ve been living out of a hold-all for the last month, all my clothes scattered, lying on top of one another, meshing. I had just left them. Wearing the same things over and over, the only things regularly changing were my pants and socks which I’m glad about, shows my growth I guess, as this might not have been the case 3-4 years ago. I brought too much stuff with me. I grew tired of the tardiness, for a long time I didn’t do anything but it finally snapped. I like looking after my clothes and seeing them in such a state angered me. I wanted more space so should use the space afforded by a wardrobe. So, I put away running gear, pants and socks in a drawer and ironed my shirts, tee’s and hung them up. Leaving my trousers in the bag folded neatly.

Researching SENT-DOWN YOUTH or ZHIQING. Informative link

White light, white haze. Sun in sky, frost, dew on the tips of the grass gets the front of my shoes wet.

Laura Marling- Held Down

The Felice Brothers- Frankie’s Gun

DAY 8

Woke up at 2-ish, hot, uncomfortable. Breathing difficult, panic. Went for two poos in the space of ten minutes.

Scared to fall asleep in fear that I won’t wake up. Fell asleep to New Zealand mauling Ireland.

Tired this morning, anxious. I try to force out tears which helps, talk to people that does too. Don’t understand. Breathing is okay, chest is tight as it was a few weeks ago.

Dua Lipa- Cool

Alan Vega and Revolutionary Corps of Teenage Jesus- Daddy Died

DAY 9

Got up and the first thing I did was shower, which I hadn’t done in a while. Nice.

Got on with work- some bits took a bit of time- learnt how to us the FTP and got on with Clinton Pro-Res. I worked out the TC issue. I have not number keypad so doing it all manually, which is a worthy challenge. Keep calm.

Nice dinner- couscous, falafel and roasted vegetables. I went for a walk after dinner, the light at this time was nice.

K says it was a MEH day. Find the exceptional. Will start that tomorrow with her.

DAY 10

A nice poo to start and soft toilet roll was pleasant.

INERTIA- A tendency to do nothing or to remain unchanged.

Made good cheese and cucumber sandwiches. My favourite or close to. The first sandwich I remember loving, my education up to that point had been ham or marmite or jam. Crisps sandwich came a bit later. Mum taught me how to make them. Grate the cheese, slice it fine, cucumber or red onion if available. Lots of mayo.

K smiling and laughing. She goes to bed early so our chat is short-lived.

Anna Politkovskaya ‘A Small Corner of Hell’.

Mojave 3- You’re Beautiful

DAY 11

Slow day, the connection to the Internet seems to struggle in the morning.

Call from Stevie, catching up and checking in. Nice to see his face and happy he’s in a good place. Like the embrace of new adventures. There is a man content with his lot. I liked that, it gave me desire to try it my own way.

Gandalf meme about porn. It made me proper laugh.

The Districts- Cheap Regrets

DAY 12

Following Paul’s recommendation I gave some time to listening to the birds this morning. Their singing, chirping or conversing to one another. It felt as I stood by the bins like I was encroaching so I kept very quiet. To me it seemed like it is their time, where you don’t hear man or man-made noises as we are still in bed or tucked away in our homes readying ourselves for the day. So, it’s the bird’s world. Their daily morning, meeting, nattering on. It felt very serene.

Watched Zidane.

Tour-Maubourg- Anyway You Want

DAY 13

Strange dreams of faceless people doing strange things.

Be a better man. Run.

Had a Zoom chat with friends. I was quiet but nice to see them all. I feel okay about being isolated. I’m comfortable.

Offset- Heathens

DAY 14

Went running, spontaneity abound in changing my course mid-run. Madness! The lack of cars on the road meant I can run on the smooth the whole way.

Felt super good upon returning home. Stretched too in the morning, try and keep this going.

The Anxiety Gremlin reared its head. My chest/breathing was tight for no reason. If I had a problem I would not be able to run. I hate it. Again, talking about it made peace in my head when other methods failed. N O T H I N G.

Panoply- An extensive or impressive collection.