Chapter 3

Chapter 3

``It was a dark when we got to Belgium, it chilled us like an uncooked frozen bag of peas. It was then we saw on the horizon, the basket of pain that we couldn't explain.`` Nicola Roberts from `A tale of two jungles - a pursuit of the soul`

``Well, I might have known...`` Began Chapman.
``What, what is this, young man?`` She asked in astoundmentation of the intrusion.
``This, Mrs Eleanor Rigby, THIS, is the time for being`` ``profound!``.

Had Chapman time earlier to type cast this piece into a gothic horror genre a pipe organ would by now be playing a grand diminished chord and be drowned out by a clap of thunder but this was June and all the pipe organs had migrated south for the season.

The room was dusty and very dark. Only a couple of small windows let through light between the slats of the closed shutters. It reminded Chapman of the bellfry at Winstanley Parish Church of St. Jesus the Martyr but that wasn't important to the story.

Eleanor Rigby sat in a set of prisoner's clothes - blueish grey with black arrows pointing upwards in a rocking chair in the farthest corner of the room. She looked well old but not in the way that old people are old, more old in the way that King Arthur is old - preserved in a moment in time, kept alive only by legend and tuna chunks.

Chapman wondered what to say to the old woman but his thoughts were disturbed mid-think by a sneeze coming from a grand old mahogany wardrobe on the far wall.
``This is an old house`` she explained ``one has to grow accustomed to sneezing furniture.``
``That was no Thomas Chippendale sneeze!`` Chapman declared grandly ``That was the sneeze of a clergyman!``

He had heard men of the cloth sneeze before. Vicars, Priests, Canons, they all sneezed the same. That sickening expellation of the nasal cavity. It made Chapman want to punch something, but this was a profound time in his life and his wits thought better of it. He marched across the room to the old wardrobe and pulled open the door while saying ``A-HA!``. He knew it ``I knew it!``.

There stood before him was the vicar he had dreadded. Dressed in a black hassock, bible in one hand, fist in the other waiting to pounce on Chapman. ``Father Mackenzie I presume...``

``My child, your reverie at the exposition of myneself dost noth astound even to my very self. T'is a vagabond's tale that to which explains thusly why I am myself to be unto found into this very house in such a maner as this.`` No one knew why Father Mackenzie spoke in such an irritating way but he was a vicar and and as a vicar he was accustomed to people not arguing with him. Not really understanding what the vicar had just said, Chapman took a step back to allow the man out of the wardrobe and into the room.

A short silence ensued which was broken by Eleanor Rigby beconing the two men to be seated before her, ``Please be seated before me`` she beconed. ``You, young man are the first visitor we have had since forever. Perhaps before we ask why it is you are here, we should regail you for no good reason with the dramatic and lengthy tale of our story.``
``Perhaps`` responded Chapman with what he hoped was a nonchelant sneer but actually came out as a dirty old man coming onto a waitress type of embarassing comment.

``Our tale begins the very village that we are in at the moment in a time that was ages ago. I had just been released from prison for the crime of Grand Carbohydrate Treason. I was lucky to escape with my life but luckily I knew enough legal speak to plead my case in court. The judge, he declared to me `Dear Eleanor Rigby, where did you hear of such astounding legal terminology. You will be free in six months!!`. Imagine my surprise.

``But on returning home to my beloved Birmingham, I was shunned like a Zolo coal miner standing in the shade in 1980s South Africa. People would walk on the other side of the street from me, thinking their carbohydrates were not safe around me. I overheard rumours of me molesting pasta shapes, kinking spaghettii. It was a bad time. The only person I had to turn to was Father Mackenzie.

``He was the only one who could help me now. Indeed, he helped me fake my own death. Performed the ceremony and everything he did - not that any body came.``

``nobody was saved`` The vicar added softly.

``So I've been living here ever since. Father Mackenzie pops in every now and then with fresh tins of fish and the occasional Mr Kipling's French Fancies. In my day I remember there being pink ones in the box...`` Father Mackenzie looked sheepish like a ewe who'd chew through a screw to stew you anew. ``And this is where I've been ever since, like a tacky parody of Miss Haversham.`` She looked around the room as it holding back a tear and quickly changed the subject ``So, young man, now that I've shared my mostly plagerised tale with you, who are you and why are you here?``

``Well`` Chapman began ``I too have a long and melodramatic tale to regail you with but it's getting dark now so my chase will be cut straight to. I'm a bank robber and I need a place to sleep. I remember this place when I was young and thought `why not`. And the name's Chapman... Man of chaps.``

``Very well Chapman, you must sleep in the lounge, Father Mackenzie will escourt you there. Bon nuit.``

``Later``.

He was lead down the stairs by the vicar. While it was the time to be profound, Chapman thought about Hyunkw and what he'd say to the boy if he were here. He resolved to make his next stop Hyunkw's house and catch up with the boy. He thought about all the things that had happened that day - waking up gagging by a doiley sucked to the back of his throat, driving his car safely, finding out Birmingham had become urbanised and meeting Eleanor Rigby. It was a big day but all he could think about was if Hyunkw was there he'd have laughed so much it would have felt like the sun was shining just on them for one lone moment. It was a heartening thought but a really gay one so he coughed as deeply as he could do without looking out of place and was left to his devices by the vicar.

He grabbed the photo out of his holdel and issued a single tear from his left tear duct like when a cash machine judders the cash card out really slowly instead of jutting it out like it should.

Chapter 2

`The Unamiable Like Mindedness of Criminal Masterminds and Those Who Don't Commit Crimes But Watch Films About Then None the Less` - By Benvolio Haversham-Brown

Chapter 2

`The prisoner knows not the prison, save that of the prison of his heart, the heart of the prisoner` - Muhammed Jones

Chapman lay on a dirty matress in his motel room. He wondered about all the airborne spores and particles from the old matress and covered his mouth with a doiley. He then put a second larger doiley under his elderly head so the pillow didn't infect his scalp. They (people) didn't call him `two doiley Chapman` for nothing. And there he lay for a hundred and fourty nine minutes or there abouts while he slept cradling his holstel full of money.

The sleep with which he was currently occupied came to an end by the occourance of the event of his awakening up. The time at that moment was 10am in the morning. Chapman was used to getting up at seven but under these circumstances decided to let it slide. There would be enough time for re-aligning his body clock in the next coming weeks but now it was time to get a move on and leave. He got up, squinted his eyes and mumbled dramaticly ``but first... ``.

And with that he de-squinted his eyes and picked out his picture of Hyunkw. He held it for a few seconds and out of his left tear duct he reluctantly surrendered a solitary tear. A leak of loneliness.

He returned the picture to the holstel and clapping his hands declared ``right!`` and swept out of his motel room and into his car.

The car was old like the neck of a turkey and yet it still had the manerisms of the very healthiest of necks, like that of a giraffe perhaps. Spritely with a 5 cylinder engine. Just like mother nature intended. At one time in his life, Chapman had penned a poem about the old car.

Oh my automotive dream
You are an octane stream
You help me with my scheme(s)
Because we are a team!

The poem wasn't much but he loved it. He was confident the car felt the same way too. It was blue with a chrome bumper. A big steering wheel for a man with big steering, a grunt from the right pedal and most importantly: No ABS.

Chapman started his car routine that involved checking all tyre pressures (including the spare), coolant level, bulbs, oil condition and level. Some people thought it excessive but considering he was now a bank robber, Chapman was a man who took few chances. He got into the car and buckled the seat belt. He pulled it thrice just to make sure in the event of a collision, his inertia would be well absorbed by the safety device. There were few crime lords who used Chapman as a get-away driver twice.

His destination was clear - the ancient village of Birmingham. He had been there when he was wee. He spent the journey recollecting his childhood memories of this picturesque ideal hamlet. He thought of Birmingham Village Green with Birmingham Village Hall beside. It was a happy place where people minded their manners. Where children were neither seen or heard and old people were always welcomed - fugative or not.

When he arrived he was taken aback. ``what - what is this monstrosity?!`` he yelled like a man consumed by the vision of a megalopolis where a quaint village once lay. As with most things, a solitary tear was emitted from his left tear duct and fell to the ground like a bad juggler's [juggling] balls.

He parked his car in a Morrison's car park, locked the door and tried each door handle in turn to make sure he had locked the car properly. He may have been really old but he was still able to walk to the village green that was now called the Birmingham National and Royal Gallery. He recognised a house across the entrance that was there when he was a child and with a glimour of hope he whispered ``bless us and save us``.

Of course when he was in the midst of his childhood (that is to say when he was a child) this wasn't his favourite house. It was the home of Eleanor Rigby. In those days the Beatles belonged to Birmingham until Liverpool bought the rights to them in 1960s. Eleanor Rigby was an old lady even when Chapman was a chapchild. All the children of the area were terrified of the house and if their ball accidently flew over the railings they would say to themselves `the ball is lost to Eleanor Rigby` and they would bow their heads for the ball would never be seen again.

Such was the terror of the house that some swore she had the face of a mushroom in a jar by the door, though this was often attributed to artistic licence. Indeed the only time she was ever seen was when she left prison in 1922. She had been convicted of stealing the rice from after a church wedding. In those days any carbohydrate that had been dropped was considered property of the King and so she was sentenced to six months hard labour in the oil mines.

The house now stood overgrown and delapidated. Knowing he had no where left to turn, Chapman slowly paced up the drive to Eleanor Rigby's house with that same sense of foreboding he had when he was a child. At length he reached the door and paused, it seems the myth about a face in the jar was no more than an old picked ghurkin left in the sun. Some mysteries are easier to solve than others. It was precisely this uncertainty that stopped Chapman from becomming a private detective.

Before he had a chance to ring the bell the door swung open with a lengthy creak in what sounded to Chapman like some cliche gothic horror movie. But now wasn't the time for type casting the old woman, now was the time for his wits. He got his wits out of his proverbial knapsack and wore them like a figurative balaclava.

``Eleanor Rigby?`` he called up the dusty stairs. No response. He walked through the house in search of life. Was she dead? Had she moved? Was she hiding? He pushed the door to the lader and found some old tins of tuna chunks and a box of Mr Kipling French Fancies with all the pink ones missing. He considered releiving the old woman of a brown one as old men like brown confectionary but a his thoughts were broken by a rat scurrying through his legs going `squeek squeek squeek!`. They always made that squeeking noise around Chapman.

He proceeded to the stairs and took each at a time. They were so old he had to be careful where he put his weight. In the wrong place or placed too quickly and it might give way and he'd fall exactly the height that he had hitherto escillated and he couldn't bear that thought. When he got to the top of the stairs he thought ``phew, I'm at the top of the stairs``. It wasn't a profound thought but there would be time for being profound later.

``Eleanor Rigby`` he called again but this time there was a quiet mumble from the room on the left. He put his holdall on the floor and walked dramaticly to the door, pulled the handle and that didn't work. ``Stupid man`` he thought as he should have known that all doors open into rooms from the landing apart from when airing cupboards are concerned and this was about as far away from an airing cupboard as you can get. But not literally as there was one adjascant to the door he had just incorrectly tried.

He stepped into the room and paused for a moment taking in what was before him. He proclaimed ``Eleanor Rigby!``. The time for being profound isn't far away Chapman promise himself.

Dear Guy From Pengiun

Dear Sir (or if not available, Madam)

My name is Benvolio Haversham-Brown and I am a very good writer. I would like my novel, `The Unamiable Like Mindedness of Criminal Masterminds and Those Who Don't Commit Crimes But Watch Films About Then None the Less` published. It's takes quite a lot of time to type up the whole novel and I am not able to attach the entire novel as my left click button on my computer is broken so I hope the first chapter will suffice.

I'd be literally delighted to hear how much money you will give me for the whole novel. I can, with your permission type up all suceeding chapters at a later date, but not the Thursday of the second week of December as I have a meeting that is not related to the novel.

Yours with more sincerity than a lake full of honesty

Mr Benvolio Haversham-Brown


`The Unamiable Like Mindedness of Criminal Masterminds and Those Who Don't Commit Crimes But Watch Films About Then None the Less` - By Benvolio Haversham-Brown

Chapter 1

`Shiffon was all the rage at that time, in, that is to say, Parisian` - Edgar T. L. G. Masterson

The sun splintered on the old man's head like it was yesterday. There wasn't much time to go until the fuzz showed up and arrested him for the very same crime he committed not two and a half hours earlier. He had been driving in the rain for most of the evening now and it was beginning to take it's toll. He was running out of road and with it, options.

He sighed to himself in the way that only a man who has just done a bank job and is running from the police so as not to get caught and serve 2-6 years in a medium security prison can. It was a low point for him but he was heartened by the thought of his illegitemate grandson, Hyunkw.

Hyunkw was nearly 29 now and the freshest of the bloodline. The old man thought for a moment about how succulent and zesty Hyunkw's blood must taste - like a Kentish rasberry but less hairy. Neither the old man or Hyunkw liked getting bits in their teeth. It was a common cause that bound them. Like a length of visible twine wrapped around the ankles. But the Old Man quickly ceased musing on his grandson's blood flavour as it was weird.

He pulled his car into a layby and dipped his headlights to side lights so as not to blind any on coming traffic or confuse them. In this same penchant for safety and health he refrained from removing his seatbelt lest another car crash into the back of his. An arthritic hand flicked the courtesy light on and then moved to the holstel in the passanger seat filled with quite a lot of money. Digging deap into the bag he eventually pulled out a wrinckly picture of a young man with windswept hair and a strong authorative chin. At the bottom right was crayoned `to Chapman, love from Hyunkw` because Hyunkw gave it to the old man and his name was Chapman. The man of chaps.

Chapman dealt a tear from his left tear duct like a croupier issues a card, any card, from the deck. He composed himself quickly - if the police, or indeed police women, found him he'd have enough time for sentimentality but as it was, he was on the run, so he set about his car lights to their normal cruising position, indicated and pulled out onto the main road in a safe and controlled maner.

He passed two blocks. Three blocks. A church. Five blocks. The upside down cat that haunted high street. He passed them all until he came across a police road block. He mentally calcualted the braking distance and slowly brought the car to a stand still. This was a man who didn't need ABS or modern traction control. No, he had a much more potent safety and health device - his wits. He only hoped the same wits would him as he wound down the window to speak to the police or police woman.

``Urrught?`` came a high pitched voice from the pavement. The rain was pelting down now and Chapman wasn't comfortable with having the window open for too long what with his arthiritis and all.
``Hgrmnph?`` grunted the old man in retort.
``U sin ne robing's yeah??!?!`` said the young police boy with bad grammer.
``Alas, I've not been party to or witnessed any robberies of any sort, young man`` replied Chapman eloquently. His wits were in a world of their own here. With the correct leverage of received pronounciation and polysyllabic words he was confident the police boy would leave him alone before he was put in the situation of having to lie about whether he did, or did not actually perform the or a robbery.
``thass bullshte!`` yelled the police boy. ``Why da hell cnt ppl jst lk own up or smmink. Ur lk da hundruf persn to nt know nefin bout da robbry u r!``.
``Then perhaps it might be quite prudent to let me on my way, my boy. I am but a lowly old man of questionable intent on his way to the nearest shady motel so I can fall asleep cradling this holstel with quite a lot of money and my feet are killing me.``
``sod off den, gay boy!`` said the police boy beckoning Chapman off on his way.

``That was close`` said the old man to himself pulling up to the motel. He sighed the very same sigh that he sighed earlier. He stepped into the baking sunlight with his bag and mumbled something about the `if only he and his lovely fresh blood were here`ness of Hyunkw.

Durex have `use only once` on the box

Happiness Is...

... Coming home from a morning playing squash with an old friend to a VERY beautiful wife playing Cry Me A River on the flute with a thick snowy blizzard for a background.

*happy sigh*

Dizzee Rascal On Obama

``I don't think he [Obama] could have won [the election] without hip-hop``

``He's mixed race so he's already a symbol of unity``

Paxman ``Dizee Rascall, do you believe in political Parties in Britain?``
`Mr.` Rascal ``Yeah they exist, I beleive in them``

DRINK!

When I was a teenager I always wondered what I would be like after drinking. You know when you grow up you learn about the world by seeing other people and the way they act and respond and behave, well I never wanted to become agressive after beer like some influences I had seen and you know what?

When I've had *checks* 2.2 units I get very happy and friendly. Normally I talk to people too much or tell them how much I love them and how they're the most important thing in my life. Usually in what, or so I am told, is quite an irritating way.

But I don't care. I like alcohol (I can't pronounce `alcohol` when I'm drunk, it comes out as `alhocol`) because it brings out the friendly in me which is a big deal for a Foster man so w000p.

Ps - to anyone who's reading this, I think you're BRILLITANT!!

Sexy

Sexy Tried so many years to get it right...

First thing sexy tried was Mama Cass (her from the Mamas and the Papas)


That didn't work so sexy tried Twiggy who was a step in the right direction, but still... If Twiggy came up to you and said ``hey, maaan... wanna smoke some funky stuff and go to a groovy Bay City Roller's Disco``, you wouldn't invite her in to not drink coffee, let's be honest.


We've had to put up with Toyah,


Luckily, in 1984 the formula was just right and life was good:


And so it remained in the '90s when Emma bunton and Louise Nurding kept the standard...



Then this happens!


Not good. Pussycat dolls are in no way sexy and F1 champ winning drivers shouldn't have to put up with them

Just stick with La (or Nadine Coyle), sexy and we'll be fine, just leave things be!

Baby Hens Are a Conspiracy

My personal internet friend who I've never spoken to Internets Dairy brings up a good point, if all hens are females, where do baby hens come from?

Imagine my surpreese

When I met the guy who owns the local greasy kebab place round the corner. Here's a picturegram:



Yeah! that's what I thought. Just when you think a guy can't create any more famine or purge any more independant thinkers, he opens a Kebab place. How messed up is that!? And it gets worse. He doesn't wear a hairnet and only serves margheritta pizza after 12:30am.

If you're wondering what else Joe is up to these days, he drives a mondeo and is regularly seen walking out of William Hill. I suppose every one had to find something to do after '91 but let's be honest - abject genoside aside he does have a pretty impressive CV, I mean not everyone can manage being an arguably sucessful dictator for as long as he did, and rumour has it you can earn more answering the phones at Zenith Windows and Conservatories than running a Kebab joint.

Hours are better too.

Linky Link

Mandatory Obama Blog

I didn't think I'd find myself so strangely taciturn with America's new presidential-elect as I do now. People who know me 'n' my wee blog will know by now that I think we live in a society goverened by a great many taboos perpetrated by the Home Office and the BBC, and Obama's VICTORY (and I can't use that word enough) brings to light a lot of those issues that Britain's Post-Enoch Powell slash post-Alf Garnett generation have brushed under the carpet.

To me it seems almost amiss to celebrate a President based on the colour of his skin for the same reason I feel uncomfortable attributing the success of the 19th century commonwealth colonies with the phrase `White Man`. The point is race is neither a factor in, or the cause of, any sucess or failure in the world. Indeed, the only examples of race having an affect on people's lives is the prejudice of skin colour - not the its variance.

So for a black president to be elected is neither a step in the fight against racism or a milestone in creating a better planet to live in. And if the polls are to believed and `only 1/10 voters believed race to be a factor in their voting decision`, that still works out as around 30 million citizens who think that the race of their president will make the country a better (or worse) place.

Of course, there is there is the issue of Republican Southern State eyes to be closed to skin colour and I'm sure in the next generation we'll see a diminishing prejudice thanks to Barack's appointment, but we're not talking mid '90s S. Africa - Obama is not a revolution like Mandela. Obama and Mandela are the only two presidents in recent history to be famed and acclaimed by the virtue of their skin colours and comparing the two puts into light the insignificance of Obama's race card. Mandela on the one hand gave re-birth to a nation - he was in many respects a liberator and a true visionary who it can be said with some certainty: changed the world.

In the shadow of this, Obama is a president who it seems is put on a pedestal because he is black - elected because of his economic and foreign policy*. So surely all the Left Wingers, Democrats, Politicly Correct Commentators and bloggers are perpetrating the imaginery racism in the world; raging a battle against an enemy that was crushed years ago. Abolutionists, Suffragettes, the Civil Rights Movement, post-modernism, even the US Constitution are all egalitarian lessons built into the mindset of Mr American and Mr Western World and the racist sect of the country are nothing but the mere seperatists who time forgot who aren't a might to be conquered but a minority whose opinions don't affect majority consensus.

For that matter, if nothing else, I again find myself uncomfortably taciturn in public that you can elect a president using his skin colour and contrive an adversary against which both black and white come together to defeat.

So un-PC ranting aside, I still find myself beside myself with excitement that Obama will be the new President. Not because he's the first black US President, but because of his policies and the `YES WE CAN` that comes with his idiology. I only hope that the mouldy dated primaries of our political parties here in the United Kingdom (Yup, I include Glenrothes in that statement :-) ) can be inspired to inject some meaningful zest into 21st century politics.



* and the nation's complete lack of trust in the Rublican Party courtesy of George Dubya I'm guessing

Off-line is like soooooo 2001!

So like any self respecting twenty first century techno-tronically minded young go-getters, we have the world wide internets in our new `house`... through a particually broad band which delivers informations at a rate of no less than an entire megalobit per second....

Rock on!