Hi, I'm writing a, hopefully, funny book about a guy that has always played by the rules of life and got absolutely nowhere. One day he finally snaps and decides to cross over to the dark side and become a master criminal. It's quite a long chapter so I hope that I haven't broken any forum rules, but I would love to hear your opinions on my work. Oh, by the way, the language is a little fruity, so I hope that you aren't easily offended. Thanks a million!
Chapter One
Yesterday (Part 1)
'All rise.'
I stood up and held my breath, it was decision time. Picking up a pair of heavy-rimmed reading glasses, Judge Thomas R. Daley lowered himself into a red leather chair and looked around the courtroom, savouring the moment. He began to speak, slowly and with dramatic effect - this was to be his O.J Simpson moment.
'Having duly considered submitted statements from all parties, it is the decision of this court that application for bankruptcy against Donny Dou...he paused and looked sideways at the Clerk of the Court. They both grinned in unison as he continued with heavy sarcasm...
Donny Douglas be approved.' Sniggering stage-whispers circled the room like a verbal Mexican-wave. Standing in the Court 12 Prisoner Dock (classy, eh?) I couldn't make out the exact wording, but I could guess - and the comments were unlikely to be favourable. Probably something along the lines of...
"Donny Douglas...did he say Donny Douglas?" Oh how they would laugh...
Yet again, I would be subjected to the torturous flashbacks of my teenage schooldays - and Christ, could school be a cruel and vicious place. Numerous times I'd lift my desk lid, only to discover a picture of two dogs copulating, crudely held in place by a well-chewed ball of spearmint gum. Usually accompanied by scrawled words to the effect of...
'DONNY LIKES HIS PUPPY LOVE!'
The teachers were no better. Even at primary school, they'd break up the monotony of their junior crowd control by engaging in little in-jokes. For example, I had always loved to play Cowboys and Indians (back in the days before they were re-named Cow-Persons and Native Americans) and at playtime, I would wait patiently for the teacher to divide us equally into groups of either heroes (Cowboys) - or villains (Indians). Boys selected for the Cowboy group were especially thrilled, as it gave them the opportunity to hunt down the Indians and tie them to the perimeter fence. In other words, they got to practice genocide and ethnic cleansing, albeit within the safety of the school premises and under the watchful eye of Miss Lockwood. Of course, I was usually picked to be an Indian and usually, Miss Lockwood would tell me that for the duration of the game, my name would be Big Chief Crazy Horses. It was some considerable years later that I would figure out exactly why the teaching staff fell about in hysterics as I cheerfully raced around the playground screaming my war cry
"Crazy Horses...a woo ooo...a woo, ooo'
Yup, very droll, my teachers. Still, even at that tender age, I had learnt the value of revenge, so when Miss Lockwood later had to deal with a freshly produced turd, pungently steaming from both legs of my dark grey Woolworth shorts, I like to feel that a certain payback had been achieved.
"It was an accident Miss" I wailed....but we both knew different!
With a loud thud of his toffee-hammer, the judge closed the proceedings.
'Case dismissed.'
I turned to Jason, my court-appointed solicitor; freshly qualified and now jubilant with a first victory under his belt. I hadn't the heart to tell him that for most of the proceedings, I genuinely couldn't decide if was arguing for the defence (me) - or the prosecution (them)!
It's kind of hard to accurately describe Jason. He's very friendly, overly-enthusiastic in a 'brand new puppy' kind of way and has a tendency to look at you with wide saucer-like eyes that only the young can muster. He's probably the least likely lawyer that you could possibly imagine, I see him more as a helper at a Dolphin Sanctuary.
During an earlier recess period, Jason enthusiastically told me that his lifetime ambition was to own a canary yellow Opel Corsa, complete with dustbin lid-sized speakers and a blue-lit LED parcel shelf. I guess that says it all, really...
'So, what does that mean exactly?' I asked.
He looked at me excitedly.
'It means that it's all over...you're free.'
'In what way...free?'
I was still confused. Jason was struggling to contain his excitement and I reluctantly found myself staring at his trousers for a tell-tale wet patch.
'Your debts have all gone, wiped out, cleared....for...ever!'
He was looking at me wide-eyed with an almost evangelical stare. Think Tom Cruise in Last Samurai and you'll get the picture. Then it dawned on me.
'You mean I'm broke' I said.
'Ooooh yes, One hundred percent!' said Jason, briefly forgetting court etiquette and offering me a 'high-five'. It failed miserably, as I stubbornly refused to remove my hands from my trouser pockets. He looked a little crestfallen at my rejection, but quickly recovered, determined to end his day on a high.
'The Judge has written off all of your debts because I managed to convince him that you hadn't got a pot to piss in!'
'But I have, haven't I?' I asked hopefully.
'Absolutely not' said Jason with all the tact that only a twenty five year old could display.
So that was this then. In court-speak, my limited assets were insufficient to meet my extensive liabilities. Put simply, I was well and truly f**ked!
Jason kindly offered to give me a lift home and the journey was memorable, if only for the thirty second bursts of unknown radio channels, as he tried to find one in tune with his musical sensitivities.
'Adele...shit! Fat Essex slag...can't sing...hate her!'
He continued to change station with his left hand, while holding the steering wheel with just one finger of his right.
'Bieber...bollocks! He's a tosser...hate him! F**kin' Donny Osmond clone!'
I winced. It was the Donny thing again, was there no escape? He kept twiddling the dial but to no avail. Debbie Harry came next with 'Atomic' - a particular favourite of mine, but rudely interrupted by a clearly irritated Jason.
What's this shit?
'Blondie' I replied with enthusiasm
'Who? Jeez, who the f**k's that? She sounds like some mom from the f**kin' nineties or sommat'. Probably frickin' dead now anyway!'
I conceded defeat and offered to help.
'Want me to try?'
Jason seemed to appreciate the gesture but shook his head.
'Nah, it's all right mate, I got some CD's in the glove box, move your knees a bit.'
Jason leant across me and proceeded to scoop up a handful of unmarked obviously-pirated CD's. Putting them all onto his lap, the car appeared to steer itself as Jason studiously went through them one by one, apparently oblivious to the road in front of us. I pulled my seat belt a bit tighter and tried to remember the Lords' Prayer. It had been a while.
Suddenly Jason appeared to be have some sort of spasm, as his body jerked sharply from side to side. I was about to grab the steering wheel, when the jerking suddenly stopped, only to be replaced by a something much more frightening. Jason started to rap!
I can't tell you what it really is
I can only tell you what it feels like
And right now there's a steel knife in my windpipe
I can't breathe but I still fight all I can fight
As long as the wrong feels right it's like I'm in flight
High off on love, drunk from my hate
It's like I'm huffin' paint and I love it
The more I suffer, I suffocate
Right before I'm about to drown, she resuscitates
Me, she f**kin' hates me, and I love it, Wait!
'I love Eminem' said Jason. 'Especially his love songs'
I smiled weakly and wondered how Jason would have survived the love songs from my youth. I'm not totally convinced that either Abba or The Carpenters would really have been his thing. His loss, I guess. We pulled up at mom's house, my new but hopefully only temporary, change of address. I stared at the white familiar front door, almost scared to take another step forward. I laughed silently at my own paranoia. Mom was well into her seventies now and it had been more than three years since my last visit. Perhaps time had mellowed her. I allowed myself a few seconds to consider the possibility. Who was I kidding? She'd still be as vile as ever! Although her birth certificate stated her full name to be Florence Elizabeth, Mom had only ever been known to family and friends as 'Flo.' Well, only to family really, as mom wasn't blessed with many friends, mainly due to her waspish tongue, frequent use of colourful language and a 'tell it like it is' philosophy on life. Example? Well, she'd once told Derek, her sadly long-term unemployed neighbour, that he might have more success at interviews if his breath wasn't similar to that of a rotting seal carcass. Or the time that she told Mr Patel, the owner of Patel's Newsagents that he was most helpful - and that the world would be a better place if only all 'Darkies' were like him. Oh yes, very diplomatic was my mother. Growing up, I witnessed many door-to-door salesmen confidently ring our bell, fooled by her slight build and snowy white hair. They never returned...ever!
With a blow of his horn and cheery wave, Jason drove off and I found myself looking down at the brown leather suitcase parked at my feet. Depressingly, it contained all that I owned in the world.
With a heavy heart, I pushed open the familiar iron gate and trudged slowly up the front patch. I smiled briefly as I recognized a friendly face, Albert, our battered garden gnome. Albert with the super-glued head reclining comfortably against the creosoted fence.
Albert had broken his neck as a result of the infamous 1969 space ride, taped to the back of two Astro-Rocket Fireworks.
He definitely cleared all 34 floors of Elliot Heights, our nearby council tower block, but I like to think that Albert went much, much higher than that. What I do know is that what goes up must inevitably come down - and Albert proved to be no exception. His descent to Planet Earth started just above St Mary's Primary & Infants and after almost causing Mrs Trickett, the school lollipop lady to have an involuntary bowel movement, Albert finally landed in the Year 7, Blue Peter tribute garden.
Perhaps my NASA-inspired exploits didn't deserve a ticker-tape welcome home, or a freedom of the city award, but I certainly wasn't expecting an arse-slap from my dad or the flooding tears of shame from my mom. Even worse, I was made to personally apologise for my actions. I listened dutifully as the Mrs Trickett re-told the horror of the day and I lowered my head in mock shame. But as she earnestly explained how she had feared for her life and how would I have felt if, in her words...
'...his helmet had smashed into my face?'
I genuinely couldn't answer that, so I just bit on my lip and took my admonishment with good grace.
My trip down memory lane ended as my mother opened the front door. I took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eye, hoping that she, of all people, would be able to see the pain and emptiness in my soul. I hoped that time had, in some way, mellowed her. She didn't hesitate for a second.
'Well...you've really f**ked up this time then?'
'Thanks Mom, I replied and made my way into the hallway.
What is it about Mothers...they just know everything!
'So, let me get this right. You have lost your job, you have lost your house, you have lost your girlfriend and now you have been declared bankrupt. Is that all?'
I fought back manfully
'You're forgetting something positive Mom.' I paused for full effect.
'I still have you.'
It was at this point that Mom started to cry...and I mean really cry!