West Bromide Albion 4

Breakfasted and cleansed Claude headed off for work. The city’s integrated transit system was running with its normal efficiency and the disgruntled passengers waiting on Catford Bridge station were standing six deep on the city-bound platform. The aged station Tannoy crackled into life;

“Will customers waiting for the transit vehicle to Charing Cross please note that due to technical reasons the 7.35 from Hayes has been re-designated as the 8.05 from Hayes. Albion Transit Systems plc apologise for any inconvenience caused. Have a good day.” Claude stood at the back of the platform and considered returning home and ignoring work for the day. He knew Wilkins would be keeping an eye out for him and would report his absence to Simmons but as he’d only taken three days leave this year he felt he could afford to take a sicky.

There was a rumble in the distance and stirring at the front of the platform. Claude looked up at the station clock and watched the digits tick over. A squeak of badly lubricated brakes, a loud hiss and the 7.35 from Hayes pulled in to the station on time. Putting all thoughts of a day off out of his mind, Claude started muscling his way through the crowd. He didn’t know which ruse to employ this morning; would it be the “Everything is all right, I’m a doctor” ploy? Or should he try the “Albion Transit System employee” gambit? No, looking at the faces of his fellow passengers he realised that tempers were far too frayed for that one. He scanned the platform for anyone who may recognise him, fixed his face in a suitably psychopathic scowl and decided on the “Police Officer in pursuit” trick; he hadn’t tried that one for some time so there was a reasonably good chance he would get away with it. Taking out his American Express card and holding it up in an authoritative manner he yelled at the top of his voice; “All right sonny. Stop right there!” Every face on the crowded platform turned to stare at him. “It’s OK,” he said to anyone listening, “I’m a Police Officer,” and flashed his card. Confronted with a pair of wild, staring eyes, a curious looking ID and a man wearing a grey mac with a large bulge under one armpit, the crush of travellers split in two, allowing Claude free passage to the train. He knew he only had a limited time to get on before they all realised he was a fraud and forced his way into the carriage, removed the rolled-up newspaper from under his arm and buried his face in it. The drama over, the rest of the passengers drifted back into somnolence, switched back to autopilot for the rest of their trip to work and boarded the train. Doors hissed shut and the train pulled out of the station with a shudder; and immediately ground to a halt. The more seasoned travellers, used to this sort of thing, automatically slipped into much-practiced routines. The man opposite Claude immediately fell asleep, his unread book slipping to the floor; a woman who had been complaining about the constant delays on the line relaxed, her point made and settled down her daily Sudoku. It could be like this for an hour or more, waiting in the commuter train as the French and Belgian Advanced Passenger Units tore past at mind-boggling speeds on the private track running parallel to the Albion Transit System. Each time one of the sleek monsters screamed by the whole carriage rocked on its aged suspension. One day, Claude knew, he would be in a train as it was blown off the tracks by a diesel powered bullet, built, driven and designed by robots. Somehow he found no reassurance in that thought. He settled down for a long wait and started counting the rivets in the carriage, the most he had ever reached before the train pulled away was 9,122 and that was last Wednesday morning.

Things were hotting up in Office of Education. The temperature was 35° and rising. Stripped to the waist the staff sweltered their way through the day’s business. Resplendent in a Day-glo pink one-piece, Mrs. E. wheeled her trolley along the many corridors distributing her wares. No matter what the conditions the contents of the trolley never changed and on days such as this business was slow for the septuagenarian tea lady. Of course she should have retired years ago but every time the annual redundancy and retirement clock tick-tocked she was somehow overlooked. She never seemed to age and even the longest serving member of staff couldn’t remember a time before “E”. The was a widely held belief amongst the lower orders that she was in fact a cyborg, created by the management to spy on them. Others thought that she was in fact the Minister in disguise; after all, the argument ran, had anyone ever actually seen them in the same room? Many a happy hour was spent in the basement office trying to catch a glimpse of the Boss and Mrs. E. together, but somehow, every time he graced the office with his presence, the tea lady was nowhere to be seen. It made you think. She very rarely blinked, that made you think too. In fact if you weren’t careful you could spend all day thinking and that wasn’t encouraged in the Office of Education.

West Bromide Albion 3

The next morning Claude was awoken as usual by the sound of gunfire and screams as the clubs kicked everyone out; it was 5.30 am, that awful time when the body is at its lowest ebb and the decision has to be made; is there sufficient time to grab an hour’s more sleep or just give in to the inevitable and get up. He got up, threw himself under the shower for a minute’s torture as his ancient water boiler managed to heat the water to barely above freezing, towelled himself off and rummaged through the fridge for something dead to eat. 

The Minister for Education relaxed in a hot bath and thought about his next move. He knew he had the support of at least three of his colleagues but the Defence Minister could prove a problem; without his help he stood little chance of fulfilling his dream of ascending to the giddy heights of First Minister to the Parliament of Albion. As it was his rise through the ranks of the political elite had been little short of meteoric. Only five years ago he had been a mere cog in the machine, a minor functionary working at party HQ. Now, however, thanks in part to the contents of some of the more private correspondence he unearthed during a stint in the post room, here he was contemplating the improbable; First Minister by the age of forty. Wouldn’t his father have been surprised? It was such a pity the miserable old sod hadn’t survived long enough to see the fruit of his loins achieve something he couldn’t even have dreamed of. But then, if his father had lived long enough, the Minister mused, he wouldn’t have the house and the estate to keep him in such luxury. Such a pity the old man hadn’t seen the approaching car until too late; then again perhaps it was better that way. At least he never had a chance to recognise the driver. He lay back in the steaming bath and played with his yellow plastic duck for a bit. After some reflection he pressed the little buzzer by the side of the bath and waited. Moments later his consiglieri  knocked on the door in response. “Ah, Babbage, fetch me the file on the Minister for Defence please.” “Yes Sir.” “And Babbage? “Yes Sir?” “Be quick about it there’s a good boy.” The Minister settled back in his tub and put his mind to stage two of his Grand Plan. 

Even though the First Minister was, technically, out of the way, he knew he could not forget about him. Too many potential world leaders had been finished off by the death throes of a beaten enemy. After all, it was exactly what he would do in the First Minister’s position; find any way possible to bring down the person who had defeated him. So, first think about how he would achieve that very thing. 

Similar thoughts were running through the mind of Sir Simon Fitzsimon who was still, nominally at least, First Minister to the Parliament of the New Republic of Albion. On the desk in front of him were three dossiers containing all known information on the Ministers for Health, Housing and The Arts; all minor posts he accepted but together they could be a force to be reckoned with. He reached into his briefcase and took out the dossier on the Minister for Education. There was nothing there to explain his rise to power. He was not particularly clever or charismatic. After an undistinguished education at a second rank public school where he learnt all that was necessary to survive as one of the chosen few in the New Republic: patronising those less fortunate, cheating in exams, high-grade bullying and feathering his own nest; he had studied at St. Cecil’s, Cambridge achieving Blues in both cricket and tiddlywinks – indeed his finest sporting moment had been defeating the Oxford champion during a Varsity tiddlywinks competition; he squopped all his opponents winks in the third round with a very neat Bristol – of course he cheated, his squidger was non-standard being 6mm at its edge – and he was inducted into the hallowed Hawks Club on the strength of that victory and his receipt the Silver Wink in his second year. He had studied sufficiently to avoid the ignominy of being sent down unlike the majority of his sporting peers and passed out with a “Gentleman’s Degree” in law. The drinking binge following this had since gone down in Cantab mythology as the only degree ceremony after which all successful candidates were arrested over the same weekend. Into the Bar, his father’s Chambers of course, and a short career in Commercial Law ensured he had sufficient funding to enter Politics and live the lifestyle expected by one of his social standing. He was vicious, cunning and ruthless of course but that was the minimum requirement for a politician; his father had been one of the “Old School” and Sir Simon had rather admired his general bigotry and lack of subtlety. Pity about his untimely demise. He studied the dossier some more. There had to something he had missed, something that would suggest why someone who had shown reasonable promise perhaps leading to a minor Cabinet post, an honourable mention in the Honours List (some traditions were just too important to let go) and a glorious retirement could get into a position to run for First Secretary. There was something missing from the equation and it was up to him, Sir Simon Fitzsimon to find out what it was. Then he would make one final, futile gesture and tear the jumped up little shit limb from limb.

West Bromide Albion 2

In the sepulchral depths of the Ministry for Education the air conditioning was on the blink again. Resembling an arctic explorer, Claude Biggins was failing to write out his weekly report for the big-wigs on the eightieth floor. He had discovered at least one of the reasons Scott hadn’t taken a computer on his journeys; keyboards were not designed to be used with thick mittens. He was timing how long he could go on without protection on his hands and had made it up to 2 minutes and 35 seconds. “Must be growing accustomed to it” he said aloud, shaving the frost from the screen of his terminal with an old American Express card he’d found whilst wandering about Hyde Park one Sunday afternoon. There was the sound from behind him of a heavy sledge being pulled by a tea lady. “D’youwannacuppathendear?” “Yes, thank you very much Mrs E.” “Annastickydear?” Claude inspected the permafrosted buns and Iceberg cakes with glacier cherries and thought better of it. “No thanks Mrs E.; just the tea.” “Thereyougodearbyefornow.” The tea sledge scraped away down the aisle propelled by the heavily wrapped Mrs. 

E. Hocroft Simmons jnr. Sat in his environmentally controlled supervisor’s office studying the security camera monitors and turned to his secretary. “I’m a bit concerned about young Claude,” he sipped his coffee and sighed contentedly. “Why Sir?” The servile tones of his secretary grated on Simmons’ nerves and he had never liked the way he managed to pronounce capital letters. “His heart doesn’t seem to be in it any more. I’ve noticed his attention wandering more and more these days. I wonder if there is a problem at home, or whatever it is worries youngsters nowadays.” He fiddled with the controls of the controls of the security camera and focused on the Scott-like figure hunched over its terminal. “Shall I break out the parka,” there was the tiniest of pauses, just enough not to be rude, “Sir?” “I think not Wilkins; perhaps we should just, how can I put it?” “Be aware of a potential weak link,” again the pause, “Sir?” “Very well put Wilkins. See to it.” “As you wish, Sir.” Although Wilkins didn’t rub his hands together with the sound of autumn leaves rustling on the forest floor, he should have done; perhaps with a bit of moustache twiddling thrown in for good measure. It wasn’t that he hated Claude, he didn’t actually hate anybody (apart from his Uncle Reginald of course) he was just one of life’s moustache twirlers. He could do a damn good evil chuckle as well. In a previous life he would have been a Vizier or knife wielding priest spilling the blood of sacrifices, not gleefully that would be wrong, but with ruthless efficiency. It was almost certainly one of his ancestors who worked out the relative cost of bullets and Zyclon B. Still, he was tall and bald with a nose you could open envelopes with so what choice did he have? You can’t fight genetics.

Ships in the Night 2

In the ward room, Speedwell Vetch (ship's carpenter) and Rolf Fulmar (Bosun) were engaged in the mind-mangling past-time of Phsycic Whist.
"My trick?" enquired the Bosun. Speedwell reached out to gather up the cards,
"Nope, mine I believe,"
"Sorry old pal, didn't realise they were trumps," said Rolf
The grin on the carpenter's face spoke volumes, "The hell you didn't, you called them."
The Bosun shrugged dismissively, "Well, it was worth a try, nothing ventured as they say. Your deal."
With practiced ease Speedwell shuffled the cards and swiftly dealt three hands, one for himself, one for Rolf and one for the dummy. He sorted the dummy hand out face up and the two players picked their cards up and held them up backs facing them.
Speedwell Vetch looked carefully at his opponents hand, nothing too threatening there he thought and turned his attention to the back of his own cards. Sweat beaded his brow as he tried to get a mental picture of his hand. He was getting a strong feeling of red; hearts maybe? A royal card; perhaps the King. The Ace was in the dummy hand therefore out of play so that should be ok. He frowned in concentration, his pinched fingers hovered over the card in question, deftly plucked it from his hand and sent it spinning down onto the green baize table. It was the three of Spades.

Life on board for the crew of the Pickled Herring was mainly routine, punctuated by moments of sheer, bowel-loosening terror. It was a glorious life when the skies were clear and the winds turning the sails into fat-faced children, with rainbows forming in the bowwave you could almost hear the ship laughing with joy at the freedom of the open ocean; then the sea was your friend and the stars your guides. Who could ask for more than the moon reflecting from the silver sea, the peaceful whisper of the wind in the rigging and a mug of hot cocoa? On the other hand, running before the wind in a force nine gale aboard a small craft is slightly less fun than cross-country running at school; it nevers seems like it is going to stop and when it eventually does it is the cold shower followed by double maths for additional humiliation. The gentle sea turns into something solid and menacing. It is still water but it bears no resemblance to the clear, wet stuff that comes out of taps; this stuff has teeth. Imagine runny granite but make it cold, add a Bartok symphony and turn the volume right up; that's right, up to eleven. Now, stand on one leg hopping around in circles, empty a bucket of cold water over your head and hold your breath. It's actually nothing like that but the effects are the same as by now you are feeling disorientated, dizzy, wet and sick as a parrot. At times like this even the most Doberman of sea dogs runs into his kennel and whimpers. But all is forgotten the next day when the wind drops to a gentle breeze, the white horses prance joyfully and the ship once more skims across the briny ocean; everyone feels alive and breathes free. There is almose certainly a concertina being played somewhere and even the seagulls sing in tune.

Captain lantern-jawed Jack Cutler stood on the bridge of his ship and surveyed his realm. Few thoughts ever went through his mind, not for him deep philosophical discussions late into the night, nor contemplation of the infinite; he was a simple man. Some people thought that explained his legendary bravery; he was just too stupid, they thought, to realize something could be dangerous. This was both unfair and inaccurate; stupidity and simplicity are not one and the same. The truth of the matter was that he had very little imagination and no space in his mind for anything beyond the immediate issues facing him; in that way he was ideally suited to his life at sea as he never got bored and never felt scared. Agreed, he would never win any prizes for his creative thought processes but he had the stamina of a tectonic plate and was about as unstoppable. His crew knew this and respected and trusted him implicitly.
"Meredith?"
"Aye Cap'n?"
"Are you sure this is the right place?"
"Give or take a couple of miles, yes Sir."
The Captain paused for a moment, "I suppose we had better drop anchor and wait then, no point in sailing around in circles."
"Do yo want me to check our position again Sir?" Meredith had the charts and instruments of navigation ready to hand.
"Not at all, I'm sure you've got it right as usual." He paused to gather himself and in a voice like a very loud thing he yelled, "All hands on deck!"

There was a frantic scrabbling from below deck as, one by one, the crew popped out of the hatch and gathered in front of their captain awaiting his orders.
"Gentlemen," he glanced at Merri, "and lady," he added "prepare to drop sea anchor." Smoothly, as only an experienced crew could, each moved to their assigned post; no one ran or rushed, just one moment they were all together and the next they weren't. The mainsail was lowered and furled, the jib trimmed. The bosun stood by the sea anchor, maul in hand, waiting for the order to lower away. As soon as Captain Jack saw everything was in order he grasped the wheel and steered into the wind."Anchor away!" he called. Rolf swung the big hammer with practiced ease and with a single blow removed the wooden chock holding the anchor in place. There was a loud clattering and a splash as the anchor chain flowed into the sea. There was a moments pause as the sea anchor filled and the Pickled Herring drifted to a stop. Captain Jack tied off the wheel and turned to his crew.
"Well done everybody, stand down, and Cedric?"
"Yes Sir?"
"Put the kettle on, there's a good chap."

Temple Meads Station

Temple Meads station, Tuesday August 30th, platform 13; the 9.30 to Paddington, always a good train, not too crowded and pretty cheap. 4 seats and a table free. Cool dude in the corner, Oakley’s concealing his eyes; a beautiful woman drags a reluctant suitcase along the corridor. Fog over the fields obscuring the view of the Somerset countryside. The obligatory businessman on his mobile. The sun reflects off the Avon and Somerset canal as a narrow boat slides gently through the water. A4 on the other side; mass transit heaven over three generations. The butter-stone of Bath and a change of personnel. Cool dude removes Oakley’s, white linen cut-offs, tanned legs and off to where? Japanese tourists on the platform. The crunch, crunch of doors closing, whistles, shudder and we pull out. The spires of two churches and the Tower of the Abbey to the left. A new set of journeys begin thanks to an overly ambitious Hampshire man 150 years ago.

The sun is beginning to burn the fog away; the browns and greens of a late English summer rush past. The sudden darkness of the Box tunnel; a quiet miracle overlooked by those who should ask “how did they do that?”

Details slip away as concentration drifts off.

Chippenham; ox-blood roofs and modern concrete to Bath’s butter-stone work. The same fretwork eaves on the station covers. The stench of an over-priced railway bacon roll claws its way through the carriage. The gentle motion of the train kicks in and drowsy sleep takes over; drifting in and out of consciousness, the automatic door opening, a cough, a flash of sunlight, a fellow traveller walking past to or from the buffet car, each is enough to disturb the slumber.

Disused railworks in Swindon, hectares of Victorian buildings now museums, bars and apartments. Swindon station, dark, not many new passengers here. Again, crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder and the journey continues.

An empty gasometer, ladders sticking up proud, the spikes of a grey coronet. Once again, the half sleep of the traveller takes over. The line isn’t so smooth now, the train hops and skips along perhaps more joyful knowing it’s got 30 minutes free running to Didcot, or maybe it’s just shoddy track. Drifting sleep.

The industrial nightmare of Didcot. Massive cooling towers (6) steaming away, “producing power for millions” (people or pounds?). Why are all stations on the edge of towns called Parkway? When did that start happening? More fretwork eaves; is this another Brunel station? The train is filling up now and there are very few free seats as the train approaches London. Crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder. Another grey coronet. So many people, so many journeys, so many stories: a man engaged in a text conversation with who?

Orange covered Railtrack employees beside the track wait for the train to scream past before continuing their work. The landscape has changed from the bare levels of Somerset to the rolling, wooded hills of the Home Counties. The fields seem smaller and the train roars through small stations. Towns are more frequent. The Thames. Outside Reading there is a field covered with the debris of the rock festival, a field full of rubbish and abandoned tents – later they will be distributed to a needy disaster area – “hell of a job to clear that up,” “Bloody Hell!”, the voice of a child, “there’s so much rubbish”. The stages are still up, incongruous and ugly in the daylight. The train, slowly (reluctantly?) pulls into Reading station. Perhaps it knows its journey is nearly over. The beautiful woman fights once again with her recalcitrant luggage and heads off to continue here story. Crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder. Next stop London. Someone somewhere is eating a banana.

His phone rings, he ignores it.

Twyford, Maidenhead, Burnham, Slough, Langley, Iver, West Drayton, and that’s it; town all the way. A brace of grey coronets, one so low it could be the millennium dome. Passing through Ealing and into the Brentford Triangle. A bizarre brown block of flats with a control tower tacked on the side, through Royal Oak and into Paddington. Bustle, hustle, hushed conversations become full-bloodied. Anticipation, the next step. Paddington station, huge vaulted cathedral to travel.

Wet Bromide Albion

The meeting was coming to an end. Agreement had been reached. After hours of heated negotiations the Big Ten had managed to overcome their congenital distrust of each other to listen before they spoke; the paper darts had stopped flying along with the insults and the conference room no longer resembled a fourth form common room.

The Minister for Education read the document in front of him and let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. He had sweated blood to get his colleagues to agree to this interim-final-draft-proposal report. To show his true feelings now would not only have invited disaster but would have let it into the party without a bottle. He allowed his glance to slide off the page and sidle over to the face of his nominal superior.

The First Minister looked as if he was about to explode. In all his years in politics he had never known a day like it; at least not since he organised the coup that deposed his predecessor. He raised his eyes and locked gaze with the Minister for Education. Both men were aware of the dangers of breaking that look; any sign of weakness would be pounced on and exploited terminally. The room fell silent as the battle of wills took place each member of the group running through the possible permutations with the precision of chess grandmasters, searching for the golden thread which would leave them one step ahead of their colleagues. Empires rose and fell, civilisations dragged themselves from "ugh!" to "I wonder what happens if we press this red button?". All of time was contained in the moment of that powerful stare. Then, slowly, subtly, like a silent one in a lift, a tiny bead of sweat formed on the First Minister's temple. Sensing his advantage and drawing on all his years of practice with his pet iguana, Archie, the Minister for Education allowed one eyebrow to raise, Spock-like. The now fully formed droplet slid down the First Minister's cheek. The battle was lost. An unspoken whisper ran round the table; "the King is dead. Long live the King."

His victory complete, the Minister for Education allowed a self-satisfied smile ot form and prepared himself for the forthcoming election.

Ships in the Night

Far out in the depths of space a small, seemingly insignificant lump of rock is flying along. Of course it is only small and insignificant if you're not in its flight path and it is only small in the way that a mountain is big. It could be tracked using radar; or the passengers of a passing space shuttle might comment on its peculiar colour and the way the sunlight glints from its many facets. Unfortunately for the inhabitants of the planet it is about to collide with, they have not invented radar and the most sophisticated transportation system known to them is the pedal powered sailboard. Therefore, when it eventually lands the only thing to pass comment will be an aged mountain goat on its way home from an all-night yodelling party. What it said was not recorded.

Far out in the depths of the ocean sailed The Pickled Herring a small but sturdy two-master. She had carried her crew over many seas and through many a heavy storm without complaint. The Captain was lantern-jawed Jack Cutler whose maritime exploits were related in every bar throughout the northern lands; was it not he who rediscovered the lost lands of Akabar and returned home to tell the tale? His bravery was not in doubt, although his sanity was somewhat in question. As for the rest of the crew, they followed their captain, if not blindly, with one eye open. Their faith in him seemed to be entirely justifiedas, through a mixture of luck, good timing and enough sense to hire a decent navigator, he had steered them right time after time and they were now all recognised as heroes in every port. The mere sight of The Herring on the horizon was enough in some towns for the bells to ring out and crowds to gather on the pier to welcome them in. Until recently that is. It all changed about six months ago when ports started closing and borders became more difficult to cross. It was as if people, after years of trusting their neighbours, had suddenly started to remember old feuds and disputes; long-forgotten debts were called in and bars closed on time. Now the crew of The Herring were greeted by sour-faced harbourmasters demanding mooring fees with menaces.

On board the , ships navigator Meredith Huge adjusted her instruments. Derrick had offered to do this for her but she had refused, not only did she take her job very seriously she had no time for exceedingly poor double entendres. First Mate Derrick Perkins went below to find someone more satisfying to annoy. He always got restless after the first couple of weeks at sea and hankered after the stable horizon of terra firma; that and the plentiful refreshments available in the snug of The Rusty Anchor. Somehow a shot of the Cedric's cooking lager in the rope locker just wasn't the same; still any port in a storm he thought.

Derrick found the lager without any trouble; most of it was inside Cedric who was propped up against the galley door trying to work out which end of a chicken to stuff. Not that he really cared. Ship's cook was a bit of a come down from pastry chef at the royal palace; but then at least the clientele wasn't so discerning.
"Ah, Cedric, there you are, thought I'd find you with your hand stuffed up a bird!"
Cedric smiled indulgently before clouting the first mate round the head with two kilos of semi-thawed poultry.

Derrick came to a few moments later to find an open bottle of lager and a pile of sandwiches laid out on the galley table.
"For you," said Cedric "by way of an apology."
"Thanks, suppose I deserved it", Derrick took one of the doorsteps "Any for you?"
"Course not, I know what's in them."
Resisting the urge to peek, the first mate took a large bite; there was a hint of seagull with overtones of seaweed but overall it was ok.
"Any idea how long we'll be out here?" asked the cook.
"Well, according to Merri we're in the right area, so it's just a matter of waiting I suppose." He spoke between mouthfulls; he was a well brought up first mate, "I doubt it'll be much longer."
"What's he going to look like, how will we recognise him?" asked the cook. The first mate gave him a look so old fashioned his grandfather could have used it. "Shouldn't be that hard. We won't find too many people floating around in the middle of the ocean!"
Cedric paused for a moment and took another swig of beer, "It'll be good to have a new face around the place," he looked longingly at the pile of cookery books on the shelf, "and a new mouth to feed. A cultured soul such as he would probably appreciate some class fodder, unlike certain barbarians not a million miles away."
"The Captain said we were to make him feel at home not posison him and...what do you mean barbarians?"
"He's bound to be more cultured than you lot, goes without saying. No one could be less appreciative of 'Hote Kwiseen" than you. You wouldn't know a Béchemel sauce if it came up and bit you on the bum."
Ignoring this not altogether unjustified insult, Derrick shrugged and opened another bottle of lager.
They sat in companiable silence for a while, until the bottle was finished and the sandwiches gone, listening to the sounds of the ship they both knew so well.