The Day After Halloween

Christine didn’t even know her address to send holiday postcards to.

LSL Corporate Cients absorbed Templeton LPA receivers, but told the tale that they acted upon their wishes. Every day of October they called Christine. When her soul was wracked by building the case against George, Anto’s ex, his bully and stalker. She stood up to him, using words and words only, she broke his nose. LSL called Christine in the morning, called out to her in the afternoon. She’d had enough of nosebleeds of her own. She built a reputation bomb meanwhile, using the address of every business George might have found work, in a twenty mile radius around Anto’s house. If he came near her beloved again, she had the phone credit and the will to fuck his life up. There was an ocean between them, a sea of love he might have said.

LSL emailed in afternoons and called out, and their letters came by in afternoons and mornings too. Barry was shot, once in the head and once in the chest. It was hard to tell strangers. Christine just wanted to carry the darkness a while, allow herself to feel guilty for the years were they didn’t see one another. To be selfish, because she’d taken the time to get to know him, while the freaks of the city walked past: “Yeoooooooo”, “Yis are stupid, go home!” Ho ho hypocrisy.

The bullshit with George took the focus off Anto’s kids. Christine tried to work around the clock using her teaching skills to help: syllabus, past papers, answer sheets, examiner’s reports. She’d taught professionally for a few years and knew the burden. It had to be done right, leave no mystery unturned. Very quickly she was exhausted. There was no money, then there was the fever and the diarrhea. And still every day of October, LSL called and she only avoided calls when the fatigue claimed her. Thirteen hour sleeps, whole days stolen from her.

And the tourettes. If one person could experience the apocalyspse this was it. On October 28th, LSL issued her with an eviction notice and Anto suggested he wasn’t in love with her. On halloween night, her friends online cheered her up. Ian called by in his car to take her to the cinema for Thor 2, packing the wheelchair in the boot and sitting with her at the back. Paul’s party was small, but she felt welcome and soon it was just the two of them and Jim.

They each took half a bottle of red wine. Jim knew Leonie O’Moore. They heard the theme from Quantum Leap and Christine told them of the suggestion of one of Rol Hirst’s boys that it was the live action version of Mr. Benn. Perhaps the costume shop man was Dean Stockwell, she added. Do you remember Bod? asked Jim. Bod was a rockstar. That theory shouldn’t have gone down so well, formulated from Bod’s approach to front of stage and dance to back of stage during ‘Guess the Milkshake’ Thankfully, Jim had never seen Bod and Paul was too young. The talk turned to dancing in the church of children’s TV: the musical nature of Pigeon Street, the jigs of Fingermouse. Then, like lightning, a notion grabbed Christine. What if, the deep sea diver uniform in the costume shop in Mr. Benn was the same deep sea diver costume in the end credits of Scooby doo?
“We’ve caught him! And if I take of this mask it will reveal…Mr. Benn! And I would have gotten away with”
Paul was keen immediately to locate the street the costume shop was on. Festive Street? There was no internet connection to check it, but she vowed to later. The three of them were talking at once about the notion of this shared universe.
“Trumpton, Camberwick Green, Chigley. That’s how!” she said. “And you remember the generic Scooby Doo families? I swear there was one were the dog could turn invisible…….except for his nose!”
She was holding court now and enough that Jim could add disdainfully,
“Oh don’t get me started on them. So, what about Pigeon Street?”
She thought on this. Was that near Fesitve Street?
“Thats twinned with Coronation Street.” said Paul.
Then Christine explained Mike Weller’s unified soap opera theory – about the tube line that carted Grange Hill actors such as Todd Carty to Eastenders’ Walford, Albert Square. Maybe it went up north, to Weatherfield, but then the tram car derailment that crashed on Coronation Street ended that line of thinking.
“I thought Coronation Street was in Belfast.”
“Because of the pigeons?” asked Paul
“There was a female trucker, Clara….” said Jim.
“Lond Distance Lara!” said Christine.
The subject fascinated the three of them, but Christine wanted to make sure.

Back home she opened another bottle of wine. Invisible Scooby Doo type was probably Dyno-mutt, not only invisible, one feature of a range of mechanical devices as the dog was invisible. He never checked if the show was screened in the UK, but noted the first was a Mystery Machine cross-over episode. As it turned out Mr. Benn lived in Festing Road. There were only fourteen episodes made, the same number as Firefly. In the cases of Fingermouse, Pigeon Street and Bod, there were only thirteen episodes made of each. Bod had characters called PC Copper and Farmer Barleymow and strong links with Taoism. The milk-shake segmens were made separately and only 5 of them survived in the BBC Archives. Only five milkshakes! She drank more. She built an x-y graph with “abilities of drunk” along one axis, and “ease of access” on the other, with delivery food at the top, then takeaway food, then home cooking. Kitchen stock was factored into her drunk food theory.  By 8am, Christine was drunk-faced. Normally quite pretty with the gulp of wine she transformed into a gargoyle for a minute. A phone call came in at nine from LSL Corporate Clients wanting to send an assessment team out to her house. She told them no, then emailed them directions for Hell and went to sleep. November was going to be different.

The Invisible Artist: Youtube with Subtitles

The Invisible Artist: a contemporary history of Belfast’s comic book culture is a 2011 TV documentary written and presented by Andrew Luke and directed by Carl Boyle for Belfast station NVTV. Patrick Brown was interviewed, and also provided much of the research that went into the film. Other interviewees include John Killen of the Linen Hall Library about his exhibition, The Unkindest Cut, of political cartoons about Northern Ireland in the 20th century,Davy FrancisJohn Farrelly, Jim McKevitt, owner of Atomic Collectables, P. J. Holden and Stephen Downey.

Subtitles are exhausting. Your feedback is still appreciated.

Flashfic: Five Scenes

Five Scenes

 

A fellow named William had murdered there in the 16th Century.

 

The screen of the laptop had tinier screens by the top with user camera feeds: below, one for still pictures to be uploaded, and a text box for typed words.

 

“I think”, said Dan getting into his sear, “this place is haunted.”

 

In Dorset, a smile spread over Gareth’s lips and he chuckled. “You what?” laughed the Asco worker, still in his shop fleece.

 

“Seriously?” asked Judy candidly from Clwyd.

 

Dan looked into the camera.

“I was just in the kitchen and one of the hobs was on six. I haven’t had a bite to eat all day. And get this, Shadow, Shadow, I took him out for a walk and he didn’t go. He’s just peed in there!”

He gestured, but the others in the private Multicam Webchat could only see him and his living room, and each other.

 

Jonas was strangely silent, more remote. His faced lacked involvement. And then the young Larne man’s eyes flickered on and seemed to engage with Dan’s tale. Some spirit was possessing those eyes.

 

“He’s a puppy, of course he’s going to wet everywhere!” said Gareth.

 

Even Judy had to laugh at that one. “Dan!”

 

“And if you aren’t going to make dinner you shouldn’t have split up with your girlfriend”, he added.

 

There were other details from him though: the house was four hundred years old, a few mysterious deaths on the property and some odd noises plaguing set hours.

 

Just then, a new image appeared on the screen. Where still pictures were shared, Dan clicked to enlarge it. There he saw himself, in the leather sofa of that big old house. The walls were filled with poltergeists, a green ectoplasm, a monstrous being with a sailor hat made entirely from marshmallows and Dan Akroyd. Behind him were Ben Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker and Yoda, and with them in this circle of protection, Samuel L. Jackson, his eyes full of righteous fury. Dan laughed and when he clicked on the picture again, he could see the web-cam chat room once more. There were three empty chairs.

 

Jonas shot up from ground below and Judy’s hair dangled over her upturned face from above making Dan jump. Then a tall headless man in an Asco top wandered into Gareth’s living room and sat down.

 

 

Dr Who and Miley Cyrus in Asda Shopping for Kitchen Utensils.

Thanks Judy.

Doctor Who Miley Cyrus Asda

Do you remember the lovely Belle and Sebastian song Le Pastie De La Bourgeois? le pastie de la bourgeoiseAnd some people were talking about musicy-wans, like the Future Hero All-Stars, Bodega Bamz and The Flatbush Zombies, but I’d not heard of any of them and I thought they were all part of a superhero group with a cartoon.

superband

Bejasus, no way I’m tagging this lot. Here’s a final wee image I drew today.

Skin of the Teeth Doodle

VIDEO: Arts and Disability Forum Belfast with NewsZoom Comics

Nope, commonsense law has not changed. You don’t push yourself really hard if you’re gonna be at risk because of it.

The day before yesterday, I had a woeful day. Having just gotten enough money to buy electric and gas (thanks Ben!), I tried for bed early only to get insomnia, diarrhea, fever and fatigue. Then I overslept and missed my fortnightly writer’s group, woke up to find I’d not hot water left. Today, there’s fever and fatigue residue, so I haven’t had time to create anything new, but I did find this video on an SD card from my residency at the Arts and Disability Forum. It was shot in March 2011 by gallery organiser, Leo Devlin.

As this came to mind, here’s an original promo sketch for the exhibition.

In Time

If you’d like to know more about the ADF’s links with comics run a search on this site for Going Places, Beneath the Tide or Bacon Sammich of Doom. They’re also big fans of Crippen.

I’m going to nip out to Tescocks shortly, but there will probably be a truck that throws rottweilers at me and when they bark, fireballs shoot out their mouths, and those fireballs separate into wasps, fire-wasps.

If you’d like to help inform the content of this website why not drop me a line on Facebook, GMail or Twitter. Small projects work best.

Rent-able Personal Minion

UPDATE:

Emergency conquered! Thanks to all my friends who re-tweeted, shared and offered advice, and especially the man who helped me out of the muddy puddle.

I should probably keep minioning, but my patron has first priority. There might be something new in this space in the next few hours!

 

After a week of personal hell, I’m now facing an emergency money shortage. I’m not sure were it went as I budgeted carefully, but am almost out of electric.  I’m loathe to borrow. It’s always off the same people, and I almost always get it back the following week, but still, I’m sure they are sick to the back teeth of me. 

There’s still stuff you can buy off me in the art shop and the book and dvd shop or the irish comics shop.

But for now, provided you can Paypal or bank transfer in the next 10 hours, I am your rent-able personal minion.

Costs £5 per hour, £3.50 per hour for those on a low income, unemployed. Bartering acceptable.

Travel costs must include a minimum £10 hire and be paid in advance.

Hosting costs incur an extra £1.50.

Paypal to drew.luke@gmail.com or email for personal bank electronic transfer details.

Things I am really good at:

writing stories that will take you to a set location, or through a time or place, 

teaching (humanities) and study aids

entertainment,

project management,

CUDDLES and maybe some petting.

promotion

i’m good at using crayons AND colouring pencils, ink black pens, some felt tips

time to be cute,

fresh social media progression

i’ll also harvest data and research

transcription

and if it’s socially ethical I will plot to over-throw a dictator.

Shop Blog (Live Feed)

Alright. I have bills and I need to sell something, so I’ll be updating this post between now and 10pm UK time, or through the night if that’s what it takes. Scroll down, there’s some new free content here.

Orders payable by Paypal to drew.luke@gmail.com

Currently selling:

Supergods by Grant Morrison [SOLD]

Big 400 page paperback about a wee fella who likes to read comics for like sixty years, made all the more interesting as he regularly travels to dimensions made from corn flakes, talks to giants of the psyche like Mr. Crunch, the Peanut Butter Deity. Some of its really quite beautiful and it’s hard not to be enthused. £4.00 UK / $6.00 US for the two issues (incl. P & P)

Update: 5 hours later, arse,.

Update: Still stuck for cash. Going to lie down for 40 minutes to re-charge and re-think my strategy.

Transformers: Robots In Disguise #7-#8

Written by John Barber, Issue 7 has a brilliantly compact twisted tale of stealth technology in a narrative as elaborate as trying to find one of those 16-picture sliders hidden in a maze garden behind a wedding plan. It’s cleverly paced and smartly thought out, set among the backdrop of a peacetime Cybertron ruled by President Bumbebee and his VP, Starscream.  But thats just by the by. This is not only better than The West Wing, it’s almost as good as Watchmen. It’s also welcoming to new readers. Issue 8 boasts dinobots, but very little happens in it. £2.00 UK / $4.00 US for the two issues (incl. P & P)

Transformers: More Than Meets The Eye Volume 2 (IDW, 124 pages)

I used to read the comics of the transformers when Simon Furrierman used to (w)rite them and he was great but James Roberts brings a fresh approach that is faithful yet progressive. There’s a dark horror seeping from all his work – dripping acid from quarantined medbays, psychotic bastards on the loose. In this series, a small craft of mostly Autobots have left Cybertron, but they’re a ramshackle bunch wittily quipping and squabbling their way through space. Probably best read from Vol.1, nonetheless there’s two complete stories here with an epic feel. And Alex Milne and Nick Roche don’t draw them like those dicks in the Michael Bay films with spikes everywhere and massive breasts bigger than their heads. No, these are real transformerbots, 1980s sir. £4.00 UK / $6.00 US (incl. P & P

Notes From A Defeatist by Joe Sacco

Sacco is a vital but heavy read of a comixer no doubt, but this ragtag of B-sides, unreleased recordings and synagogues on serviettes delivers tales from Sacco’s days touring with a band, delving into the Spanish Civil War, his first delvings into Voyages to the Bottom of The Library, Palestine, Kuwait and Eight Characters, a humourous and inventive Clowes-esque imagineering. The book is about 220 pages and published by Jonathan Cape, 2003 edition. £6.00 UK / $12.00 US (incl. P & P)

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A reminder that I am doing commissions, which is how I came up with Unicorns and Obama’s Bum. And if I’ve drawn a picture of you lately, make a donation and leave your address. I’ll try to get the original out to you.

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Wolfpack: A Marvel Graphic Novel by Larry Hama and Ron Wilson

This was the  1987 graphic novel laid out in 3 x 22 page chapters, the past tense edition to the 12-issue mini-series that filled up 10p bins everywhere. Actually, the series was pretty good. This is the set-up story: about five teenagers of Jim Steranko High who get in shit and don’t go to school. That’s because they’re actually ninjas, from a millenial old war with The Hand, a millenial old evil ninja cult. Look I’ll give it to you straight. If you buy this from me I’ll write a whole academic journal length review about it which will be exclusively yours, not for the reprint. £2.00 UK / $3.00 US (incl. P & P)

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Transmetropolitan: The New Scum by Warren Elis and Darrick Robertson

This is Book 4 of the series, although the wonderful style means you can start anywhere, right now.  It’s about Hunter S. Thomson if he lived in a techno-future with the best graffiti. It has evil politicians, unstable literary agents, drugs and observations from the edge of the seat that resonate through the ages. Insightful and witty.  £4.00 UK / $6.00 US (incl. P & P)

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Star Trek: New Frontier by Peter David

Peter David seems like a lovely big fella. He has a way with the wit and imaginative thoughtful stories with a strong vison like that Josh Weeding or Simon Furrierman. New Frontiers is a sort of Star Trek bootleg sessions, like if the five great crews each showed up at the studio by accident and thought they may as well have some ice cream and jelly, so theres this mad bastard called Captain Mackenzee who has a scar and likes to blow his enemies up. Shelby, his second in command, fought The Borg in Star Trek The Next of the Generations), but she doesn’t think that’s funny.  Anyway, everyone is fighting after some big empire went down so this renegade Starfleet Mackenzeee has to sort it out and hilarity ensues. Also theres a hermaphrodite, a brainiac, a brick shit-house security geezer and two vulcans beginning with S, also from TNG.

Books 5 -13 each for £2.00 UK / $4.00 US  (P & P incl.) and maybe we can sort you out a bulk discount. Guide here. Paypal drew.luke@gmail.com

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I’ve just been reminded I recently completed a one hour A5 piece called 20 Unicorns on a Skateboard. People seem to like it. £3.50/$5.00 (w. p&p) seem fair?

20 unicorns on a skateboard

And the aforementioned Cameron Crawls Out Of Obama’s Bum.

20 second sketches - Obama CameronWill send you that for £1.75/$3.50 or get it the original in the cheaper mini-sketches pack.

Paypal drew.luke@gmail.com

Iraq: Operation Corporate Takeover

An original graphic novel by Sean Michael Wilson and Lee O’Connor, produced in association with War on Want. Nah, not really my cup of tea this, not enough story flow, awkward but here’s why you should spend £2.00 UK / $4.00 US  (P & P incl.) on it. I’m really happy there’s a comic like this out there. I mean, more people need to be fighting the good fight, using two fingers to project the corrupt onto a big screen so the rest of us can point at them. There are a lot of blocks of text, and it is well researched so this probably works well for winning arguments, or just before praying. Simply find the suitable visual and read the accompanying text. Kimota! You’re Alan Moore now.

Hard Times (Wordsworth Classics)

Charles Dickens’ Hard Times is much more genius than any of the 1,000 adaptations of oh whats that Christmas one were the woman turns into a moth? Great Expectations? Yeah, thats a piece of shit, even Gillian Anderson says so. Hard Times is like The Wire but with clowns, the fattest fucking sideburns you ever read about, coal, inkpot holed tables, and shoe-horns.  It’s about the education gap, the class system, gender struggles, the infirmities of age, christ, there’s just too much to go into. Fucking read it. £2.00 UK / $4.00 US  (P & P incl.)

Star Suckers (DVD)

Somewhere between Charlie Brooker and Mark Thomas, Chris Atkins lives – recording Max Clifford talking about huge salaries, journos trying to get medical records and encouraging students to phone the News of the World and get £250 for telling them Amy Winehouse singed her hair on a toaster. Released in 2010, Star Suckers is a punch-the-bully comic expose of celebrity obsessed media, and an exploration of fame addiction. Busting with extras, you’d be an eejit not to want to see this. No you would. £3.00 UK / $5.00 US  (P & P incl.)

The Maltese Falcon (2 Disc Special Edition)

I love this film even though it does not taste of Maltese biscuits. The Bogie Man is getting shit from his friend and client Mary Astor and then there’s Peter Lorre who plays a small pixie and does a dance of the devil and Sydney Greenstreet as Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Crime. Everyone is looking for a bird and a big pile of newspapers and it’s got some behind the scenes documentaries. But look, buy this and I’ll include a wee handwritten note with some exclusive stories I gathered about the film which are not included in the bonus features.
£4.00 UK / $6.00 US  (P & P incl.)

Escape to Victory

Pele, Caine and Stallone kick the footie really hard so that it will create a tunnel out of a German POW camp. My DVD (Region 2) says it comes with a free England flag, which it didn’t. But I’m not disappointed as they’ve had those for hundreds of years and I can get one any old time I like.
£2.00 UK / $3.00 US  (P & P incl.)

Silent Bob Speaks: The Collected Writings of Kevin Smith (Titan Books, 2005) – £2.00 UK / $3.00 US  (P & P incl.)

 A typical thing he might say is “i’m kevin smith. when i was kevin smith last year i was big ho hoho and then, I am Kevin Smith. Would you like a Jason Mewes toy? It reminds me of the time I was Kevin Smith.

At the shop. (visuals)

12 Bag of Dicks £20
13 Mini-Sketches £10-£20 – now includes the unseen Cameron Crawls Out of Obama’s Bum.
Dark Knight Returns Cover £15
16 Pork Chops £15
2 Bonfire Harm Done To Shrubbery  £10
3 Kick! 30p
Hold the Phones, It’s Alex Jones 89p
I’m a Celebrity poster £3

Xmas Cards – £1.50, four for £5, ten for £10.
You can also pre-order copies of this year’s Panto Xmas Card Comic.
For a limited time I’ll be including with each order over a £5 a free WW1 Truce card or a Matt Smith Who card. Orders over £10 get both.

More info at the shop.

Eastenders by Alan Moore

There was a lot of controversy surrounding the tentacled apparition that reached from the quantum rift in the park in his first week as head writer. However, the time was quiet, favouring a low boil introducing new characters and events to the BBC’s London-based soap opera.

That week introduced us to Derek Mitchell, the brother from Earth 342 who enjoys re-created Victorian operatic displays and begins fitting orgone energy detectors to the back of all the vehicles in the shop. He’s having a relationship with Emmanuelle who now runs the tinker’s shop restoring brass-ware, and is raising Enod-429, a robot who looks like an infant.

Meanwhile, we learn Ian Beale to everyone’s surprise has reached his 100th birthday, and the physiological hour stops Ian shedding women from his skin. Instead, each one from the past begins returning to him and he’s forced to go on the run. TV Quick, What’s On and Teat Guide focus on the zombies, but Ian’s anniversary causes much consternation and disruption to Albert Square life.

A gang with tea cosies on their heads take The Queen Vic with firearms. They just want barrels of beer. It is too far to go to the brewery. If they are quick they can get them back across the road and up three steps. Nobody is sure who they are but when they get to the basement they find Jack Brannon is working on tech developed from the Higgs Boson Particle Accelerator. As he is rumbled, the tech is no help in tracking the  thieves, but they spill beer into it, producing a unique gold flake which he is able to synthesise and reproduce. It becomes the bar’s speciality and drives business.

As the beer makes it’s way through the taps and then the water supply of the Square it affects the perspectives of those who have drank it to were they see past the strict binaries of monogamous relationships. Thus, they are all reunited with their partners. Ian Beale gets the support to help him embrace polygamy. This is confirmed in the joyous celebration, DotCottonFest. Albert Square under a happy banner of inflatable Dot. Everybody is vaping. Moore is quoted as snorting when a critic praises “the Constantinuity”

Fans suspect the Beeb had put pressure on Alan for the halloween story in which Alfie Moon becomes the moon. There is a huge dance to celebrate his ascension at the new Walford nightclub, Chi. However, in the basement, David Watts discovers his deceased father (Dirty) Dennis’s spirit being summoned from after-death by Bianca Butcher. Bianca falls into a trance. She tells David she was behind the beer robbery. She was only taking part in the ritual because someone found out: Patrick Trueman, and he was blackmailing her. Trueman, she says, was the same person who engineered Alfie’s ascension to gethim and other witnesses out of the way. The building began to shake, from the tentagram in the basement to the plasticine disco.  At Number 8, Enod-429 runs into her mother’s room and the lights go out across the square..

Before Saturday morning, The Daily Mail had seized on the black magick storyline and the lead to Afro-Carribean background actor Rudolph Walker’s involvement. Moore was accused of perpetuating nig-nog stereotypes and the following afternoon, pictures of his house went on the website. By Sunday, The Mail Online published photo’s of the writer’s bedsheets highlighting pubes and possible sperm with the caption, “what a beautful pattern, who’s fancy now?” The reportage drew wide condemnation and an emergency meeting at the BBC. At this time, Moore told Glycon, he was fucked off and going to live on a new planet he had discovered.

There were minor reservations in the BBC, but the following week’s storyline ran as planned. Trueman had exploited Derek Mitchell’s technology to bring five great villians through a trans-hub door-mensional through-stream. Al Capone, Ronnie Biggs, Charlie Croker, Bernie Maddoff and Pablo Escobar materialised in the basement of the nightclub. Although David Watts escaped, Bianca Butcher was made into their hell-dog. The building went on fire, a pivotal part of Moore’s long-term plan to have Denise Fox join the Fire Service. Phil and Derek attempt to get the Square’s electricity supply running again, but accidentally blast Janine through a cloud. Fears grow for the missing Bianca over the course of Tuesday, until people decide it’s probably for the best. David Watts confides in Emmanuelle, who cannot cope and goes on a brass-polishing craze. Meanwhile, the criminal gang abduct Enod-429 and blackmail Derek and Phil into helping them. Their goal appears to be to punch through to reality using the conceptual tube lines, although when a Coca-Cola salesman comes across Ronnie Biggs in the Queen Vic, the great train robber is seduced into becoming a representative for the pop.

Moore’s “Reign of the Greys” storyline was to have been a hyper-media narrative, with manifestations of Al Capone popping up on Strictly Come Dancing and Bernie Maddoff’s expansion plans being thwarted by Cbeebies’ Bob the Builder. The post-Moore phase was actually very good but few dared say it was better. Some elements remained. The conspiracy syndicate was broken up when Escobar’s tank was destroyed by Janine Butcher returned to Earth as an ice missile. Other elements of Moore’s plan were not retained. Rather than being valiantly defeated in the five nights a week serial, Bernie Maddoff still hangs about Albert Square like a bad smell, laughing at teenagers and stealing their game systems.

Enod-429 may be long gone, but there are increasingly hairy babies born in Walford nowadays and the Northampton-man influenced Curt Vile lager is on tap at The Vic.

Belfast Writers Group at Tullycarnet YarnSpinners and Prose: The Littlest Internet

I’m just back from a very squee evening with the Belfast Writers Group at Tullycarnet Library, part-home of my teenage years, the christening font of my years in adult work. Bruce Logan, who set the gig up pictured below reading from his adrenalin pumping horror freak-out:

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Sweet Ellie Rose McKee, who has a whole lot of web presence:

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Folk wizard Lynda Collins:OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

A member of the Tullycarnet Yarnspinners, Malcolm, who had us all in stitches with the best Paddy jokes I’ve ever heard (and of course the worst)

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And myself. I got off a few pieces, including Tenement Tao, and new works Five Scenes, and this one:

The Littlest Internet

The East Rainy Courier and Advertiser was the most important publication, and it was free
too, weekly and probably funded by the NHS. Fourteen year old Alpen Jones knew this, because
manning the route broadened his mind. The job bought him the 1985 Kick! annual and there was
responsibility in it too. All of Old Upper Kingcastleroad Road would have been an island if not for
his diligence.
His parents were unaware that he left at 6 a.m. It was impossible to deliver in one day after
school. As per his calculations, three days were likelier. Rosemorrow Park and Templechurchmore
Road this morning. One side of the Parade marched into the Park while the other stood at a distance,
rolling its deep lanes off the hill, closer together as it got further away into the black mouth lipped
by trees.. It always started easy – three steps for climb-overs , back, then a two-house climb-down,
down the path for a bend of the calf and a copy for Danny Panana and his wife, Mrs. Brianna
Panana. A dog answered a door and he had to go all the way back up the stone path, unhook the
anchor, creak it round, gather it closed (minding his toes) and drop the hook. Leaflets were an extra
half-penny and he spread them on like filler, rolled like a wrap for dinner. Eight, he knew instantly,
down, and to go this side. He looked at his watch again. There was time to finish it before school.
Number Nine was Seventeen, the age of his brother Terry, born in September. This thought never
crossed his mind, though there were many. No. He was mostly concerned with the collection of
garden gnomes, rocking horses, pink windmills, weeping angel statues, cardboard cut-out black cats
on a black metal strip, the plastic sun in the window and the fat spotted three foot big mushroom of
the pensioner he never saw. The mythical pensioner of Templechurchmore. And while you and I
might be thinking of this, with it’s chequerboard path-way bordered at angles by pink plate tiles
fronting plastic weeds, the lad has already slotted the paper and gotten onto Nineteen. There, he’s
minding his fingers around the axe-wielding letterbox. Next door, a loud dog, and angry dog, a dog
that knows you’ve touched the gate-post and you will be caned for it. So Alpen rolled the paper and
rolled it into the rosetta frame of the gate to be found by the dog’s owners on their way to work.
Next door was the friendly house. A pull-back gate, garden path cut friendly for feet and steered just
out of Angry Dog’s X-ray radius. He wondered sometimes if the editor had run a political expose of
that mutt. The paper flapped quietly and the hatch was gently replaced. Next door was were Lydia
Smith lived. She was from school and he liked her, but he wasn’t sure why. They’d never talked. She
wasn’t one of the spide girls. She was even kind of pretty maybe. Their house reminded him of
Christmas (the sofa looked like a labrador), and Lydia’s mum was a jam maker. Twenty-Seven was
Kevin and Devlin, the twins aged eleven who seemed pre-occupied with bread leaven and
unleavened. Their father was a pastor, sometimes radio broadcaster and Terry’s friend Richard said
he was Grant Master. He went to a lodge, not the Wine Lodge were Auntie Phyllis worked but but
one involving owls and something to do with metalwork. Alpen didn’t know what a pastor was: he
could hear the milk-man coming though. In the future, the truth would be past your eyes Grant
Master, he thought. There was nothing special about the letter-box, it was even disappointing.
Aaron wondered if he knew Mr. Withers who had made them make shoe-horns last term. A gate was
closed like cement but if Alpen walked further on, he could do Thirty-One, Twenty-Nine and exit
Thirty-One without ever having to get stuck on the climb-over, and he did these. Across the road,
gates led to Scotland and the longest most gravelly driveway. When he’d been there, the house was
shaped like a castle, and a man who looked Scottish was there. He was Scottish because he had a
Tartan blanket and a large beard like Uncle Bulgaria. He never spoke. That’s all Alpen Jones could
remember, like trying to remember black and white Doctor Who from teevee. The dog he
remembered. It was not of Scotland – it was the smallest, so evil with mechanical butchering jaws,
so unspeakable in it’s ability to hurt – that it didn’t have a name. The lad like so many times before,
made there an exception in his conscience. I’m only telling you about it because the East Rainy
Courier and Advertiser was the most important publication in the world as Alpen Jones maintained,
but most notably the other side of Templechurchmore Road and Rosemorrow Park, every week.

Me at Tullycarnet