Today I went and sat on the terrace of a restaurant / bar on the seafront, at a picnic table, with a book and a Coca-Cola that I had ordered from the bar. I was reading the book and drinking the Coca-Cola, which had been my intention when I’d decided to go to the restaurant / bar. It was a bit breezy, and I was worried either the glass of Cola, or the tin that they’d given me, would blow away, but both were heavy enough not for this to occur.
But the more I drank the Cola, and kept tipping it into the glass from the tin, the more likely it became that the tin would blow away in the breeze. The trouble was that I was also reading the book, which meant that I didn’t have a spare hand to hold the tin while also turning the pages of the book, and if I let go then the pages would flutter in the breeze and I’d lose my place. I had my bag on the table, which I tried to use as a rudimentary wind-break, but this was insufficient, and the Cola tin, now that it was less full, kept wobbling in a worrying manner.
When I decanted the last of the Cola into the glass, the tin was now prone to rolling off and clattering on the floor of the terrace, and I didn’t want this to happen because I’d have to put down the book I was reading. I thought about putting the tin into my bag, but I considered that this might look odd to the other customers and to the staff, even though there was a logical explanation. It was a lovely sunny day, but it felt chilly in the breeze, and I hadn’t brought a jacket.
The book was an account of an Arctic expedition to measure the sea ice and it had some fascinating passages about the way that the ice flows around the Arctic Ocean, and another section which detailed the way that the magnetic North Pole has moved over the years, wandering from the far north of Canada in an easterly direction. I must admit that I am not entirely sure what the magnetic North Pole is or why this is important. When there’s no wind, I can read the pages uninterrupted without having to worry about losing my place in the book. I am drawn to books or documentaries which take as their subject the frozen North and I wonder if this is because of something primal deep within me, and a need for exploration, or maybe I just like being away from other people. The nose tusk of the narwhal is slightly off-centre because it isn’t a tusk, but a very long tooth. I learned this from the book about Arctic exploration, the one that I was reading on the terrace of the restaurant / bar, while also worrying about the cola tin.
'Let's just slink through here', I suggested, gesturing to the rhododendrons. A hot tropical night. The sweat was pouring down my face. Out to sea there was thunder, lightning flashing, but here on the beach, fairy lights and candles threw multicoloured light and shadows which danced. 'Slink?', Jack asked. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle hung in the Caribbean night. The sky was dark and starless. 'There's a storm coming'. 'It's just . . The choice of word'. Others on the beach were standing at the water's edge, looking out at the storm. It was obviously getting closer. 'Are we just going to stand her end argue about a word?' 'It's better than arguing about whether we should argue about a word, which is even more pointless than arguing about a word'. 'OK, let's just ignore that and shimmy into the rhododendrons'. 'Shimmy?' 'Oh, for heaven's sake!' There was a rumble of thunder, and fat lazy drops of rain began to fall from the sky. They thudded into the sand as perfect darkened circles like sudden coins. We penetrated the outer fringes of the rhododendron and found ourselves surrounded by branches cross-crossing, and roots, and a sandy, springy earth. We could hear the rain falling on to the fleshy, heavy leaves around us, as if the world were applauding our efforts. It was cooler within the foliage. 'This might not be the time to tell you', Jack said, 'But I'm a member of the RSPCR'. 'What's that?', I asked, ducking to avoid a low branch across the face. 'The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Rhododendrons'. 'Bloody hell, what are the chances?' 'We also cover hydrangeas and certain types of buddleia'. 'Well, we're not exactly being cruel, are we?' 'The constitution has several definitions . . .'. 'You're making this up!' 'I might be'. But he had a point. I hardly knew him. We'd met at the backpackers hostel the night before. He'd let me use his spork. 'There will be spiders in here'. 'GAH!' 'And snakes, probably'. I'd not thought about either of these scenarios. Thunder boomed and the whole earth shook. Neither of us said anything for a while, and then, of a sudden, we entered into a tiny clearing surrounded in all four sides by rhododendron bushes and tall palm trees, sheet lightning behind the overcast swirling clouds. I took a step, and spluttered, wiping a spiders web from my face. He emerged behind me and we stood there, feeling the heavy drops of rain on our shoulders. 'Amazing', he whispered. And then the storm begun in earnest, ripping the sky with vicious lightning bolts, the rain thudded down with increasing intensity, we sheltered under the dripping leaves of the vegetation, his warm body pressed close to mine as the thunder boomed and crashed and roared around us. 'Do you think', I asked, 'that this is a sign from the universe? That we should be together forever?' Because all of a sudden, I was caught up in the sheer magic of the moment. And at that second, a bolt of lightning hit one of the palm trees right in front of us, a vicious spew of sparks tearing off one of its branches with incredibly ferocity 'Not really', he said.
2.
Amid the midnight neon and the motorway flyovers of Tokyo, the incessant thrum of feet on the busy pavements, the night itself an electric pulse of brash branding, logos, cartoon charms and corporate magic, I found the doorway to the capsule hotel, the Paracetamol, between a gaming arcade and a brightly lit vending machine selling live koi carp. The front desk was automated and I booked in using my credit card, taking a lift up to the fifth floor, where a sign on the wall, accompanied by an over-the-top cartoon caricature of a hotel porter who also happened to be a giant panda, reminded me to be quiet, respectful to the other guests, and to take care of my own personal hygiene. My backpack almost didn't fit in the locker provided, and then I realised that the locker that I was trying to cram it in to was actually my room for the night. A mounded plastic bunk into which had been added a television, the bed, control panels for the heating, some robes. I put on the robes and went wandering around the corridors of the Paracetamol. As well as showers, bathrooms and a row of vending machines, (instant noodles, books, lanyards, and what looked like weasels), there was a small lounge right in the very corner of the building, looking down on one of the busy intersections below in all its neon glory. There was only one other person in the lounge. I sat down on one of the soft cushioned sofas and I looked out the plate glass window at the intensify and madness of the city. I then looked at the other person and I let out a gasp. 'Jack!' 'Yes?' 'Remember me?' He kind of frowned. 'Paya de los Aquafresh? We hid in the rhododendrons during the thunderstorm that time!' His face lit up. 'Yes! I remember! My god! We sheltered in the rhododendrons . . . And that lightning bolt took a branch off a tree right next to us!' 'What are you doing out here?' 'I'm in a business meeting with the RSPCRHB'. 'I thought that was a joke . .'. 'Deeply serious'. 'What are the two extra letters?' 'They've let in hydrangeas and certain types of buddleia since I last saw you'. 'I can't believe you're here!' He got up and joined me on the sofa and sat right next to me. And it felt good, his being there. In our robes, loose fitting and comfortable, it felt almost as if we were naked. How amazing! Two souls, coming together in spite of all the odds. 'I often think about that night', I tell him. 'Really? I can't remember much about it'. 'The storm, and the rain . . . And being with you'. He smiled. We were both speaking softly now, hushed tones in case we were to wake any of the other people staying at the Paracetamol, but the hushed tones could very well have been the purred small talk of love. 'You said slink, remember that?' 'I did' 'And then shimmy'. 'That's right'. I was so happy. I felt like putting my arm around his shoulders. 'You see, I would have said something different. Plunge, perhaps, or even hide. Or shelter. Let's shelter in these rhododendrons. But the way you said it . .'. 'Yes?' 'It hinted at something different'. 'This is a very weird conversation'. 'Is it?' 'A conversation about a conversation, and that conversation itself was mostly about the conversation that we were having'. 'I don't see why you've had to bring this up now'. 'Well, it's not like we're going to be meeting up again, is it?' 'Why not?' 'I . . . Don't know'. ‘Do you think', I asked, 'that this is a sign from the universe? That we should be together forever?' Because all of a sudden, once again, I was caught up in the sheer magic of the moment. He was quiet for a couple of seconds, and maybe it's my imagination, but he kind of snuggled towards me on the sofa, his body getting ever so slightly closer to mine. And at that moment, a sudden bolt of lightning was hurled from the overcast sky, lighting up the traffic intersection and the lounge with incredible ferocity, hitting the neon sign directly opposite from us of a cartoon duck advertising some local brand of shampoo. And before our eyes the cartoon duck sizzled, smoked and swung on its screws, turning upside down, unlit, where it pendulumed from side to side. 'Not really', he said.
3.
By my third day in the tiny Arctic community, I’d already worked out that there wasn't really much to do. The small huts, shacks and prefabricated homes sat shivering in the snowdrifts by the frozen sea, and it was dark by two in the afternoon. Once I'd visited the Museum of Permafrost and had a look around the art gallery built to resemble the tusk of a walrus, I'd more or less run out of activities. My only solace was the town library, a quaint prefabricated structure whose tiny lit windows created elongated squares in the fallen snow. I'd found a quiet corner, in between Arabic Numerology and Paranormal Studies, where I could sit near a radiator and read the hours away. And this is what I was doing, one never ending afternoon after dark, when I looked up and . . .oh, for heaven's sake. 'Jack?!' 'You!', he said. And he just kind of stood there for a bit in his big Arctic survival suit, and I stood, and we faced each other across the town library. 'What are you . . .'. 'Rhododendrons ', he replied. 'The feasibility of Arctic growth'. 'And?' 'None'. 'I can't believe it's you!' His face relaxed, and he came over and sat next to me. The tiny window between us began to be speckled by another snow shower, each fleck illuminated by the library lights. 'The last time we met . . in Tokyo . . Do you remember?' 'Yes'. 'We had a conversation about having a conversation about the conversation we'd had in Paya de los Aquafresh, in which the conversation had been about the conversation'. 'And now we're having a conversation about those conversations'. 'Yes', I laughed, 'we so tend to have a lot of conversations'. 'No fear of any lightning today', he said, 'though it's just started snowing again'. 'It's so good to see you'. 'You too'. 'Thanks for letting me use your spork'. 'Yeah, no problem'. And then the conversation kind of ran out of steam for a while, and we just sat there, listening to the sound of water in the heating system, the crunched footsteps of people walking in the snow. It was good to see him. The padded layers of his Arctic survival suit gave him a sudden cuddly physicality. I could hardly believe that he was there, that e we're together yet again, but it had happened twice before and yet again I could feel the planet turning, the magic of existence itself funnelling down, very much like the aurora borealis itself, and this isolated community. I looked past him, to the reception area of the library where Librarians were busying themselves, and a poster warned of the drawbacks of trying to pet a polar bear. The same old question seemed to press itself up from deep within me, into my vocal chords before it got a chance to be processed by my brain. ‘Jack’, I said. He gulped. ‘Do you think . . .’. ‘I'll have to stop you right there’, he said. The two of us smile at each other. In the pallid fluorescent glow of the Arctic community library, he looked serene, playful. I could hear someone moving bins outside and it sounded like thunder, but it wasn't. ‘I think I'll saunter out in a bit’, I say to him, ‘and see if I can get any dinner’. ‘Saunter?’ ‘Yes? What's wrong with that?’ ‘Nothing, it's just . . A very strange word’. ‘What should I have said? Mooch? Jimmy?’ ‘I don't know, it's just . . .I mean, of all the words you could have chosen . .’ The snow was coming down increasingly heavy now and piling up on the little windowsill. ‘I'll come with you, though’, he said, after a short while.
Here’s a video of my poem ‘Sofa Phobia’, filmed earlier this month in Penzance. It’s true, I do have a phobia of sofas. They’re disgusting things. It’s nice that I can laugh about these things.
Oh, when the goose is amorous, Willing to express his tender romantic inclinations To Mrs Goose And love is quite the possibility, Goose poetry forms in his mind, And words take on extra meaning To which he gives voice, To goose sonnets and goose odes To explain his heartfelt love. He takes a deep breath And strikes her gentle shoulder And says HONK
A storm of words cascades through his brain! He eulogises the sweetness inherent in Mrs Goose That she should set afire his soul With burning lust, That he should softly purr this tender refrain: HONK
And Mrs Goose is turned on by his words, Turned on by the subtlety of his eloquence And replied with great charm And a keen eye for erotic repartee HONK
William Shakesgoose with his feathery quill Penned odes to love which on the page he did spill Explaining what it mean to be alive and be free That even today we should proudly quote he Standing proud on that Elizabethan stage and proclaiming HONK
Oscar Wildgoose, with a fey wave of his wing Could reduce a room to laugher with his legendary wit For language danced at his beck and call, Such hilarious put downs and Bonne mots For he was often heard to quip: HONK
Flying to Belgium The pilot just happened to be a goose Came over the tannoy to give us The expected arrival time in Brussels HONK
A crowd of sexed up male gooses Gathered outside the vehicle hooter testing facility They’re getting ever so wound up By the sky sexuality of the Noises coming from within. Oh, baby baby, Talk dirty to me. HONK
Goose literature Translated for a feathery audience The Rime of the Ancient Mariner HONK Les Miserables HONK The Canterbury Tales HONK Marcel Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu HONK HONK (It’s in two volumes) And perhaps A haiku HONK
The man of my dreams, so butch and fit With a face like Adonis and the body of a god Oh, I said to him, sing for me, Stefan, Give voice to your Rampant masculinity And he said . . . . HONK
In 1992 I was 18 years old and wanted ever so desperately to be a writer. I was inspired by anyone who could make me laugh. Douglas Adams and Clive James were both very important in my writing aspirations.
It was incredibly fun to write and I enlisted the help of various friends and classmates. My friend Damian designed the cover, and I included quotes from various friends throughout the novel.
The story was very slim. Bill and Justin go undercover at a sixth form college to stop criminal activity. The plot was just secondary to the endless jokes and wordplay, a lot of which, looking back, weren’t very clever at all.
So here are some of the pages of that pivotal work!
Robert Garnham 