Remote Presence

Thought I’d invented something new the other day. I was trying to imagine the next, great leap-forward for telecoms and the words remote presence popped into my head. I imagined this to be the next bandwidth-suck for telecom firms to pit their resources against: the ability to have the experience of being elsewhere whilst remaining in one’s own living-room.

Well, actually – that wasn’t first thing I thought of. My initial idea involved chickens and full body-suits. But let’s not go there.

So, excited by the possibility of being on the bleeding-edge of technology, I googled the phrase and found, to my surprise, that it had already been coined!

Disappointed and excited in equal measure (disappointed that I couldn’t patent the idea and excited that I live in these times), I read on.

I discovered out that we are already living extensions (suits, if you like) of life-form that decided to develop a bio-mechanical means of moving around on a planet (this one) denied to them by an extreme form of space-phobia. They (the life-form) live on a planet far, far away called kskreelsh (hope I got the spelling right – but I guess it doesn’t really matter because they don’t really have an alphabet).

Spores were sent, long, long ago, to Earth with an embedded programming designed to develop those basic unicellular forms (the spores), over time, using a process they call eproklushen. The result came to be called, after a few billion years, remote presence.

The kskreelshians are controlling us, by means of powerfully projecting their minds into our brains and thereby experiencing everything we do. Or, to be more exact, we kskreelshians are experiencing remote presence from the safety of our own planet, kskreelsh. And, boy are we having fun!

So, now that we know the truth – how about we try chickens next!


Not Much on TV Tonight

Sitting in the waiting room at Peterborough railway station enjoying a bit of nosh and a read of my book when I look up to see the other two people in the room staring, rapt, at the monitor showing the train times.

Am just contemplating saying to them not much on TV tonight is there, when one of them looks away from the screen and catches me staring at him with a big grin on my face.

I rather judge the moment to have passed and so look down, rather shamefacedly, at my book. Ho hum.

We Sleep with Sheep

We were sleeping well. The noises in the corner were no louder than those in our head so we ignored them. The sheep were typically silent.

When the brick came through the window, we were dreaming about Donny Osmond and about how he used to live on our street and that we knew his dirty little secret. His carnival float was no place for breaking glass and so vanished as our eyes shot open.

We must have yelled out at that point. Otherwise, how else did they know to come? Drawn by our scream, surely. 

The sound of someone knocking the rest of the glass from the frame of the window. The shadowy form – silhouetted by the street light. Our hand, groping under the bed for the cricket bat Dad got for our birthday. Big hopes.

As we swung at the shape climbing through the window – giving it all we had – striking for the boundary and beyond, we heard the door open behind us. As the bat hit home, the light-bulb blazed into life. As the glass in the window frame smashed out under the force of the blow, a voice behind us, infinitely weary: ‘oh, Gordon, this has to stop, dear.’

Late Night Entertainment

We arrived at York Railway Station as the Saturday night crowd were in full flow – rowdying it up on the platform. And when I say on the platform I mean literally. Women, in states of advanced intoxication, were lying on the smooth floor just doing what came naturally.

I watched two young ladies sit down to take their heels off and, this accomplished, sprawl out on their backs on the cool, polished surface. Another of the women in the group, on seeing this, immediately rushed over and sat astride the younger of the prone women – face to face, and … well, not to put too fine a point on it – she rubbed herself up against her. This complete to her satisfaction, she sat up again, casually grabbed hold of the breasts of the lower woman and gave them a good squeezing.

I could almost see the thoughts going through the mind of the woman on the floor. At first, on having her breasts released, she covered them up protectively, as if thinking I’m not going to let that happen again! She then suddenly seemed to relent by flinging her arms out to the side, perhaps thinking actually, that felt quite nice. The topmost woman then got up, her attention drawn elsewhere, and the woman on the floor, presumably missing the attention to her boobs, grabbed them in her own hands and gave them a good, reassuring squeeze.

I would have watched this fascinating human drama further, but it became time for us to move on to catch the bus home. I tell you, I don’t regret giving up the television one little bit – not with quality entertainment like this on offer!

Musings in Monsieur-Croque

“It’s a frickin’ rainforest, innit!”

“Nah, lover – they sell books and fing! Don’t you got nuffink in yer ‘ead past what ye’read in school?”

I am attempting to organise the thoughts within my mind and submit them to WordPress via a complicated system involving nerves, finger-tips, a laptop and various wavelengths, wires and whatnot. But these … people – the ones yacking away over their cups of tea at the very next table are causing me to fall at the first hurdle. They are getting on my nerves.

Now don’t get me wrong – I’d normally love a bit of banter. More soda to the soft drink, right? But these two numpties are absolutely bonkers! And not in a let-me-write-a story-about-them way. More like in a someone-please-knock-their-heads-together-so-that-I-can-think way. Let me describe them to you.

Specimen A is a young(ish) woman who looks like someone, this very morning, stripped her naked, rolled her around a room full of spare (and sticky) skin and then dressed her up as a Barbie Doll. Her chin wobbles when she laughs and she does that with an alarming  regularity. Her ignorance of the world is absolute. She gives the impression that she has lived much of her life inside a giant, sound-proof, carton of ice-cream and that she has spent most of that time trying to eat her way out. Oh, and did I mention that she is the new poster-girl for obese? Well, she is.

Specimen B is a skinny scrote of a man. Consider what scrote is short for (yes, I double-dare you to click on that link) and you will understand what I’m trying to convey. He smells of unwashed toes, breaks wind on the minute, every minute (don’t ask from which end because I’m not entirely sure) and is one of those mister-know-it-alls; you know – the kind you definitely would wish into the seat next to your worst enemy for their over-subscribed train-ride from Aberdeen to Penzance.

My creative star is waning. I’m about to give up. I do so get bored with doing nothing, but if walking the streets of York with no fixed destination in mind is the alternative to sitting here for one moment longer, then so be it. The road to publishing a selected collection of Musings in Monsieur-Croque (nice title, right?) anytime soon, has been washed away in a freak landslide.

Please God, make me stop now.