Diary Of A Portsmouth Freedom Fighter
Day One And there it is. The notification. That cold-blooded figurehead that quietly slithered into the top spot in the country got her way. She wants what a lot of people want; she wants to keep them out and throw some of them already in out too. And she wants to monitor everything. She’s clearly unhinged, totally unsuitable to represent the huge variety of people. A lot of people – stupid people, naturally, because this is my narrative – want what she wants as well, but not the majority, and definitely not the “very clear” majority she insisted and insisted made her Ice Empress of the Free World. Do you want to leave the European Union? That was the question. I don’t remember it asking if we wanted to be led into darkness by an entity crafted from vengeance but there’s always small print somewhere in those documents. In a pie chart you could barely make out the difference that very clear majority of people who could be bothered to vote selected and we’re not supposed to include the non-voters so there you have it. The country barely wanted to be free of beneficial meddling and now we’re getting free. And the people in my city apparently wanted to be free of beneficial meddling too and so I’ve decided I’m going to help them. I love this city and I hate its people. Do you know Portsmouth? It’s a city on an island. Three road routes on and a few foot-bridges plus a rail line. After that the only way on or off is by water. There’s a naval dock and a commercial port but the water’s shallow so the size of vessels is limited. We’ve got some ferry services to the Isle of Wight off the south coast and to Gosport to our west. What I’m trying to say here is that to isolate my city, to free it from any of that horribly useful interference from outside influences, you don’t really need to do much at all. I commute to and from work by car and it takes me on and off the island every single working day. I’ve seen what happens when there’s an accident on one of those three road routes, mostly because it’s almost a daily occurrence. Hell, everyone in Portsmouth has seen what happens. Stationary chaos. Thousands of metal, motorised marvels idling away with increasingly stressed humans idling away inside them. The vehicles start diverting from their preferred route and quickly overload the second route and then the third. Everything slows, even more than normal. Those traffic maps start filling with deepening red....
A Meeting To Discuss Killing Old People
Friends, I’d like to thank you for coming together at such short notice. I don’t think any of us seriously believed we’d need to meet today or under these circumstances but it is what it is and we must react to the will of the United Kingdom’s people. Or rather, as I’m sure you know, the will of our deadly enemy, the old people. Graham, calm down. Directed anger at this point will be of far more use to us. We all feel the same way but that chair did nothing to you. Well, yes, it may have been built by someone who is now old but they probably weren’t then or it would have one of those beaded seat covers on it. Right. We’ve all been determined to rid ourselves of the scourge that is old people for some time and we’ve been patient, cautious, careful. The EU vote has caught us napping. Our enemy has made a lightning attack we never foresaw and has started a financial collapse and put this country on the road to an isolationist position whilst allowing racists to become bolder. This attempt to turn the country into a scary, lonely place for everyone and not just them may not be able to be halted – I know, I’m sorry Jane but we have to honest – but we can still seek retaliatory action. Why? I can’t believe you’d ask that Jeremy. That sounds almost like giving up. Uh huh. Okay, well then, to address your devil’s advocate position it’s not cutting our losses it’s ensuring that the enemy does not seek to do more. Do you really think that those who can remember what day it is will stop now or those who can’t will comprehend what turmoil they’ve already unleashed? No, I didn’t think so. We must strike back and we must strike hard. We must give the ageing population who are waiting to fill their slippers something to consider. Which reminds me: Jeremy, when’s your birthday? A Scorpio, eh? And what year were you born? Uh huh. Thank you. No, no reason. Let’s start with Operation Buy All The Cardigans. It goes without saying that we need to step this up immediately. Obviously, we’re still relying on a harsh winter to then kill off the layer-less geriatrics and we can’t guarantee that everywhere in the UK any longer thanks to the extreme swings caused by continuing climate change but there’s really no downside to going ahead as it will boost the economy and Christ knows it’s going to need a boost. How are we going to fund this? I thought...
City Of The Amazons
Previously… Leopard Ladies Of Mercury Buxom Amazons Of Jupiter Sex Sirens Of Saturn I opened the door as the echo of the ringing bell finally faded to nothing in the stone hallway and was instantly blinded by the sunshine that flowed in and around the silhouette of a buxom young woman standing there. I blinked and shielded my eyes. “Albert’s girth!” I exclaimed. “Elizabeth!? Is that you?” “It is, doctor,” she said, stepping inside without invitation and allowing me to cast my eyes over Carruthers’ niece from a more favourable angle. She was a sight for sore, watering eyes, and more besides, but I regained my composure quickly and glanced outside. Of Carruthers there was no sign; only a tandem penny farthing stood propped against the wall that mostly surrounded my country retreat in Sussex. Over my best attempt at a cup of tea – one really doesn’t appreciate a housekeeper as good as Mrs Amersham until she is of necessity called away to attend a family bereavement; a cousin killed just the weekend past by an anti-suffrage mob in Brixton – Elizabeth told me that it was imperative I accompany her to her uncle as he was certain he had found the fabled City of the Amazons and felt the chance of success in such a mission would increase with my accompaniment. It was difficult to say no to Elizabeth and I suspected that had been Carruthers’ intention. “Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth,” I said, trying to find the right words. “As you know I have not been well ever since that horrible incident that saw the three of us set foot on Saturn. I have self-administered a dose of trepanning but the mental ailment that yet still afflicts me has left me with little desire” – I choked on this word and blushed, I’m sure – “for adventure or the company of man. I find myself thinking dark thoughts from time-to-time and I have not fully gotten over the loss of Mr Hawkes, I’m certain.” I glanced at the empty picture frame on the mantelpiece; it ashamed me that my intention to sketch my former spacefaring companion in tribute had been scuppered by a frightening inability to recall his features. “I am sure your uncle can cope without me. Indeed, he may be better off without worrying over what I might say or do next as it’s a constant threat at the back of my own mind.” “My uncle wouldn’t ask this lightly,” answered Elizabeth. “And neither would I,” she continued, fixing a stare at me that I hurriedly broke. “Normalcy may be just what the doctor should be...
A Meeting Room, Somewhere…
“Heil Hitler!” said with a snap and a proud billowing of the cheeks. The guard shuffled into attention trying to hide some of the slouching that invariably comes from hours of dull duty. “Heil Hitler,” came the perfunctory reply as Oberleutnant Schmidt bounded into the office. As he expected, the room – if you didn’t include the guard (Friedrich? He wanted to say Friedrich) and himself – was unoccupied. Naturally, he was dead on time for the meeting and naturally he would be made to wait again. Schmidt picked one of the pad chairs and settled into it facing the office’s only other piece of furniture, a desk hewn from local rock and topped off with a thin sheet of steel cannibalised from the force’s now-useless lead exploration craft. To pass the time he closed his eyes and listened to his surroundings; his own, heavy breathing (this environment didn’t help); the low-pitched whirr of the ventilation system recycling the air for the ten thousandth time; just at the limits of audibility the hint of a couple of other discussions elsewhere in the structure echoed through into the semi-circular room. He felt he sensed rather than heard the general approaching but he conceded quickly his subconscious may have simply alerted him to the sounds he was zoning out of hearing. How long had he been there? He glanced at the clock on the wall. Under five minutes. Not too bad. The general and another soldier – the Festungswerkmeister, or fortress works master – entered and acknowledged the guard’s voiced salute. Friedrich was dismissed with a wave of the general’s hand leaving the three men alone. “Why, generaloberst, you’re very nearly on time!” said Schmidt, who hadn’t bothered to stand for the other two. The general grunted and slumped onto the pad chair opposite Schmidt. The fortress works master, Schroeder, smiled weakly and nodded at the oberleutnant as he took the seat next to him. “Schroeder, you’re to begin preparations for dismantling of the defences – as much as possible – and restoring the Kalkgrund to service,” said the general flatly. Two sets of eyes widened at that statement. “We’re leaving under our own power?” asked Schmidt, shifting slightly. “There are no reinforcements coming?” “We are, and there aren’t,” answered the general. “There will be no need for reinforcements because as we’ve all surmised over the past half year here there is nothing to reinforce against. This has been a colossal waste of time and effort.” He took a breath. “Naturally,” he added, “the fault lies not with our leaders but with the cunning of the enemy.” “Of course. Naturally,” answered...
Alberto Frog’s Coffee Problem
“Oh, Alberto Frog, thank you!” said Father Leopold. “Thank you for saving the church fête with your charity orchestral performance.” “An absolute pleasure,” said the orchestra’s conductor, beaming widely. “How ever can I thank you?” asked the priest. “Well…” said Alberto. “Um… Er…” Zebra knew what he was going to ask for. Kangaroo knew what he was going to ask for. Ostrich knew what he was going to ask for. “Well,” continued Alberto Frog. “I wouldn’t say no to a coffee.” There was a clang as cymbals fell to the floor and a loud gasp was heard from most of the orchestra. “Coffee?” asked Father Leopold. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a milkshake?” “No,” said Alberto quickly. “Coffee. Please. Coffee.” “Er, okay. Any particular flavour?” Tiger thought Alberto might choose Bounty Island Cream. Flamingo thought Alberto might choose Blueberry and Vanilla. Elephant thought Alberto might choose Toasted Pecan. And Monkey thought Alberto might choose Chocolate Cherry. What do you think? “Anything. Anything will do,” said Alberto. “Come now, Alberto, you must have a favourite flavour of coffee.” Father Leopold’s smile was thin and forced. “I. Don’t. Care,” said Alberto through gritted teeth. Father Leopold was taken aback as he didn’t realise frogs had teeth. “Coffee. Any coffee. I just want a coffee.” “Would you like Blueberry and Vanilla coffee?” asked Flamingo, keen to be proven right. “JUST GIVE ME A FUCKING COFFEE!” screamed Alberto Frog. “I JUST WANT A FUCKING COFFEE!” “Steady now Alberto!” said Coelacanth, wary of how much much the baton was shaking in the conductor’s hand. “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” yelled Alberto. “WHY IS THERE A FUCKING COELACANTH IN MY ORCHESTRA?” “Hippo’s on maternity leave,” said Squirrel timidly. Alberto stared at the rodent with fury in his eyes. “Here!” said Father Leopold suddenly. “Here’s a coffee.” “Finally!” said Alberto, grabbing the offered mug from the priest’s hands and taking a loud slurp. The orchestra’s conductor’s shoulders relaxed immediately and Alberto closed his eyes, savouring the taste of the hot liquid. “Was that so fucking difficult?” he said quietly. Suddenly Alberto Frog felt a sharp pain in his left arm and a crushing weight on his chest. He clasped a hand to his heart even as it gave up beating to one of the many rhythms in the conductor’s head. Father Leopold and the orchestra looked on as the amphibian died from a massive heart attack. “Stress,” said Raccoon, breaking the silence that followed. “I told him coffee was no good for him.” “What coffee was it?” asked Elephant. “Toasted pecan,” answered Father Leopold as he made the sign of the cross over Alberto’s stiff...
All Ears
“I’m all ears,” I said as I lowered myself onto the tree stump opposite the doctor. The doctor fished one hand into a worn-looking pocket in his coat and pulled out a short wooden pipe. Over the next couple of minutes he also retrieved tobacco and a lighter and proceeded to do all the right things with those three objects. He made a couple of sucking sounds and exhaled a small cloud. “Well,” the doctor said, after quite a long wait. “Well, you’re not all ears,” he continued. “There’s a mouth there.” He pointed at me with the mouthpiece of the pipe, a far better use for the item than using it to smoke in my opinion, though I kept the thought to myself. “Yes,” I answered with a sigh. “This right here is a mouth. Technically, I’m not all ears but for all intents and purposes I am.” “Hmmm.” We sat in silence for as long it takes a doctor to inhale and exhale from a pipe three more times. “How did you know who I was and where I was?” he asked. I shrugged my ear-covered shoulders. “I’m not sure what you’re asking there.” “You don’t have any eyes,” the doctor continued. “I’m over 90% ears,” I replied. “Despite not having any eyes my hearing prowess enables me to build up an in-depth view of the world that’s probably better than every other person on the planet.” “A bit like that superhero in that bloody awful movie?” “Daredevil? Yes, I suppose so. I suppose you could say I’m just like Daredevil if Daredevil was a walking bush of ears. Do you think there’s much call for a comic book adaptation of a mostly-ear bit of shrubbery? Is that the sort of superhero kids will want to be?” The doctor looked uncomfortably at his pipe. “I’m sorry for snapping,” I said. “I’m just after some help. I’m tired of being this way. Can you help?” The doctor took another deep puff. “My doctorate is honorary,” he said, punctuating the sentence with a smoke ring and barely-concealed look of joy at the O-shaped cloud. “And it’s in philosophy.” “Damn.” “Hmmm.” I slumped, defeated. “Have you thought about taking up pipe-smoking?” “No hands,” I said. “I’m all ears.” “Hmmm.” The doctor tried his best to ignore me, tried his best to concentrate on smoking, and I sat in silence for a few moments more. After what seemed a satisfactory amount of time to convey my disappointment and send waves of what I hoped was guilt over the man in some petty way of spreading misery I lifted myself off the...
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