A Fable

.At art college I became friends with Jim and Gris. I never found out what Gris was short for but Griselda is likely, as my tale will show. Jim was an artist and steam fanatic. His dearest wish was to become a lesbian; an undertaking that even the most optimistic American would consider doubtfully achievable. Gris worked for the Gas Board. They lived on a council estate in Kirby Muxlow. We lost touch but ten years on I decided to drop by. Though the rest of the houses remained neat, only obscured by the odd trike and climbing frame, J&G’s house had a forest of tall windblown saplings in the front garden, impenetrable except for the gate, which had an arch of use above it. Behind the forest was a cobwebbed front door that had never been opened in years. I tried the back, which was opened by a dimly lit harridan. “Yes?” I recognised Gris, just. “It’s B, I was passing.” She smiled and beckoned me in. The house defies my powers of description, a film set dressed for fairytale strangeness. The lounge was filled with an H block of bookshelves leaving only a maze of slim walk spaces between with a little extra around the fireplace where sat Jim in an old high backed green velvet chair. He was dressed in a shock pink leotard and tights. We go to the pub, with Jim adding green velvet trousers and a red velvet smoking jacket over his leotard for decorum. During our walk home, while Jim is relieving himself in a front garden, Gris confides in me, “I’m thinking of leaving him.” You think! We continue and as Jim sleeps his stupor in his chair by the fire Gris says, “Can I show you something?” We walk out the back door to a shed; she unlocks a padlock. In the gloom there is a tarpaulin. She lifts the tarpaulin. Revealed is a brand new Harley Davidson soft tail Sportster. “It’s just been delivered. It’s my dream.” I remember it as if it were yesterday. Shortly afterwards Gris left Jim and I met her the following year at a big motorcycle rally in Peterborough. I remember I bought some gloves. Since then Gris found a lovely man, a fellow motorcyclist and now lives in Norfolk. Jim I imagine is still in his fairytale council house in Kirby Muxlow, trapped by an unattainable wish.

My mate James.

James is at the vets getting his yearly GCSE. (Mercedes; garage, MOT) I sit here unable to do anything but trust my faith in the Norse God, Benz. It’s been a difficult year for James. November he got a cold, which rapidly turned into water on the lung. (flooded passenger side floor) Major transplant surgery was rejected on cost and for a short while euthanasia loomed. But we go back a long way, we don’t give up that easy, me and James. The green mould secondary infections to his other internal organs (seats) was cleaned and lungs (carpets) removed, squeegeed and dried. An internet search of MB Owners Club Norse God parables revealed that a small nipple behind his left armpit (front wheel) could have become blocked. A swift poke with finger released nipple and inner congestion. A contusion of the kidneys (water pump) was replaced along with several major arteries (brake lines) by local garage, who also cleared his larynx. (throttle body) But I don’t like this ‘sitting here and watching time go by unable to do anything’ state. I’m also wondering if I’m taking this anthropomorphising a little too far. Maybe I’m getting inebriated by boredom. It’s an old habit. In Sainsburys it’s trolley riding, softly singing carols in June or making checkout beeps; a mobile is a wonderful opportunity for live street theatre as one answers some fictitious conversation; at work, as I remember, there were elastic bands and practicing different forms of handwriting. It’s unfortunate that these forms of relieving boredom are often seen as insanity because they can brighten many a drab day. The Morrison’s incident for example did not warrant all that rough handling from the security man who’s brain stem reached no higher than his lower back. I walk back to garage. James is now free to pursue further education! Yessee to his MOT! I’m going to enrol him on a pottery course.

Sex. A Synopsis.

In the animal kingdom the two sexes are divided into ‘those that get it’ and ‘those that have it.’ Males ‘get’ the sex and females ‘have’ the babies. Nature has imbued males with the drive for it and females the enjoyment of it, on the basis it can lead to a lot of faff and trouble on their part, and needs a good front end, as it were, to make it all worthwhile. This though leads to much confusion. Males get confused between drive and enjoyment. They often find themselves banging away wondering ‘why am I doing this?’ and conclude it’s because they enjoy it. They come, as it were, to a conclusion and it’s good night all. It’s not so much enjoyment as fulfilling the drive. Females on the other hand aren’t focused on mere drive and are often misperceived as not wanting it. Wrong. They’re focused on what might be round the corner and are in it for the real enjoyment. Now this is far more complex than simply giving in to the coercions of one’s erect stick. They know that a possible baby, like a puppy, is not just for Christmas. It will have multifarious needs. I’m not suggesting, during union, they will be absorbed in considering suitable offspring names but rather a whole panoply of emotional requirements. Hence rich and powerful males who also display tenderness are the best turn on. As we mice say, “Show ‘em your cheese and give ‘em a squeeze.” And connected to these emotions is an erogenisity of such exquisite sensitivity that males can only dream of. Not for them the quick releases of a catapult, but rather the slow burn of a roman candle. If males possessed such erogenous potential they would likely undergo surgery to get to it themselves. Actually the nearest the male can get to a full, rounded female orgasm is watching football. So ladies, next time your partner screams uncontrollably, “Spurs one, Chelsea nil” in his moment of orgasm remember he’s just doing his best to join you in your emotional heights. 

Meerkat Moments.

Csíkszentmihályi, Mihaly to his friends, is not merely a qwerty disaster, not merely the only person in the world sure of getting himself when Googled, he is a renowned psychologist. His fame is ‘Flow’, the psychology of optimal experience. My friend, John, was having trouble with his boiler. The fan was stopping when it should have been going. To cut a long phone call short, “drown it in WD40”, which along with Gaffa tape has saved the world on numerous occasions. Next phone call. “It worked! I’m amazed how I went from despair to elation. Thank you.” As you can see from the diagram he had swung round from 9 o’clock to 2 o’clock in a trice. Take a bow John and Mihaly. I had the skill level and John had the challenge level and together we got to Flow. We had a Meerkat Moment, a “tchix, simple” that makes life worthwhile. It strikes me education seems to miss out the power of tchix, choosing rather to focus on the early evening hours between boredom and worry, with teachers spending their time trying to whip up a stiff meringue from an egg white apathy. Personally I can beat egg whites senseless and not get a result. But the possibility, even imaginary, of a Meerkat Moment would have those peaks standing up prouder than Madonna’s nipples. There is though an axial difference between teachers and pupils. Teachers are strong on the horizontal and students on the vertical; they tend to meet around 0,0 i.e. in apathy. The concept of them meeting in flow is a mere pipedream to all concerned. But is it possible? If one were to start with describing a Meerkat Moment and work back through its constituent skill requirements each with its own “tchix”, might they? Education is after all a very practical preparation for such moment so that they may be enjoyed, not the beating of apathy into the mere shapes of knowledge. 

Heat Hot News.

“She used to be fresh-faced and carefree. Now she’s bitter, exhausted and driving Brad away.” Angelina, that is. Now I know Mothermouse and me outrank Angie and Bradee on the age front on account of mouse years being shorter than LA’s, but we can do those transformation between elevenses and afternoon crumpets. Even quicker if Mothermouse embarks on a second bottle. First for Bradee was Jenee, who we all know is the love of his life because she’s so nice in Friends, even though he doesn’t the thick sod, until Jenee went off with a Portoreecan (even my spell check can’t help there) and had a baby by a dumpster technician’s assistant. Make that twins. No, triplets. Or was that Britney? So anyway Bradee turned to Angie for solace and they had seventeen children by deed poll. For a couple of short years they were seen happily shopping for normal things together with babies strapped to their elbows, and then the cracks began to appear. Bradee was seen ‘on his own’, a sure sign something was up. Angie was caught crying after a friendly photographer asked her to hold his finely diced onion. Rumours began to flow. Bradee had been seen returning home after losing at Fight Club; Angie in dark glasses, and that can only mean one thing. Lucky for us Heat magazine is there to give us these continual in-depth reports. Where would we be if we didn’t know the absolute truth? Meanwhile Girls Aloud ginga singer, Nicola, has made a SHOCK (in pink) confession that her skin is falling off. Though blamed on sun beds I suspect it was Heathrow’s new full body scanner and a male operative making absolutely sure she had nothing on, er, I mean like bombs. So thank you Heat for keeping us aware and informed, and armed with the facts. Oh and Stiffmouse will hopefully soon be performing live at The Gardeners Rest. I’ll keep you posted. 

That girl Britney.

You know how cold it was last night; well Britney was out till 3am! Comes in bright as you like, but Mothermouse couldn’t get to sleep wondering where she was; she’s normally curled up at the bottom of the bed by bedtime. Her sister Betty is the sociable one, happy to chat, lie on your knee and smell bottoms etc but Britney is a girl who believes everything is do-able and she’s the one to do it. A five foot vertical leap up the wall of the shed to surprise a pigeon, ditto from hi-fi speaker to wardrobe top. We’ve found her in the microwave, coalscuttle, even attempting to climb the chimney. I got called. Britney was throwing a mouse about the bedroom; to us that’s attempted genocide. When I arrived Dave, Betty and Britney were triangulated around a little plump mouse slowly swaying. This wasn’t to be his lucky day. Legally it was Britney’s mouse but in its attempt to avoid the devil it did know it ran into the mouth of Dave who was manning the offside trap. Dave, who’s made a virtue out of his disability, is normally Buddhist on account of only having one eye, but when your luck’s in it’s time to make an exception. He had his mouse and growling at all comers. My dilemma: Do I prize open Dave’s mouth to free the mouse and thus reset the situation as before? Do I really stand a chance of getting to it before three very focused cats? I decided to pick Dave up and transport him, closely followed by a feline entourage, to the kitchen, where he might hopefully forget the mouse in mid growl and open up for extra volume. It might then jump free, and find a handy hole between mouse size and cat size. Like Pontius Pilot I closed the door. So anyway what are we to do about Britney clubbing it till 3 in the morning? Mothermouse is considering getting her a mobile. 

On Leaving the House.

I’m going to die. Davina Gee will be talking to the house and calling my name: the countdown will begin. ‘Stiffmouse, please leave the Big Brother House.’ I will briefly pose for photo obituaries and have my final interview with D in the alcove of oblivion as my past is flashed up in video clips. I will disappear and my life re-written in the columns of the narrow sheets by their lascivious historians. Well actually I’ve got a tummy upset and may be over dramatising, and also overly influenced by watching the final of Big Brother last night. But it’s worth bearing in mind that it will happen sooner or later. What will your clips show? Will the crowd boo or cheer? Will Davina Gee look upon you kindly? How have you been in the house? As for me, apart from recognising my own face, I will probably not recognise the rest. I will accuse BB of bias. Why pick out my snide comments, my over enthusiastic nudity, those moments when I was overbearing, inconsiderate, lazy and pompous? That’s not me. There is though, unfortunately, a truth to how others see us, a truth that, as I strut my stage, I don’t immediately recognise. Yet there in the garden, the kitchen, the tasks, is my account magnetised on the videotape of history. And in those captured moments of hubris, procrastination, pride and fear I, like the crowd, will ask of me, “To have been or not to have been. That is my question. Was I noble in my mind to suffer the slings and arrows of those outrageous tasks, or….?” God be praised we have Bill.