Andrew Chapman Drowning in the Land of Madness, Uncategorized

Drowning in the Land of Madness (Day 1)

“It’s hard to make nonfiction seem believable.”

–   Kurt Vonnegut

 

Saturday

I am on a plane, and terrible things are happening.

I have long suspected that invisible beasts live inside the clouds, hankering for a bite of the tasty metal that flies above them. Right now one of these beasts has grabbed the plane and is shaking it wildly. I tighten my grip on the armrests. A voice comes out of a speaker on the underside of the storage compartment above me. It’s the pilot telling us it’s just turbulence. Deep down I know it’s something more and I know he knows it too.

The pilot is either a master of flight or a tamer of luck and he somehow escapes the grasp of this invisible plane eating creature. The fuselage stops shaking and I exhale and loosen my grip. An air hostess, with her hair pulled back, red lipstick and blue shoes, begins a seductive walk down the aisle with a metal cart bearing the fruit that will calm us travel-weary alcoholic passengers.

In 1987 American Airlines stopped serving olives with their salads. As a result they saved around $500,000 a year. The olive company that supplied them got mad and fought for the people’s rights to eat olives while hurtling through the sky. Eventually American Airlines gave in and put them back in their salads. With this knowledge in mind I order a Martini with extra olives.

The olives are free and anytime a corporation offers you something for free you damn well take it. So long as the free thing doesn’t lead to you buying something extra from them you take it and you ask for more. Every free thing you take from a corporation is costing someone somewhere money. It is your duty, friends and cohorts, to do all you can to take money from the pockets of every capitalist poverty-making bastard that crosses your path. They are not your friends. The olives are a ruse designed to lure you into their evil money grabbing traps.

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have any olives.” (How am I supposed to rebel under these circumstances?). “Or Martini, but we do have whisky, wine, or beer.”

Hangovers are designed to teach us a hard lesson; to not be so stupid in future. Some part of this lesson makes it to the front of my mind and I make the sensible choice of coffee over booze. I watch the air hostess finish serving her treats to the other passengers and then take a seat at the front of the plane. She sits there smiling to herself like some kind of strange attractive robot. What goes through the minds of these unusual people? These sky people. Spending so much of your life in the air must make you feel separated from humanity. Unhinged from the Earth. Crowbarred into the clouds by impossible flying machines. Crossing date lines and time zones. These people do not, cannot, judge time by the clock, but with geography and calculators. These people are only certain of their true age on those fleeting moments they spend in the land of their birth. Madness must surely chase them around the globe. She is still smiling as I finally turn my glance from her and to the film that is just starting on the screen in front of me. It is the new X-Men film, Days of Future Past.

The screen goes momentarily black before the film starts and I catch a horrifying glimpse of my reflection. Is that haggard looking man really me? I look at my brother. He at least has shaved before the flight. And had a haircut! My god, how do people find time to do these things? When we land to be welcomed by the long awaited embrace of our parents they will think my brother has captured a tramp and is trying to pass him off as me. I run my hand through my hair but it’s no good. Nothing will help me. Luckily such things as hairstyles can be easily forgotten with the simple aid of superheroes. The movie starts. The inane boredom that comes with watching such movies gives me time to reflect on the frantic journey that got us to this aircraft.

We left home this morning at 4:30am. We had been up the night before until 2am drinking weird beer that David, my brother and traveling companion, had discovered. It is called Cubanisto and is a combination of beer and rum. We discovered that the beer does not freeze. We assume this is because of the rum in the drink, but maybe it’s something else. Maybe the unnatural combination is enough to thwart basic thermodynamics. We were unsure if we liked the taste of this new discovery and so drank as many bottles as we could to in order to give the drink a fair trial. We are still undecided. After finishing the beer we opened a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey.

By the time we fell asleep we were beyond drunk and only an hour and a half later we were up again and struggling against our own self-inflicted retardation to overcome and defy the simple yet impossible tasks that mornings insist upon. Like putting on trousers and brushing teeth. Somehow we managed these things. Deano (the man who was volunteered to take us to the airport) due to his decision to not get completely shitfaced, was freshly showered and smiling at us like a smug fucking sensible adult. David currently lives in a caravan in Deano’s garden. They are old school friends. The reason David is slumming it like a gypsy woman is so he can save enough money for a deposit for a mortgage. He agreed to give us a lift to the airport. Deano has many cars I’m too hung-over to recall which car we went up in. It could have been a tuc-tuc for all I can recall.

With reality and normality still many hours and gallons of coffee in our future we dragged our suitcases to Deano’s car and heaved them into the boot. We drove for two hours, from Bournemouth to London Heathrow. The whole trip so far had been kind of a blur. I vaguely remember stopping at a service station and having a McDonalds for breakfast, but that could easily have been a fitful dream. We made it to the airport and thanked Deano for the ride. “She’s mint, Bill,” he said (which, in the language of Deano, means “No worries, chaps”).

Check-in was hard and confusing. Not by any fault of the airport. We just hadn’t sobered up yet. We were living some kind of dehydrated nightmare. We navigated the normally reasonable airport sucking on bottles of water and mumbling incoherencies. Eventually we made it through the various obstacles laid out by well-meaning transport authorities. We rambled through check-in. Stumbled and fell along endless corridors with moving floors. I watched the people standing still on the moving walkway while we stupidly galloped along beside them. Have humans really evolved to such a point that we no longer need to walk? We have reversed evolution so that our environment is adapted to fit us, and not the other way around like nature intended. We have made the ground move so that we don’t have to. I refuse to become one of these lazy future people, and David, through some kind of unspoken agreement, seems to feel the same. Not once did we make use of the travelators, even though our bodies would have been thankful for the ride.

We made it to the gate and sat and waited for two hours before we were able to board. The time was spent staring at the floor while our minds slowly disintegrated. Finally the gate opened and we boarded the flying bus.

Before we took off a part of the ceiling collapsed into the plane and two men in high visibility jackets came on-board and gaffer taped the plane back together. I felt like freaking out just to scare some of the younger passengers but my tiredness prevented me from carrying out this perverse act.

I don’t know if it’s because of the strange men on either side of me and David that prevents us from sleeping the sleep that we so desperately need. But we land in Charlotte, North Carolina, without even a nap over the past eight hours of flight. With two hours to spare before our connecting flight to Phoenix we wander aimlessly to the gate.

Drinking so much before a full day of traveling is not the right way to go about things. Deep down I know that drinking more is not the solution to this problem but I have never been a particularly wise man. Neither has my brother. Opposite our gate is a sports bar and after a lengthy discussion we decide to give up on our travelling sobriety and try some of the ale on offer. The discussion goes like this –

“Beer?”

“Sure.”

The Americans have misunderstood the meaning of ale. These reckless lunatics do the unthinkable to this normally wonderful drink. Those of you who have a particular affection for the great British ale might want to skip this paragraph. Imagine buying your favourite cheese only to discover it is now made of chimpanzee milk. The ale, and this is unforgivable, is fizzy. And not fizzy in the natural fermented, froth on the top, kind of way. No. They have taken a perfectly good ale, presumably tasted it and assumed something was amiss, and carbonated it. If you want to try this horrendous miscarriage of a beer there is no need for you to travel to America. Simply take a decent Ringwood ale (or whichever ale takes your personal preference) and put it through a Soda-Stream. Too much Hops. Too fizzy. Undrinkable. We had two pints each. The cost for this affront to the honest beer loving alcoholic? $38. Bastards.

We board the second and last plane in our trip. Apart from some initial confusion, regarding the inevitable time travel achieved during such trips, the flight is uneventful. We board the plane at 16:30 and it is supposed to land in Phoenix at 18:30. But as 18:30 comes around I ask the air hostess what time we land and she says, as expected, “Six thirty.”

“But what time is it now?” I say.

“It’s three thirty,” she says.

We have somehow travelled for two hours and now find ourselves three hours in the past. We must have travelled through some kind of time vortex.

We land, collect our suitcases, leave the airport, and get in a taxi. The taxi driver is from Somalia. He seems like a decent sort of chap. He asks us how our Queen is doing. I ask him if he had considered becoming a Somalian pirate before opting to be an American Taxi driver. He says he has not but notes (regretfully) that those Somalian pirates sure make a lot of money.

Finally we arrive at the Covered Wagon RV Stop in Black Canyon, Phoenix. And there are my parents. Thinner than I remember, and tanned as African camel leather. We hug. They show us around the RV. We go outside and sit in the immense heat. Dad hands around beer from the cooler. Mum has a whiskey and coke. We talk. We eat cheese and crackers. Exhaustion makes the evening brief and finally, after only an hour and a half of sleep in the last 48 hours, me and David make our beds and sleep.

And so it starts. This trip from Arizona to the Mohave Desert. And for what reason? You could boil it down to an excuse for a free holiday. Or curiosity of how our folks have suddenly decided to live. But it’s more than that. I heard that some writers write better when they are constantly on the move and surrounded by booze. It gives me the chance to experiment with a genre I love; travel writing. I’m sure these things normally involve a lot of planning to ensure the book has some kind of coherent narrative or point. But forget all that, I think I’ll just have a drink and see what this country is all about. Don’t expect a travel guide.

Andrew Chapman Tripping the Night Fantastic, Uncategorized

Tripping the Night Fantastic – Chapter 8

Jane quietly unlocked the front door to her house and peered in. The house seemed to be empty. She went in. She tiptoed over to the kitchen, trying to prevent her feet from making a sound, and lightly opened the door a crack. She looked through and panned across the room. It was empty. She let out a silent breath and started creeping slowly up the stairs.

Upstairs was clear. Nobody was in.

Jane pulled a large suitcase from the top shelf in her wardrobe and threw it on the bed. When it hit the bed the lid conveniently sprang open, as if this were a carefully choreographed movie scene, and a pile of clothes landed in it. Jane opened another drawer and grabbed a pile of assorted underwear and threw them in to the suitcase. She went into the en-suite bathroom and grabbed some basic toiletries. She stuffed them into her suitcase and then looked around the room with her hand on her chin wondering what else she would need. Of course! She thought, bending down and pulling a shoe box from under the bed; her duel-speed, multi function, Pleasureflex 3000! She tossed it into her suitcase and then looked at it for a while, she checked her watch, wondered when Simon might be back, started to smile, thought against it, and finally took her eyes off of the immensely pleasurable toy and grabbed a few last bits and pieces to pack for her stay at her mothers. Finally she packed the book she was currently reading, which happened to be one of Charlie Deavon’s early books, ‘The Elegance of Idiocy’, and zipped up the suitcase.

The bedside phone started to ring.

Jane stared at it and waited for it to go to answer phone. Eventually it did.

‘Simon, are you there? Please pick up. It’s Casey Jury, the Casting Director. I’m calling from the studio. We’ve got people here waiting to audition. I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning. I’ve been told I can’t start until Charlie is on set. Please call me ASAP. I’ll soon have no choice but to start without you…’

Jane’s conscience got the better of her. I say that, what actually happened is that she remembered Amelia was going to be there to audition. She picked up the phone.

‘Casey?’ she said, ‘It’s Jane, Simon’s wife.’

‘Jane, thank god, where is he? I can’t drag this out much longer.’

‘I’m not sure where he is, he should be there. Listen, I can come as his representative, so you can at least start the process.’

‘I’m not sure, I have been told to specifically wait for Charlie to be on set.’

‘It’s ok, Charlie was here for dinner last night, I know he won’t mind so long as we don’t make a decision without him. The auditions are being filmed aren’t they?’

‘Yes, actually, they are.’

‘Ok, then we can do the auditions and then let Charlie and Simon view them when they become available.’

‘Ok, that will have to do, how soon can you be here?’

‘I’m on my way.’

Jane hung up the phone and picked up her suitcase. She trundled down the stairs and practically leapt out of the front door. She threw the suitcase into the boot and sped off toward the studio.

 

In Keep’s bar Charlie was standing on the stage writing on the back wall with a piece of chalk. To Charlie those carefully chalked words were the opening chapter of the greatest book he’d ever written. To the casual onlooker they were just a random jumble of misspelled words.

Keep was behind the bar making evolutionary leaps in the science of drink mixing. The drink he held in his hand now was glowing purple. He drank it and grinned. He searched frantically for a piece of paper and a pen to write down the recipe to this incredible new drink but, alas, could find neither pen nor paper.

Simon was sitting on the edge of the stage staring at a knot in a floorboard. A tuneful music began to swim up from the floorboard and Simon raised his eyebrows at it. Charlie stopped writing and Keep looked around him-self confusedly. What was that music? All three men converged around the music that, having investigated, turned out to be coming from Simon’s trousers. The music stopped. The men looked startled. They stood there in silence waiting for the music to start again. It did. The men smiled and started removing Simon’s trousers. As they did something fell out of his pocket and clunked to the floor. The men looked at it.

‘It’s a phone,’ said Keep, eventually.

A very slight, but very helpful, reality fell over the men for a moment and they were able to think clearly again.

Simon grabbed the phone. The music stopped. On the screen were the words, “16 missed calls. 3 new messages”.

Simon pressed a button and accessed his messages. The first message began to play. It was the voice of a thirty year old male.

‘Simon, it’s Casey Jury, the Casting Director, we’re hoping to start auditions in half an hour. Let reception know when you’re here and I’ll come and meet you.’

The message stopped and another one started.

‘Simon, Casey again, I’ve been trying to get hold of you, the auditions were supposed to start an hour ago, please phone me.’

A feeling of dread greeted Simon with callous un-care for his emotional state.

‘The auditions!’ said Simon.

A third message started. Simon put the phone on loud speaker.

‘Me again, I’ve spoken to your wife and she’s agreed to come down as your representative. I’m sorry, I know we were supposed to wait for Charlie but we can’t wait forever. If you do eventually get here we’re in studio 2. Hope everything’s ok.’

The message ended.

‘Isn’t Amelia auditioning today?’ said Charlie.

Simon raised his eyebrows in realization and then discarded the look for another. He frowned and narrowed his eyes.

‘That bitch!’ he said, in a strangely calm voice.

‘To the auditions!’ shouted Charlie, raising his finger to the sky.

 

Jane had already arrived at the auditions and was currently shaking hands with Casey Jury.

‘Jane, how long has it been?’ said Casey.

‘Well, let’s see, I think the last time I saw you was on the set of Walking Backwards, Charlie’s first short story adaptation.’

‘Oh, yes, that was back before Charlie started hating everyone! Actually, prepare to be corrected; the last time we met was at your wedding!’

‘Blimey! Yes it must have been!’

‘So how long has it been?’

‘Six years this August.’

‘Well, I hope you and Simon are still going strong.’

‘We have our moments,’ she said, with a worried smile.

‘We better get on,’ said Casey.

‘What’s that on you collar?’ said Jane, lifting his collar for a better look.

‘Oh, nothing, just ketchup,’ said Casey.

‘Really? Pink ketchup?’ said Jane, with raised eyebrows.

Casey smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Some things never change do they? So who have you promised the part to?’

‘I haven’t promised anything, assumption can bring a casting director great pleasures.’

‘I don’t want to know,’ said Jane, and they took their seats in the casting area.

They sat together on those cool director’s chairs, that are so unnecessarily uncomfortable, and an eager young person brought them coffee.

Auditions are normally held in the nearest available room but as the set was already near completion they decided to hold them in the studio; very exciting for the budding young actor.

The main male part had already been cast and it was indeed the floppy haired Owen Wilson. Today’s auditions were for the female lead and a few supporting parts.

Just off set were an entire gaggle of more-or-less unknown actors. They read their scripts and shuffled feet nervously. Some of them sat with their heads in their hands trying to recite the scripts from memory and then checking to see if they had made any mistakes. One girl was reading parts of the script aloud. A middle-aged woman gestured and moved her lips silently, holding the script at arm’s-length like a 16th century stage actor presenting Shakespeare to a ramshackle crowd.

Amelia stood near the back of the gaggle being cute and confident. She wore a long black skirt and high heels and a practically unbuttoned blouse. Her hair was tied back and her dark eyes bore holes through her rectangular secretary style spectacles. She filled the corner of the room she stood with an electric feeling of promiscuous ease.

Jane spotted her and smiled.

‘Melody Abigail!’ shouted Casey, calling for the first girl to audition.

Melody was blonde, attractive, and had the air of someone with no soul. She probably did have a soul, but I suspect it was busy having a seizure in a flashing gutless world of reality TV and overly produced music by people who looked a lot like her. She was wearing pink lipstick.

Jane raised an eyebrow at Casey and he shrugged with a guilty smile.

She was attractive but charmless. She scored low.

Another human was brought to the stand.

‘Donna Bronte!’ shouted Casey.

Donna had a fair appearance and a very nice demeanour. She wasn’t right for the part of a closet serial killer but she was honest and intelligent. She doesn’t know it yet but she will be given a small part with two lines. She will be overjoyed.

‘Margaret Bertram!’ shouted Casey.

Jane recommended to Margaret that she changed her name if she wanted to be taken seriously as an actor and Margaret scorned her for such a suggestion. Good on you Margaret. Margaret was the lady we encountered earlier with the Shakespearian manner. Her performance was immensely enjoyed by all but she was clearly not suitable for the part. She was thanked kindly and sent on her way.

This went on alphabetically until it was finally Amelia’s turn to impress. And impress she did. She had memorized the part and understood its subtleties perfectly.

The scene in question isn’t actually in the film; it was developed to find out if the actress was able to flip between being an innocent and naïve receptionist to a determined and intelligent serial killer with believable ease. There is dialog but it is unimportant and is only really there to check the girl can remember lines and doesn’t have a ridiculous and crippling accent.

The scene starts with the lead female sitting behind a desk, a man enters and the girl greets him pleasantly, the man exits, the girl then removes her glasses and takes on the air of a serial killer. The man comes back in and she again resumes the ‘naïve girl’ persona. The man begins to leave again and the ‘serial killer persona’ re-emerges, she slips a knife out of a drawer and follows the man out of the room with intent to kill.

Amelia played it perfectly; she sat behind the staged desk with all the attractive pull of a wood mouse. The man enters the scene and Amelia smiled politely without a hint of invitation; she appears to be bland, just your basic everyday receptionist. The man exits the scene and her true colours come out.

It was the way she removed her glasses and stood from the desk. Her body toyed with the set as if even furniture was not immune to her sensuous allure. It was as if her sexuality had a volume control and she was able to turn it off or turn it right up without apparently changing anything. She went from a dormant wood mouse to a predator of lust with a flick of a switch. Casey and Jane were blown away.

The rest of the auditions went by with little interest, as far as Casey was concerned the part had now been filled. Sitting through the rest of the auditions was nothing more than a courtesy.

 

Outside the studio a beat-up Jaguar XJ-S came to a lugging stop in a cloud of black smoke.

Charlie, Keep, and Simon got out of the car.

The effects of the drug had worn off now. This is another good thing about the new drug, because it’s based on cocaine its effects only last about twenty minutes. The effects of the alcohol they had consumed before they left The Basement however were still quite apparent. The men were drunk. There was no doubt about it. And the first piece of evidence to support this wild claim came courtesy of Keep.

A doorman, who by chance resembled a door, stood in front of the studio door. Keep greeted the man by urinating on his shoes.

The man responded by kicking him repeatedly with his wet shoe.

Charlie and Simon snuck past and left them to it.

‘You know, we could have just told him who we are, we are supposed to be here,’ said Simon, as they ducked behind a table covered with food, coffee, and soft drinks.

‘Keep would probably have peed on him anyway to be honest. Why are we hiding?’

‘So Jane doesn’t see us.’

‘Oh, of course. Why?’

‘In case she’s doing something with Amelia.’

‘Good point, she probably is. What with all these people around, and most of them knowing she’s married to you, and it being totally appropriate for all these people to see the woman doing the casting getting steamy with one of the actors auditioning for the part, and that she’s sober, and you’re paranoid and slightly retarded, and with all the cameras in here, seems like the perfect place for a quickie.’

‘Piss off. I can’t see her. We need to move to get a better view,’ said Simon, looking around, ‘there!’

Simon ran in a crouch over to the false front of the set and ducked behind it. His face appeared in one of the windows. Charlie stood up and took a coffee and a biscuit from the table. He walked over to the window that displayed Simon’s face.

‘I can see you,’ he said.

‘Get behind here you idiot! You’re going to get seen!’

‘Alright!’

A moment later Charlie was standing behind Simon.

‘There she is!’ said Simon, in a whisper.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Charlie, and began to wave.

‘Get down!’ said Simon, grabbing the bottom of Charlie’s jacket, ‘She’s going to see us!’

Charlie begrudgingly sat on the floor and ate his biscuit.

A head appeared on the other side of the window scaring the crap out of Simon causing him to flail and nearly fall over. It was Keep.

‘What’s happening?’ he said.

‘Hi Keep,’ said Charlie, waving his biscuit.

‘A biscuit, where’d you get that?’ said Keep.

‘Buffet table, over there.’

Charlie pointed his biscuit in the direction of the table.

‘Keep, fuck off, you’re going to draw attention to us!’ said Simon.

‘Alright I’m going, do you want any biscuits?’

‘Are you planning on coming back here?’

‘Probably.’

‘Make sure no one sees you. Sneak over and hide behind here with us!’

‘Ok.’

‘Now go away!’

‘Biscuit?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Simon.

Jane looked over as Keep was heading away from them. Simon ducked down.

‘Shit, I think she saw me,’ he said.

‘Hold on,’ said Charlie, getting up.

‘What are you doing?!’

‘Seeing if she saw you. Nope, we’re safe. She’s talking to a sexy brunette.’

Simon scrambled to his feet and peered out of the window.

‘Amelia!’

 

Jane and Amelia were standing next to an unused camera rig.

‘I got the part!’ said Amelia.

‘I know, congratulations.’

Without hesitation the girls embraced with the easy spontaneity of a natural disaster. All was professional in the mind of Jane up until that point. Unfortunately new lust is impossible to control and as soon as their breasts connected in what was meant to be a warm celebratory hug, all of the feeling from the night before came flooding back. The warmth of Amelia’s body and how limber Amelia made Jane feel, the smell of her hair, her sure confidence, her ease. Jane couldn’t help herself. She kissed her.

 

Simon’s eyes couldn’t open wide enough.

‘Do you see that!’ he said.

Keep was back. He had a coffee in one hand, a biscuit in his mouth, and his camera phone open in front of him recording the scene.

‘I missed the beginning but I think things are heating up.’

Simon snatched the phone from Keep and closed it shut. Without a word he threw the phone to the ground and removed himself from the hiding place.

‘Uh oh,’ said Keep.

Charlie was leaning on the false windowsill.

‘Here we go, turn your camera back on.’

Keep had already picked it back up, flipped it open and pressed record. Charlie sipped his coffee and Keep handed him a biscuit. Simon was storming away from them toward Jane and Amelia.

 

Passion had blinded them to their surroundings. Things were getting heated. You know that feeling you get when you step off of an air conditioned plane into a hot country? A similar thing had happened to Simon when he entered the girl’s personal space. They were kissing wildly. Buttons had come undone and cleavage was showing, Amelia’s bare tanned shoulder lifting from her open blouse, her skirt rising by itself, Jane’s hair ruffling in the caress of Amelia’s hand. An audience had gathered. Keep and Charlie had gotten closer for a better shot. A cameraman had a similar idea and was receiving directorial tips from the director. Things seemed out of hand. They were about to get worse.

Simon’s character, his normal placidness, his naïve ability to forgive, had been forgotten. Temper full, and logic gone, he charged at them and pushed. They fell hard to the sound of a collective gasp. Jane hit her head on the camera rig and Amelia fell to her back, stunned, mouth open. Unperturbed Simon grabbed for Amelia. It’s curious isn’t it, logic would have you attack Jane for the betrayal, but instead its temptation the angry mind is against.

‘Simon! Stop it!’ Jane shouted.

It doesn’t take long for decency to trump voyeurism and before Simon was even close to throttling her he had been wrestled to the ground by at least six men.

Amelia isn’t a fool. She knows when it’s time to remove herself from an awkward situation; when it becomes awkward. Everyone was so busy asking Jane if she was ok and giving Simon equal doses of condemnation and pity that she was able to disappear with only the ever vigilant Charlie noticing. Charlie saw her heading to the exit and nodded for Keep’s benefit in her direction. Both men snuck backwards out of the crowd and went after her.

 

Amelia had made it out of the studio and was casually pressing a fast walk to the main exit at the end of the car park.

‘Amelia!’ shouted Charlie.

She turned to see who had shouted. She saw it was Charlie and sighed dramatically. She didn’t protest or try to run away. What would be the point? She waited for Charlie and Keep to catch up.

‘Hurry up!’ she said.

They did and they caught up.

‘This is Keep,’ said a slightly breathless Charlie.

‘Hi Keep.’

‘Hi.’

‘Need a lift?’ asked Charlie.

‘Yes, and a drink!’

Charlie smiled and pressed a button on his car keys and his battered old car clicked open, indicators flashing, right beside them. This kind of casual luck is woven into Charlie’s DNA and one no longer questions these lazy coincidences. They got into the car. A short drive later and Charlie’s beat up relic will be parked outside Keep’s bar. By the time we get back to them they will all be tipsy again and Amelia will be back to her normal sexually charged and flirty self. They will have consumed an impressive volume of alcohol, gotten bored of the bar and moved downstairs to Keeps lab.

 

Tripping the Night Fantastic is available now on Amazon

Andrew Chapman Author Interviews, Uncategorized

Author Interview – Jemahl Evans

Jemahl EvansQuestion 1: Who are you and what have you written?

My next novel is called This Deceitful Light and will be released by Holland House Books on September 20th. It’s the second in the Blandford Candy series. A rip-roaring historical adventure, mystery, spy, comedy series set in the English Civil War. A bit ‘Flashman meets The Three Musketeers.’

Question 2: If you had to paint a portrait of any author who would it be?

Corbyn Duke – it’s basically a wild smudge of yellow hair on a stick.

Wuestion 3: Why did you start writing? The Last Roundhead

I was bored in the summer holidays and once I started I couldn’t stop.

Kwestion 4: Where do you write? Do you have a shed like Roald Dahl, or a special room away from the other people in your house. Maybe you write at work when you should be working like that Terry Pratchett did. You should be careful, if your boss catches you you’re done for. Personally I write in my pajamas.

I write best late at night in bed and edit best with a cup of coffee in the morning. The afternoons are for siesta.

Question 5: Today a dog untied my shoe laces.

Clever buggers these dogs.

Question 6: Do you think question 5 needs to be rephrased?

It certainly needs to be a question.

Question 7: Forget the last two questions.

What questions?

The Deceitful LightQuestion 5 (again): What is the most interesting thing you have learned recently? (I just heard about an animal called the Tree Kangaroo that lives in trees regardless of it being utterly inept for that way of life and so often falls out of trees. And they are f**ing adorable).

I have learned that at no point in time are mushy peas an acceptable side dish for lasagne.

Question 6: Have you experienced what psychologists call “The ultimate experience” ? Which is the frame of mind when you are writing and everything is flowing perfectly and the creative buzz is so great you lose track of time.

Yes, but mostly its like drawing blood from a stone. Hugely emotionally draining.

Last question: Are you happy as a writer?

It’s one of the few jobs you can do without leaving your bed, so…

***

Pre-order The Deceitful Light now on Amazon.

The Last Roundhead is available now on Amazon.

Check out Jemahl’s website here – https://jemahlevans.wixsite.com/jemahlevans

Follow Jemahl on Twitter @Temulkar

Andrew Chapman Author Interviews, Uncategorized

Author Interview – Cee Tee Jackson

Cee Tee JacksonHullawrer chinas,
I’m a man of few words, which I’m finding a bit of a limiting factor as an author, so straight in – here goes:

Question 1: Who are you and what have you written (Most recent book, no synopsis)

I’m Cee Tee Jackson (Colin.) I’m a bit of a short-arse with an even shorter attention span. I have written one book so far, ‘Damp Dogs & Rabbit Wee.’ It’s an, err, amusing type thingy. You know. Next.

Question 2: If you had to paint a portrait of any author who would it be?

I don’t know why, but I’m quite good at painting Terrys. Ask me to paint a Douglas, or an Ernest or even a simple JRR, and I’m rubbish. Totally. So, I’d say it’d have to be Terry Pratchett.

Wuestion 3: Why did you start writing? Damp Dogs and Rabit Wee

I distinctly remember as a six year old at Primary school, deciding that the best way to discover what I might be good at, was to work through the alphabet of occupations. ‘Author’ came up quite early in proceedings, and perhaps I wasn’t quite ready. Now, almost 53 years later, after a couple of redundancies and failed attempts at entrepreneurship , my quest is still unfulfilled. Fortunately, I’ve now reached the letter ‘W’ and I’m giving it a go as as a writer.

Kwestion 4: Where do you write?

I’m quite lucky – I have one of those ‘laptop’ thingys. They’re marvelous contraptions. I can write in my office (I work from home) AND also take it into the living room and write there too. On my lap! Isn’t technology wonderful? Whatever next?!

Question 5: What is the most interesting thing you have learned recently?

That China produces some ace beer.

Question 6: Have you experienced what psychologists call “The ultimate experience” ?

Good God, no! I’ve played tennis sometimes when I can’t miss the ball as it seems to be size of a football. I adopted that frame of mind with my writing, but little words became so big that I had to continuously check the dictionary that my flow became a bit of a sad trickle.

Last question: Are you happy as a writer?

Hey – for a Scot, I’m quite a happy dude anyway. Yeah, my glass is always half empty, but that means (a) I’ve already drunk half of it; (b) somebody probably bought it for me anyway, as I have short arms and deep pockets, and (c) if I pretend to be a famous author, (oops, I forgot) sorry – WRITER, then some sucka might buy me another. So, yes.

***

Cee Tee Jackson’s, Damp Dogs and Rabbit Wee, is available on Amazon now.

I urge you to check out Cee Tee’s blog here – ceeteejackson.com. Unlike me he actually manages to update the site with regular blog posts.

He can also be stalked on twitter. Follow him @CeeTeeJackson

Andrew Chapman The Other Stuff, Uncategorized

It’s FREE! The Accidental Scoundrel is FREE!!

The Accidental Scoundrel CoverThe Accidental Scoundrel is free right now. If you don’t already have it, get it. Kindle e-reader, kindle app on your phone, go to Amazon, download it for free. Read it. Laugh. Go back to Amazon and tell the fucking world how brilliant it is. Do it now. Go on. It’s free.

What else are you going to do? Eat crisps and watch Hollyoaks? Fuck that. Read the book. Jem Roberts likes it and he’s a comedy historian. This is what he said –

“Anyone disappointed that Hugh Laurie’s second novel never turned up will be glad they picked up The Accidental Scoundrel and gave it a damn good reading.” – Jem Roberts, author of the upcoming official Fry and Laurie biography, Soupy Twists!

The Accidental Scoundrel is free now and will be for the next few days. But don’t wait. If you all download it at the same time it will shoot up Amazon’s hourly charts and get it in front of more readers. I don’t even care if you read it. Just download it.

This is my new sales tactic. I’m just going to badger and harass people into getting it. Get the damn book! It’s free! What’s your fucking problem? I think this is going to work.

Get it here my wonderful friends – https://www.amazon.co.uk/Accidental-Scoundrel-Andrew-Chapman-ebook/dp/B01M23R7F1/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1500124216&sr=8-1

Andrew Chapman Tripping the Night Fantastic

Tripping the Night Fantastic – Chapter 5

‘Charlie! Wait up.’

Charlie turned around, ‘Run!’

‘Fucking hell Charlie what’s the rush?’

‘What’s the rush? Give me a winning argument for being slow.’

‘Because… Just hold on!’

Charlie stopped to let Simon catch up.

‘Thank you. Where’s the Basement then? Shall we get a taxi?’

‘What’s the rush?’

‘That’s what I just said!’

‘Yes, but I wasn’t actually rushing or even moving particularly fast. I was just slightly ahead of you. You’re the one inflicting me with verbs.’

‘Ok.’

‘Safe answer. Actually I don’t really want to go to the Basement. Not right away anyway.’

Charlie looked at Simon in a way Simon didn’t recognize, at least not on Charlie. He seemed Sober. He seemed like he was about to be serious.

‘I need to visit someone, and I can’t do it on my own.’

‘Who do you need to visit at this hour?’

‘My daughter.’

‘You have a daughter?!’

Charlie’s expression saddened, ‘I need you to come with me. Please. I really need to see her.’

‘Ok, let’s go and see her.’

Charlie looked over the road, ‘She’s not far from here.’

Simon looked over. They were standing opposite a cemetery.

‘Charlie, please tell me now if this is one of your jokes.’

Charlie crossed the road and climbed over the main gate to the cemetery. Simon stood for a moment wondering if this was one of his jokes and if it was it was a sick one. Simon crossed the road and followed Charlie into the cemetery.

‘Charlie, where are you?’

‘Over here.’

Simon weaved through the graves until he found Charlie standing in front of a small heart shaped gravestone. Someone had left a yellow rose in front of Claire’s grave.

‘There she is,’ said Charlie.

‘Claire Deavon,’ Simon looked at the gravestone next to it, ‘Samantha Deavon.’

‘She’s my wife. This grave was reserved for me. I never thought she would be filling it for me.’

Simon opened his mouth but couldn’t find any words.

‘Samantha died in childbirth. She never even got to meet her.’

Charlie took a cantina of whisky out of his jacket pocket and took a sip. He passed it to Simon and both of them sat down against the opposite graves. They sat there silently for a while. Charlie lit a cigarette and looked at the Cantina in his hands.

‘I’m a cunt. You know that?’

Simon didn’t answer.

A tear began to form in Charlie’s eye.

‘It’s all here, all my problems, in this fucking cantina!’

Charlie stood up and threw the cantina as far as he could. He sat back down again.

‘It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to,’ Charlie took the picture of Claire from his inside jacket pocket and looked at it, ‘she was seven when she died. It would have been her 18th birthday today.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Simon.

‘I was giving her a lift to her friend’s house. I’d had one glass of wine. Just one! But it was enough to lapse my concentration for a split second. And now look at me. What have I learnt?!’

Charlie stubbed his cigarette out in the grass and lit another one. He put the picture back in his pocket.

‘We weren’t even in the car a whole minute before it happened. We got in the car, we were both in a playful mood, you just don’t expect anything to happen, and I pulled out of the drive without looking. And that was it. Our friendship was no more. It was my fault but the guy who drove into us was drunk. He was sent to prison for twelve months for driving while intoxicated but hung himself before his sentence was up. Claire died on my lap in the car. I wasn’t even scratched. I hate alcohol for everything that has come of it yet I consume it like it’s all that matters! What the hell is wrong with me!?’

‘If you want to quit I can sign you up to a group.’

‘No, that won’t work. I just need to stop.’

Charlie stood up and walked over to the grave stone. He took a diamond ring out of his pocket and placed it out of site in a gap between the grave stone and the soil.

‘Happy Birthday Princess.’

Charlie took a step back and looked at the two gravestones standing quietly together.

‘And besides, I’ve got nothing to lose now have I. Come on, let’s go and lighten the mood a bit.’

 

The doorman at The Basement noticed Charlie and Simon walking toward him and immediately stood in front of the door.

‘He seems to recognize you,’ said Simon, as they approached the bar.

‘We’ve had our differences,’ said Charlie.

‘Charlie Deavon, how nice of you to pop back for a visit,’ said the heavy looking bouncer.

‘Stand aside kind sir! I’m here to visit the king!’

‘I just want you to know, before I let you in, that I don’t like you and I think you should have been barred!’

‘Bizarrely, I tend to agree. Alas, your landlord does not.’

Charlie pushed past the doorman and headed up the stairs, Simon hesitantly followed.

‘I’m warning you!’ the doorman shouted after them, ‘any fires this time and I’m not letting you back in!’

‘Fires?’ enquired Simon.

‘I may have set fire to the place last time I was here.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Describe our current motion,’ said Charlie.

Simon thought for a moment.

‘We’re walking upstairs?’

‘Correct, and what is the name of this pub?’

‘The Basement.’

‘Thus we have good reason for fire.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Simon.

They arrived at the bar.

‘Such a callous use of irony puts me in a state of serious disrupt. And so I set fire to the bar.’

‘And you didn’t get barred?’

‘No, luckily my friend Keep here agreed with me.’

‘Charlie,’ said Keep, ‘what can I get you?’

‘Two of the usual,’ said Charlie.

‘You usually have a bottle of whisky.’

‘Right, two please.’

Keep went out back to get the bottles of whisky and Simon and Charlie went to the back of the bar to sit at a table.

Keep arrived with the booze and sat down. The Black Keys filled the room with whisky soaked rock music.

‘I think I’ll join you,’ said Keep, ‘You know, since you set fire to the bar last week we’ve been packed. This is now officially the place to be.’

‘Great, let’s start another fire and lock the doors this time so we can kill them all for being populous chasing cunts.’

‘We could, but then I really would have to bar you.’

Charlie smiled, ‘Did you keep the name change?’

‘Yes, thanks for that,’ he said sarcastically, ‘people seem to like it.’

Keep could see that Simon wanted some involvement in the conversation and so involved him.

‘After the fire last week we had to evacuate the pub so Charlie and I decided to have ourselves a little lock-in.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Simon, imagining Charlie in a fire burnt bar with all the free alcohol he could consume.

‘Charlie can be quite persuasive at times,’ continued Keep.

Charlie nodded in agreement.

‘He had been calling me Bar Keep all night even after countless attempts to teach him my real name. After we had consumed enough alcohol to fuel a small plane he had convinced me that changing my name to Keep would be a really good idea.’

‘And I stick by it,’ said Charlie.

‘And so, he went online and changed my name by deed poll.’

‘The pleasure was all mine.’

‘I hadn’t actually remembered any of this until my official papers arrived in the post a few days ago.’

‘Oh god what have I got myself into? Please promise me that I’ll wake up with my own name tomorrow,’ said Simon.

‘I promise I won’t change it but I can’t promise that you’ll remember it.’

‘That’s fine. So, do I call you Keep? Or… what is your real name?’

‘You can call me Keep, everybody else is.’

‘Ok, so how come you didn’t mind when Charlie set fire to the place?’

‘He helped!’ said Charlie, ‘I can’t take sole blame for this!’

‘I was having a bad day and Charlie came along like a catalyst. He has a way of explaining things that makes you think venting in such an extreme way is normal. Or at least justified.’

Keep poured a second round of drinks and Simon began to feel tipsy.

‘How do you guys drink so much? I already feel drunk. And how come you seem sober? You were smashed when you got to my house!’

‘Functioning alcoholic,’ said Keep, pointing at Charlie.

‘I’ll take that. Functioning alcoholic, makes me feel… “functional”. Like a useful drunk,’ said Charlie.

‘Oh god, I’m going to regret this night aren’t I?’ said Simon.

‘Good! Drink up, you’re going to need it,’ said Charlie.

‘For what?’

‘We, Simon, are going home in an hour and you are going to want to be drunk.’

‘In an hour? We’ve only just got here.’

‘We’re only going back to yours for a bit and then we’ll come straight back and really hit the drink!’

‘Why are you going back?’ asked Keep.

Charlie looked at Simon.

‘Why are we out tonight?’ he asked.

‘So we can have a few beers. And because Jane wanted a girlie night in.’

‘Even though she invited me round so we can all get together.’

‘Like I said, she’s been acting strange recently.’

‘You didn’t notice a kind of, serious sexual tension between Amelia and Jane?’

‘Well, I kind of did. A little bit. I guess.’

Keep picked up his glass.

‘Sounds like your wife is urging for some deep, and pure, tongue induced, thigh watering, chest pounding, toe-curling orgasms from the gleaming lesbian fire that is the taboo of same sex passion.’

‘Very poetic,’ said Simon.

‘When we get back we are probably going to find Jane and Amelia in the steamy throes of hardcore lesbianism.’

Simon stood up, ‘Right, we have to go back now and stop them!’

Simon headed for the exit but Charlie got up and grabbed him.

‘No, it’s all very well stopping anything from happening but then you’ll never be sure and it will play on your mind until you become a paranoid, wife beating, estate agent!’

‘Estate agent?’

‘Oh yes, estate agent, because you’ll get fired from being a literary agent because you were caught masturbating in the stationery cupboard!’

‘That doesn’t make sense!’

Charlie grabbed him by the collar! ‘None of this makes sense! That’s why we have to wait!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. You have to trust me. If we get back and they are watching a chic flick and doing each other’s hair then you can stop worrying about her acting strange. That is a good thing.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. But what if they are doing something?’

‘I’ll have my camera phone ready,’ said Keep.

‘It’s up to you what happens. And that is why we are going for a drink afterwards. It will give you both some time to think.’

‘Yeah, I guess that makes sense.’

‘Excellent, let’s get shit faced!’ said Charlie.

 

One bottle of whisky later and Simon’s bladder was begging for mercy. It was time to gather his senses and set off in search for the men’s room.

‘If I’m not back in five minutes,’ said Simon getting up, ‘I’ve probably pissed myself.’

Simon waddled off and Charlie took his notepad and pen out of his pocket. He tore out a page and wrote down a number.

‘This is Jane’s mobile number,’ he said to Keep, ‘I need you to phone it without Simon knowing so you can give Jane the heads up.’

‘What? Why?’

‘If all goes well this could end up being good for both of them,’ said Charlie.

‘And how exactly is us helping her cheat be good in any way?’

‘We’re not helping her cheat. We want her to feel like she’s been caught out without actually being caught. Put the fear of god in her!’

‘Or the fear of Charlie.’

‘The reason being, she’ll know that we know but also that we don’t want Simon to know and hopefully it will snap her out of this little midlife crisis and feel guilty enough to focus on Simon again.’

‘That was hard to follow. I must be drunker than I thought. So, I tell her we know but don’t want Simon to know because it will crush him?’ said Keep, trying to concentrate.

‘Yes.’

‘And that will hopefully force her to reflect on what she’s doing with the kind of hindsight you might get from actually being caught.’

‘Yes! That’s amazing!’ said Charlie.

‘It was your idea.’

‘I know, but the way you said it makes it sound better than I thought. I guess I must be a genius!’

‘I guess you must be.’

‘And Simon going back to find her watching TV with Amelia, instead of fucking her, will hopefully stop Simon from being such a paranoid retard! It’s win-win!’

‘I didn’t know you had it in you to help another person,’ said Keep with a slur.

‘I am an enigma!’ said Charlie.

Andrew Chapman Author Interviews, Uncategorized

Author Interview – James Court

James CourtQuestion 1: Who are you and what have you written (Most recent book, no synopsis).

I’m James Court, supposedly retired, but active socially and a full-time grandparent. My most recent book on Amazon is ‘Farewell to Peckham‘: the fourth in what was intended to be a series of three comic novels.

Question 2: If you had to paint a portrait of any author who would it be?

If I could work through a genuine medium I’d ask Thomas Hardy to sit for me. Otherwise it would be Michael Palin, although I doubt singing ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’ as we worked would be be conducive to a steady brush hand on the canvas.

Wuestion 3: Why did you start writing?

I’ve always written from an early age, and as a child preferred reading to playing games. After a lifetime of watching adults being anything but adult, retirement meant I again had time to myself to indulge in longer works than the odd article and pantomime.

Kwestion 4: Where do you write?

Generally I sit on a sofa with my trusty laptop on my knees. A couple of hours in the early morning gives me about a dozen pages, topped up by periods when baby-sitting sleeping grandchildren.

Question 5: What is the most interesting thing you have learned recently?

Researching my historical works throws up all sorts of odd facts. In 1100, Mary and Eliza Chulkhurst, a pair of conjoined twins, were born in the Kent village of Biddenden. Joined at the hip they grew to adulthood, prospered as business women and both got married. They left behind a legacy to feed the poor of the parish that still flourished in the early 2000s.

Question 6: Have you experienced what psychologists call “The ultimate experience” ?

I often lose track of time when Farewell to Peckhamwriting: especially if I have an idea at night and get up ‘for an hour’ which stretches until the dawn chorus interrupts me. At such times I find my output is phenomenal, but have to spend hours correcting the typos and grammar afterwards

Last question: Are you happy as a writer?

Yes! Very much so. I’m a naturally happy person, and I hope that my writing brings humour to the lives of others. Feedback from writers and readers of the ‘Peckham Novels’ led me to write a fourth when I originally only intended three volumes, so I guess that I’m achieving what I set put to do, and that always generates a satisfied feeling.

***

Farewell to Peckham by James Court is available now on Amazon.

Andrew Chapman Tripping the Night Fantastic, Uncategorized

Tripping the Night Fantastic – Chapter 4

‘Hi Simon!’

Simon admired the view before him with very little surprise. Charlie was steadying himself against the door frame while a very drunk girl was throwing up on the pavement outside.

‘Simon… I err…’

‘Brought a date with you?’ Simon offered.

‘Yes! A date!’ said Charlie, and then leaned in in an attempt to seem sober, ‘I hope that’s ok.’

‘She looks like she’s going to die.’

‘She’ll be alright.’

Simon smiled, a small part of him enjoying the mayhem that Charlie brings into his life, ‘At least you’re on time.’

Charlie grinned and entered the house. On passing Simon he leaned in to whisper in Simon’s ear, ‘I think I love her.’

Simon walked down the steps and helped the young girl into the house.

Charlie wandered into the lounge where he was greeted by a very happy Jane.

‘Charlie! So lovely to see you again.’

‘And you!’

They gave each other a peck on the cheek.

Simon entered the room with the massively inebriated girl and sat her on the couch. Jane continued to smile but with that contorted smile you only ever see on aristocratic women veining delight at seeing a photo of one of her slave’s children.

‘Oh. And who’s this lovely young lady?’

Charlie tried to remember her name. The girl put her arm up in a drunken proclamation and stated with confidence.

‘Amelia!’

‘Yes!’ Charlie grinned, ‘Amelia! Amelia Heart! Her and I,’ pointing vaguely where she sat, ‘would like to thank you for the invitation to dine with you.’

‘My pleasure,’ Jane replied, ‘Simon, could I see you in the kitchen.’

‘No,’ said Simon, with an air of “I told you so”, ‘I think we should have a drink.’

 

It wasn’t long before Jane was lubricated enough to begin enjoying herself. The vomiting had sobered Amelia up enough for her to continue drinking and she was currently in the kitchen helping Jane prepare dinner. Jane poured the last few drops of Zinfandel Rosé into her glass and clumsily set the bottle down on the side.

‘So, Amelia, how do you know Charlie?’

Amelia looked at her glass. It was nearly empty.

‘More wine!’ She declared.

Jane opened the fridge and took out a fresh bottle and Amelia struggled to remember the last few hours of her life.

‘Err… he was sat on his own at the pub and I was like “heeey! I’m your biggest fan!”, oh god, I’m so embarrassing, I think he told me to piss off.’

Jane laughed and filled Amelia’s glass.

‘And now I’m at your house getting drunk with strangers!’ Amelia added.

‘Well,’ said Jane, ‘I’m glad you’re here, I haven’t had a good drink in a long time, and you seem like a nice girl.’

‘Thanks,’ Amelia beamed, ‘I like you too.’

They clinked glasses.

‘When you came in I thought, Oh god, Charlie’s picked up some bar skank to ruin the evening.’

‘Oh thanks,’ Amelia said.

‘No, I do like you.’

Jane looked at the pink wine in her glass and felt the warm feeling of alcohol swim around her body, I am drunk, she thought to herself.

A pan on the hob started bubbling over and Amelia went over to turn off the heat. Jane watched her with drunken eyes and felt mesmerized.

 

Outside, Charlie and Simon sat on the patio furniture. A small crate of stubby French beers sat ripped open on the table. Charlie was smoking a cigarette. Simon opened a small tin of Café Crème cigars. He took one out, studied it for a moment, and lit it with a match. They both sat there for a while just staring into the garden. Not because they had nothing to say, just because serene moments like these come too occasionally to ignore. Finally Simon spoke.

‘Apparently Ben Shepherd went on twitter after the interview yesterday and called you a massive cunt.’

This bought a smile to Charlie’s face.

‘And now he’s facing disciplinary action from ITV.’

Charlie laughed.

‘You know,’ Simon continued, ‘I don’t know why you don’t like him, I think he’s alright.’

Charlie ignored him. He sat there in his chair, trying to navigate his way through the complicated maze that is the drunken mind, hoping to find reason to confide in Simon about his daughter. It’s not really something he ever intended to keep from anyone he’s just never been able to talk about it.

‘Dinners ready!’ came an enthusiastic shout from inside, bringing Charlie, quite suddenly, away from his thoughts.

‘Come and get it!’

Simon and Charlie managed themselves out of the patio chairs and stumbled into the house with the exaggerated concentration of alcoholics and sat/fell into their designated seats around the dining room table.

Jane and Amelia had put on quite an exquisite dinner.  The lights had been dimmed and candles lit. A large roasted bird of some description, probably turkey, steamed tantalizingly in the centre of the table. Various delicate bowls held potatoes and vegetables. There were even two types of gravy. Put simply; all the stops had been pulled out.

‘Dig in,’ said Jane.

After a few moments of drunken slicing, dishing and spooning, plates were full and the cooked bird was now just bones. Jane poured the crisp white wine she had chosen specifically to complement the meal and a warm and friendly evening was about to begin. – That is how Jane’s mind perceived the whole thing anyway.

Charlie and Simon’s thoughts on the matter were slightly different. For instance the first thing both of them thought, thus proving they’re not so different after all, was “wow, that’s a big chicken”. Charlie’s second thought was “I want to undress and fuck Amelia right now on this table”. Simon’s second thought was “Is it me or is there some serious sexual chemistry between Amelia and my wife? Amelia is damn sexy though”.

Amelia did appreciate the food and the wine but her thoughts had been distracted. When Jane stood to fill everyone’s wine glasses Amelia noticed Jane’s legs, her perfect legs and her tight dress moving with her body so perfectly that every small movement became a luring dance of pure erotica. Since then she’s been finding it difficult to keep her eyes, or mind for that matter, on anything else.

‘I saw you on GMTV the other day, how exciting that your book is being made into a film!’ said Jane.

‘I’m only doing it because the director’s daughter invited me to her next slumber party,’ said Charlie.

‘Charlie, there are limits to what is acceptable, even for you. Specifically age limits!’ said Simon.

‘Calm down, she’s 23. And anyway I’m not going ahead with the film.’

Simon put his fork down.

‘What? You have to we’ve already signed the contracts. Even if you say you don’t want to they’ll still make it anyway. They already own the TV and Film rights to the book.’

‘They want Owen Wilson to play the main character!’ said Charlie.

‘I love Owen Wilson, he was so good in Marley and Me,’ said Jane.

‘Which is exactly why he’s wrong for the part, it’s not a book about a coy, soft spoken floppy haired bum! The guy in the book kills one of the Queen’s Corgis with a harp! Can you see Owen Wilson doing that?!’ said Charlie.

Amelia rested her hand on Jane’s leg.

‘I loved Marley and Me,’ she smiled, moving her hand gently.

Jane rested her hand on Amelia’s and looked up at her seductive smile. Images of new and forbidden pleasures filled her thoughts. She looked over at her middle aged husband. Anything sexually risqué with Simon seemed pretty unlikely. Ever again. She had been looking for something exciting to fill the daily boredom of life for some time and today the two and a half bottles of wine she had consumed were pleasantly nudging her in Amelia’s direction.

‘It won’t be Owen Wilson, or, it might not be, the filmmakers have agreed for you to be present at the casting auditions,’ said Simon.

‘Really? How did you swing that? You can’t even swing, a, err, a swing! HA!’ said Charlie.

‘And you call yourself a writer,’ muttered Simon.

‘Can I be in the film?’ asked Amelia.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, without a thought.

‘Really?!’ she squealed.

Charlie took a silent moment to examine Amelia’s various talents; her mousy features and dark hair, her slightly tan skin, her perfectly crafted more-than-a-good-couple-of-handfuls-size breasts; her slim waist. His trousers began to tighten and he looked back up to her eyes; her big inviting eyes. He hadn’t realized until then how perfect she was.

‘She would have to audition,’ said Simon, knowing Charlie was probably serious.

‘When are the auditions?’ asked Charlie.

‘Tomorrow, didn’t you look at that schedule I gave you? It only had two things on it.’

‘Cool, come to the auditions tomorrow then, I know the perfect part for you!’

‘Eep!’ she squealed.

Jane clasped her hands in excitement for Amelia. Charlie increased the pressure to his stiffening penis; the power to choose the cast for his own film made parts of his brain ping with a new type of sexual ecstasy.

There really was a perfect part for Amelia.

‘Camille Tearheart,’ said Charlie, ‘she’s the Queen’s personal secretary. She’s also a double agent, a closet serial killer, and a sexual blackmailer.’

It’s a combination that doesn’t arise too often in fictional writing but the character, Camille Tearheart, has often been described as the most alluring character in the history of literature.

Simon’s mind wandered back to those most vivid and controversial passages of Charlie’s last novel. Most men keep that book close to a box of tissues and a self help book. It’s truly thrilling stuff.

Simon forced his mind back to the dinner table. The conversation had moved on now and it seemed like more time had passed than he’d realized. That’s the problem with Charlie’s writing; it really takes you somewhere your mind shouldn’t be allowed to go. It traps you, new taboos are formed and exploited, layout and plot beckon to the will of the characters darkest fantasies, his books take over you and force you to enjoy the most horrific of things with a feeling of joy and unnerving sexual pleasure. It is a confusing and wonderful experience. So when you remember a particular scene, like Simon just did, time slips away and doors to parts of the mind (that would disgrace even the darkest mind of any animated Disney teapot) open up and suck you in.

Simon finished off a glass of wine and ate a piece of potato soaked in gravy.

‘Why don’t you two ever go out together? It would do Simon the world of good to get out of the house occasionally,’ Jane was saying.

Amelia’s body had become a magnet to Jane’s body and mind and forces beyond her control were trying to get Charlie and Simon out of the house.

Simon frowned, ‘I like it here. I don’t need to go out and get drunk all the time.’

‘Why don’t you boys go and have a good lad’s night out this evening,’ said Jane, ‘You both deserve it.’

Simon took this with a pinch of salt.

‘You want me to go out with Charlie?’ he said.

He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously.

‘Yes. Don’t worry, I trust you,’ said Jane.

‘You see what I said about her acting strange,’ he whispered to Charlie.

‘Strange is good. Come on, the Black Keys are playing a small gig at the Basement tonight. I can get us in.’

‘What about you two?’ asked Simon.

‘I think I’m in the mood for a more girly night tonight. It’s been nice having a girl around the house. I don’t think I’ve met a girl I can let my hair down with since my college days.’

‘I don’t know. Charlie what do you think?’

Charlie was already putting his jacket on, ‘About what?’

‘Going out.’

‘Yes. Let’s go.’

Charlie downed his wine and stood up. Simon noted Charlie’s eagerness and wondered why Jane seemed so suddenly happy about him going out with Charlie; the worst influence on the planet.

‘Ok. I guess. Where are we going? The cellar?’

‘The Basement.’

Charlie smiled at the girls and left the house.

‘Ok. I guess we’ll see you later,’ said Simon.

Simon gave Jane a quick peck on the cheek and then went out after Charlie.

‘Have fun!’ shouted Jane from the house.

Andrew Chapman Tripping the Night Fantastic, Uncategorized

Tripping the Night Fantastic – Chapter 3

The rustle of a newspaper; the sound of two happy people sipping tea and spreading pâté on toast, the sun beaming down on the clean patio garden, the sleeping dog by their side. Simon and his wife couldn’t look like a happier couple if they tried. Actually they didn’t have a dog, I made that bit up, but they probably would have a dog if they had it their way. If they did have a dog it would probably be called Ruffles or something, which is why I’m not letting them have one.

‘Poor Charlie,’ said Jane looking up from her paper, ‘Why do the papers make him out to be such a bad guy.’

Simon stared at her, ‘We are talking about Charlie Deavon aren’t we?’

‘I know he swore on TV, and I’m not saying I agree with that, but I’m sure he’s really a nice guy at heart.’

Simon’s stare was unmoved.

‘Charlie Deavon; hates people, drinks too much, smokes too much, swears too much, sleeps too much, arrogant, offensive, demanding… are we talking about the same man?’

She ignored him, as most people seem to, and carried on regardless.

‘In the paper it says he’s a disgrace to mankind. It says that young people should stop looking up to him like some kind of idol and that his books are only successful because they’re controversial.’

Simon considered this for a moment, ‘They’re right on most of those points but you have to give him credit, the quality of his writing is always a pleasant shock.’

Jane folded her paper and put it down.

‘We should invite him round for dinner.’

‘No.’

‘Oh why not, it will be fun.’

‘It really won’t, he can’t behave himself.’

‘He’s not a child Simon, I think he acts the way he does because he’s lonely.’

‘No, he acts the way he does for attention.’

Jane folded her arms.

‘Invite him round for dinner tonight, I’ll go out and get something nice.’

‘Are you really going to make me do this?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll ask but he won’t want to come.’

‘Thank you, it will be fun.’

 

Charlie was sitting on his couch staring at the courgette he had just pinned to the wall with a hunting knife. The phone rang. He looked at the phone for a moment and then picked it up without saying anything.

‘Charlie? Are you there?’

‘Yep.’

‘Jane and I were wondering if you would like to come over for dinner tonight?’

‘I stabbed a courgette today.’

‘You did?’

‘Do you think that’s normal?’

‘Not really.’

‘Do you think I was wrong to swear on TV?’

‘Since when do you care about that kind of thing?’

‘I wonder if my parents still care. Do you know you’re the only person I talk to? I don’t know a single person other than you.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘And I haven’t had a drink for nearly two days. I don’t like being sober.’

‘You get used to it. Are you coming over for dinner tonight?’

Charlie stared at the courgette, which for him, at this moment in time, made him question his life, ‘Ok, I think that might be good for me.’

‘Ok. Come over for about 7:30.’

Charlie hung up the phone and looked at the mess in his apartment.

‘I need a drink.’

 

Simon put the phone back in its receiver.

‘What did he say?’ asked Jane.

‘He said yes.’

‘I told you he would come.’

‘Something’s wrong with him.’

‘Why what did he say?’

Simon sat down.

‘I think he said he’s lonely.’

‘See, I told you he was lonely,’ said Jane, a bit too smugly.

‘Well, he didn’t actually say it, but… I don’t know, something’s wrong.’

‘We can talk to him about it tonight. Does he have any allergies? He’s not vegetarian is he?’

‘No and no. Don’t go over the top with it tonight, just keep it simple.’

‘Don’t worry, Simon.’

 

Charlie rummaged through his drawers trying to find something to drink. He found a bottle of vodka with less than a gulp left in it. He drank it anyway. He opened a box; one of many that he is yet to unpack, and a picture fell out and landed on the floor beside him. He picked it up and looked at it. ‘Claire’ he said to himself. He sat against the sofa and stared at the picture. It was a photo of a young blonde haired girl wearing a summer dress. Ten years, he thought.

Charlie almost screwed up the photo out of a mixture of anger and love. He dropped the photo and let his head fall into his hands. He ran his hands through his hair and picked the picture back up. He put the photo in his pocket and left his apartment slamming the door behind him.

 

Charlie got to the bar and ordered before the barman had a chance to acknowledge him.

‘Whisky!’

‘Single or double?’

‘Bottle.’

‘I don’t think I can.’

Charlie took two fifty pound notes out of his wallet and threw them at the barman. The barman looked over to his manager for advice, his manager shrugged. The barman took the bottle out of the optic and gave it to Charlie. Charlie grabbed it and filled up his glass. He downed half of it and took out a cigarette.

‘You’ll have to smoke outside.’

Charlie stared at the barman to see if he was joking and then remembered the recent smoking ban, of several years ago.

‘Fucking smoking ban,’ he said, picking up his bottle.

He went outside to the smoking area. He sat as far out of the way as he could and lit his cigarette. He began to relax and poured a second glass.

A girl’s voice interrupted his solitude.

‘Charlie Deavon?’

Charlie looked up, ‘Oh, God, help me.’

‘It’s you isn’t it? Charlie Deavon!’

‘No.’

‘Yes it is! I am your biggest fan!’

She sat next to him.

‘What you doin’ here?’

‘Drinking.’

‘I’m Amelia,’ she said.

‘I don’t care.’

‘Can I drink with you?’

This time he took a good look at her. She’s about twenty years of age, nice figure, fairly classy, brunette, definitely attractive… slightly drunk.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ He asked.

‘I’m free, are you asking me back to yours?’ She replied flirtatiously.

‘How do you feel about dinner?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good we’ll leave in an hour, go and get yourself a glass.’