British National Pear Conference

An ode to the pear. A modest fruit. I'm uncertain as to what kind of foolishness incites the curious relationship I have with the pear. I am confused by my own feelings. One day I will crave the aromatic buttery flesh. The next I am indifferent. It's nothing the pear has done. It's me, not you, pear. The pear has the right to stand proud and magnificent in its russeted skin. When I can be bothered to sink my teeth into the bulbous rear I almost always regret not doing so sooner. I feel ashamed for neglecting the pear for so long. I vow never to do so again as long as I live. But of course, this I have forgotten by the following sunrise. I am fickle. My attentions are stolen away in a flight of fancy with the exotic banana and its libertine ways. I rendezvous with the royal gala and its crisp and firm rotundness. I will savour those precious moments spent with the pear when the mood again takes me. Until then, patient pear.

Vulgar punctuality

I keep my eye on that clock. It's of the digital variety. I study the brazen red digits. When I look away they are embossed onto my retinas. The reflection of the wiry, flickering lines probably blend in with my tired bloodshot eyes. It seems like ten minutes have passed and it hasn't moved a slender muscle. I'm not sure I trust it. I want to prove it wrong, catch it out, show it up. I challenge myself to a game, see how long I can go without locking eyes with my crude antagonist. My mind starts to wander, throws a stick for its dog, picks a few leaves from a nearby hedge, then returns home, wiping its feet at the door. I trace the title of my book with my finger. I'm incapable of opening it. The clock is flaunting itself at me. It's mocking me. I sneak a peak out of the corner of my eye. It sees me. I quickly look away but I know I am defeated. I suffer the shame of daring to look once more. At that moment it flicks from 7:59 to 8:00 and the engine jumps into action. I watch the ripples in my coffee. The curb disappear from view. At least now I can start my book, safe in the knowledge that another German vehicle of public transport has left promptly.

The Last Day of the Old World

It's our own fault. We assume the saturated teabag and lonesome magazine is a sign of an abandoned table. She appears and we tell her two cappuccinos. She pretends she doesn't hear and becomes reacquainted with her seat. She insists we stay and partake in a disjointed dialogue concerning our travels in Asia. She tells us she knows why we are here. She is happy we are here. We are flattered. She asks if we preach door to door. Our brows furrow towards one another. Did we hear correctly. Has her English failed her. "Then what do you do?" she asks after we admit preaching isn't a particular pastime of ours. An awkward "I dunno" is met with uninterrupted laughter that seems to go on for ten minutes and probably goes on for ten minutes. She throws back her head. Her tongue is big and yellow. I count fillings. Passers-by assume we are old friends talking about that time Steve put a wig on the dog. We squirm in our seats. The laughter stops as abruptly as it started. I make a beeline for the waitress. She makes a beeline for Caroline's inner German. She locks eyes. How can we spread the word of our Lord without German? Caroline manages a hasty "tschuss". We quicken our step. We don't look back. The calls of "don't leave me, friends" not fading soon enough.

She Works Hard For The Money

If I was an egg, I'd be an egg with delusions of grandeur. I would sip champagne and favour diamonds. If eggs were to possess mouths and ears, respectively. My mother would be a seasoned explorer, freely roaming the wildest of terrain. The other eggs would describe me as haughty or snobby. Vulgar beasts. Retire alongside a slick sausage or lardaceous bacon I would not. Only the likes of hollandaise or delicately wilted spinach would be worthy of my attentions. In the case of being boiled alive, the anticipation before making the initial incision would prove too much for my lucky pursuant. My firm exterior and runny centre would charm and delight. If I was an egg, I wouldn't live in Germany. My death would be in vain. My supposed runny parts would be firm, the firm parts runny. The brave soldiers sent in to save me would recoil in horror. My pitiful remains tossed aside with distaste. My life would not be commemorated with a moment of silence, or even a synthetic wreath. They would try their best to forget.

Carlsberg Summer Collection

As soon as the bass kicks in he leaps out of his chair. The unlit cigarette falls from his lips. He doesn't notice. He'd put it there several minutes ago and forgot to light it. He probably thought he'd smoked it. Never mind, its absence enables him to freely croon along. It's not a big deal that the only Spanish he knows is 'muy bien' which he belches at regular intervals. He heard someone else shout it in an approving tone. His sole possession is a Carlsberg branded scrap of material. It resembles a tea towel. He waves it in the warm night air, he waves it across people's faces. He launches into an aggressive air drum solo. His eyes are closed. He's 15 and in his bedroom. The tea towel is on his head. He clearly can't communicate his full appreciation and so clambers on stage as the song comes to an end. Perhaps he could fashion the tea towel into a belt. Instead he lurches towards the guitarist. He joins the band discussing which song to play next. It's unanimous. "Muy bien" he slurs. The band starts playing, the guitarist sporting a new Carlsberg cravat.

Your money's no good here

The routine seems the same. A human approaches the machine. The human inserts its shard of plastic. The human pokes in its number with one hand whilst shielding it with the other. The machine expels pieces of paper. The human places the pieces of paper somewhere on its being. The human experiences desire and exchanges the pieces of paper for beer and stuff. I follow the routine. It looks like money, it smells like money, it feels like money. I lick my finger and count it like I do when losing at Monopoly. It even sounds like money. The three notes I have sound like money. Why is it, then, that no one seems to want to exchange my 50 euro notes for beer and stuff. The surly poker face who will permit me to gaze at breasts for two hours (cleverly disguised as a Helmut Newton exhibition) tells me no. The weathered seaman who decides whether or not I recline on a boat for a leisurely three hours isn't impressed. My innocent pears and I are held hostage in the Penny Mart until I have scraped around in the bottom of my purse for more suitable denominations. The machine only ever gives me 50s. The machine doesn't respect my desires.

C.U.N.T

The bar has furniture and other belongings affixed to the ceiling. It reminds me of a place in Dresden where you reach the loo through the back of a wardrobe. Here you push through plastic curtain flaps. A sign in each cubicle tells you in default font to place toilet paper in the bin. The bins are empty. There is a bedside table on the ceiling of the bar. Upon the bedside table is a lamp and a book. Upon the book is a pack of aspirin. The book is Céline, the aspirin unbranded. Each week I tell Caroline she has left her shoes behind. I point to the trainers above. They are 80's style basketball trainers suitable for a male with large feet. She doesn't laugh. I do. The quiz interrupts the hilarity, we're sitting on crates. We strain to hear the song intro. I tuck my hair behind my ears. Someone shouts the answer after three seconds. For the first round we are shy, we drink several beers labelled with a man's face. Caroline thinks he looks like Grandpa from The Munsters, I think he's more akin to Jim Broadbent. Whatever, we now feel like shouting. We shout loud, we stand up, we punch the sky. The host flinches. The winners acquire a bottle of red wine. No one feels like a winner when drinking the wine, I've had worse. We tell the host 'C U next Tuesday'. The quiz is on a Wednesday.