Rally Cars

Everyone listen to Asaph please, he is going to tell us about his trip to...

I like rally cars. I tell everyone because I love rally cars. In the last class Asaph tell me he going to America. I been America, on a plane. Everyone screaming, everyone scared because I was sick. But I love rally cars, in my town they have a race. My uncle take me there when I was small. Now it’s online, can watch online. My dad he don’t like rally cars, he hate rally cars. I want to go back my town, to live. See my dad. 

…and in America they have…

I went to America, California with my mum. Too hot there, I don’t like go too many places, stay one place, one place. My mum like travel, she don't care. So hot, I got eczema, so hot and I was in the road, ambulance come for me. Everyone scared. I just want to live my town. See rally cars. 

And what did everyone get up to this weekend?

Just hoover. 

No. 

No. 

Hoover, just hoover. Stay inside. 

I see anything, don’t like it, hoover. 

AND WATCH RALLY CARS. My dad hate rally cars. When I was small (this high) walking in the road got hit, rally car hit me. Small boy. That’s why my dad hate rally cars. My uncle love rally cars. Can watch online now, online.

The Eye of Lt. Col. Horus Ruiseco Jacobo

Waking at seven, I had the feeling that my throat was dry like a cold piece of toast. I reached for my glass but found it was drunk. I stumbled up. Cycling to work in minus-one degrees was hard on the hands. I thought to get some gloves again. When I arrived at work, the fat one called Paul stopped me and said, do you remember the day I was born? And wasn’t it, just, such a wonderful day? I asked him how his weekend was. He told me that he had found a car from the 1950s, in South America, on Google maps. But that was two years ago. He smiled, thinking of the car. I understand, I said. I like Google maps too. 

In fact it was only the night before I had been looking at the northernmost villages in Greenland and comparing prices on flights. I was never going to go. But I stared for an inordinate amount of time at this picture, uploaded by Lt. Col. Horus Ruiseco Jacobo of the US Navy.

I was extremely moved by this image. For someone to have stood in this place, perhaps reflecting on life, so far from civilisation, is a very moving thought for me, and it brought tears to my eyes. I clicked on Lt. Col. Horus Ruiseco Jacobo’s profile. It turns out he is something of a maverick in the art of surreal photography. 

This image is from the US Navy Museum in Washington D.C. I believe that at least some, if not all of the men in this picture, are wax models, but that does little towards explaining the perfect composition of the four planes flying overhead.

This next image is from the pyramids of Meroë in Sudan, which in total contain over one thousand graves.

And this picture, below, is of the world beyond that. 

See you tomorrow Paul, I said, and walked to my classroom. 

Happy birthday, little piece of skin

It was my birthday on Saturday. I woke late and went for a long piss, where I noticed my first grey hair in the mirror. Fair enough, I thought. I went down and sat for breakfast with my family and my wife. We drank ample coffee and ate various treats in the form of pancakes, mince pies and sausages. I got some wonderful presents. Almost the entire time I fiddled with a small skin tag just to the inner corner of my left eye. It was quite recently flat and minuscule, barely there, but in a moment of boredom in front of the mirror around two months ago, I squeezed it. It instantly rose and became a small flap that rubbed next to the frame of my glasses. It had the appearance of a shining white-headed spot in the final stages of growth. I hated it and thought about it every day for long periods. I couldn’t help but try to push it back into obscurity, or to squeeze it hard enough that it might fall off. It became such a habit that I generally found, in moments of rest, that my finger idly sat in the corner of my eye gently rubbing at it. It often made me depressed to think of my obsession with such a small insignificance.

And so it happened that my greatest birthday present came just then, at the table, as I felt the little flap harden and dry under my finger. It came right off, mid-sentence. I was talking about train times or something similarly inane and did not pause or change my tone as it came away from the thin, dry skin close to my eye. I kept my cool, and kept the little piece of skin rolling between my fingers. I discreetly absconded to the bathroom at my first chance and inspected my face, carefully placing the little piece of me by the sink. I felt something akin to losing a pet as I watched it fall off the edge of the sink and into the obscurity of the floor. Oh well. There was no doubt that this removal was a massive improvement. A barely noticeable mark showed where the tag once was. Back to how it was before. I felt a deep satisfaction as I remembered it was my birthday, and how appropriate it was that I had anguished for two months over this small imperfection in preparation for this effortless gift. It was for sure the best birthday I ever had.

evidence #4

don't know where to begin. there's so much to show. the evidence keeps building up. i've decided to start uploading his tapes, if anyone can transcribe them or decipher their meaning. the notebooks are currently impenetrable but i hope whatever is on the tapes might reveal something about them.

 

i've gone about fixing up his guitar and wearing his jacket. maybe i'm losing it. 

tom

in the future

In the future, Steve sat in a roadside cafe in Essex with Nashaun. They were on their way back from a painting job. Steve had a bun, they both had tea. It was so far in the future that no one ever died or felt really old. Most people ended up looking about fifty. They were talking about birthdays. “I remember my fiftieth, and my fifteen-hundredth, but not really any others”, said Steve, who was one-thousand-seven-hundred-and-thirty-four. A young man was celebrating his ninetieth with a group of other lads around a table by the door. (They were going on a road trip to the new Minion World that had replaced Myanmar recently. Minions are really not going away in the future, they actually get way more important). A bit like kids with Santa Claus, people grew out of yearly birthdays and just celebrated one every ten years or so. Steve said, “remember that time we saw Kylie Minogue’s hologram performance at Lewisham VR Arena?” Nashaun said no. 

“Remember when everyone did their hair like that?”

“No.”

“Remember real leather?”

“No.”

“Remember vegans?”

“No.”

“Remember Tangfastics?”

“No.”

“Mmm… remember monkeypox, though?”

“A bit.”

“Corrr, lentil crisps, remember them?”

“Not really.”

“Remember Ant and Dec?”

“No.”

“Remember Iphones?”

“No.”

“Remember Simon Cowell’s final car chase on the news?”

“No.”

“Remember trousers?”

“Not much.”

Steve looked at his sad bun. “Yeah mate, me neither. I don’t really remember anything.” Nashaun smiled and turned to look out the window. He didn’t mind not remembering. Life was ok. They finished their teas and stood up. “Happy birthday mate, have a great second century.”, said Nashaun as they passed the lads table on their way out. “I wasted mine on booze and fags”, he said to Steve. “Still, you’ve got to give yourself time to make those mistakes when you’re young.” As they started the car, through the cafe window they saw the ninety year old bowling out of the bathroom with coke all round his nostril, going weyyyyy to his mates. “Ah, to be young again…” said Steve. 

Notes from the heart of the world, pt 5

New York, the city that never sleeps. So where the fuck is everyone? I'm stood on a roadside in Queens at 4am, and every shop has bulletproof glass over the windows. I'm trying to withdraw every last penny I have from the cash machine to give to a racist cab driver. 

I had scraped my way out of Colombia and onto the flight to JFK. Before I got on the plane I sent an email from a tobacco shop manager's phone. It was autocorrecting to Spanish, so it really looked like it had been written by someone else. A kidnapper's ruse. I knew my mother would be horrified.

On arrival in the US I was lightly toasted about my sojourn in the jungle, and narrowly managed to avoid revealing my lack of any idea of what was about to happen. I ran out of the airport into a vast car park. An overweight Sikh asked me if I needed a taxi. Newark Airport, I said. I knew time was tight - I had two and a half hours to be on the next plane. I also knew that my funds were dwindling, and I was unable to check exactly how much I had left, having lost my phone in Colombia. I didn't let on. He asked me which terminal I needed, but I had no clue. Europe, probably it's gonna be terminal two. He explained that there was a long drive between all the terminals, so, better be right, hey? Brilliant. We got in the car and he immediately started to tell me about Noo yoik ciddy, some motherfuckers will pull a gun on you, no reason, black motherfuckers, you lucky you found me, kid... I was still on the verge of being sick due to raging anxiety and panic. Now I had to listen to this guy's racist bullshit for two hours. I diverted the conversation on to how I always wanted to come to NYC to see some jazz. I'm a musician, you see... But he kept going back to his hustle, lazy motherfuckers don't wanna hustle, this fuckin ciddy fulla them... even musicians gotta hustle ya know... 

Eventually I plucked up the courage to ask how much it was going to cost. Three hunna dollas. I went red and began to feel faint. My eyes were popping out of my head. I've got £200 in my bank, I'll give you all of it, I can send you more when I get home... He stopped the car and pressed a button. The sliding door opened next to me. There's an ATM ova hee. Geddout, see whatchu got. I gotta hustle, man. I like to help motherfuckers too but two hunna dollas ain't nothin for an airport transfer. 

That's how I ended up in Queens. I tried a corner shop that also sold hot biryani. The cash machine was going to charge me $25 dollars just to withdraw. I went down the street to the bank. The cab driver watched me from the car window. I had by that point accepted my fate as a new member of the drifter community of New York. At least I had a big bag to lie on. Only the third machine I tried worked. I took out $195, all I had, and gave it to him. He counted it and started up the car. Imma need a picture of ya passport, kid. You gotta pen? You gonna transfer me a hunna dollas, I don' forget a face, you come back Noo Yoik imma find ya. I promised I would, writing down his details. I asked him, please, please man, can you wait outside the terminal in case it's the wrong one? He grimaced. Nope. We slid towards the huge sprawl of Newark Airport. As soon as we stopped I burst out of the car, grabbed my bags and ran. He shouted the name of his bank after me as I span through the revolving door. 

There was no one around inside the terminal. I asked a cleaner where the London flight might be. She told me nothing was open yet. I decided to try another terminal, and went to get the monorail that ran between them. As the sun came up over the view of New York, I finally had a full-on panic attack on the train. I tried to be sick but nothing came up. I stumbled out of the carriage into a huge queue of people at a check-in desk for Lufthansa. May as well give it a go, I thought. After fifteen minutes I reached the stern woman at the desk and asked her where the London flight was. There is no London flight. We don't do London. 

OK, any idea who does? Where should I be?

She became irate and I walked away. I could sleep a few nights in the airport, recharge, beg a few coins and use the payphone to call my parents. I went back to the first terminal and enjoyed the sublime sunrise view on the way. The cleaner was gone, but some of the previously empty desks had people at them now. A kind but pessimistic man told me I'd need to run to terminal three, and check in my big backpack, only $100. My voice cracked as I said, a hundred... I've got no money, nothing, I... 

I sprinted back to the monorail. 

Another queue - for my flight this time. Out of breath, I had arrived at the gate with five minutes to spare, and proceeded to open my backpack and put all my clothes on. A couple of t-shirts, two jumpers, two jackets (I had taken some of TW's heavier items back with me as a favour), my swimming trunks, two pairs of trousers, and a load of shirts on top. The heating was cranked and I sweated profusely. I looked insane, but now the backpack crumpled into a ball I could easily stash under my seat. I waited to be told I'd have to pay anyhow. My hope of getting home was so low, it felt more like an unfunny prank to try and get on the plane, but what the hell.

The sense of relief that passed over me as I sat in my seat, on an empty row nonetheless, is to this day the greatest moment of my life. I was involuntarily laughing out loud for a good ten minutes. I should probably get out more. It was a nice plane too, the nicest I'd ever been on. I took full advantage of all the services, films, food, blankets and eye masks. 

When I arrived at Heathrow, I took my notebook out and called my mum from a payphone using the last £1 coin in my wallet. We're here, we're here! Her voice was shaky on the phone. We're coming up from the car, me and Dad. I sputtered some strange laughing sobs and slumped down next to the payphone. I never sent that racist cunt the cash. 

notes from the heart of the world pt 4

I left TW on the coast eating street sausage and set off south. My shoes were ready to die. Man, they were the tits. Two red and gold, motherfuckers... anyway. I was going back down to the big city, which spiraled at the bottom of a cluster of dark green mountains. A five-mile underground tunnel took me back into the metropolis. There was no rain but the car windows were wet from condensation. The whole city felt like being in a bath. I could feel the steam rolling off the peaks and onto my head. It made me feel dumb and tired, which was good preparation for my return to London. 

I slept in a capsule in an expensive hostel, and thought, what a clever bit of marketing that it's now 'cool' to stay in a tiny box. Everything I had was with me in there, and I crumpled up in the corner and listened to American varsity blockheads talk sincerely to each other about 'ass' all night. I tried my best to find things to do the next day before my evening flight. I walked two miles one way, then the other. I looked up a place to eat and walked there, only to find it was inside an enourmous shopping mall, and it was all a mock-up, made to look old and weathered. The food was expensive and small, and the waiter scowled when I ordered the cheapest two items on the menu. I knew I had $250 left to get myself to the airport and then from JFK in New York to the airport in New Jersey. This seemed like plenty, but in the case of a hiccup I'd need a decent wedge to pay for an extra night on the way. In place of anything to do I meticulously planned my transfer. JFK to Newark would take an hour and a half. I had two hours to make it. I decided against the subway - it would be four in the morning and I had no bearings in NYC. A cab would be better. Maybe I'd even have time to pick up a McDonald's. I made a folder in my phone and saved all my boarding passes and other documents, like the immigration form I would need to leave the country.

I left the hostel four hours before my flight. The taxi ride took around forty minutes, and the driver was not chatty. I felt solid, well planned, like a businessman going through the motions of his usual international engagements. I stepped out of the car into the busy street outside the airport. The driver slowly pulled away, and I went to pull out my phone and check my gate time. My phone. My phone is on the seat of the taxi. MY PHONE IS IN THE CAB. I sprinted towards the car, which was still in the drop-off area outside, and it sped up. I must have done a hundred meters behind it before I began to cough and splutter. I let it go. I talked to myself at full volume and paced around. My tickets, the times and terminals of the flights, and my immigration papers only existed in the folder on my phone. A family stopped me and asked what was wrong. I tried to explain in bad Spanish. No joy. Mi telefona es perdido. I tried calling the cab driver from the mother's phone but it went to the main office. They would return my lost property in 1-2 weeks where possible. Great. I didn't know my own number, as I got the SIM changed to a cheap travel one on arrival. I went to the help desk and asked if I could sign into my email account so I could see all my documents, but I couldn't do it because I had to verify my identity by text message. 

My anxiety at this point was so high it felt like I was in a room with a huge swinging blade that could cut me in half at random. I dodged and ducked appropriately, which made me look even more suspicious and deranged. Eventually came the call for my gate. With no hope whatsoever I decided to go through the motions a real person would, a person who had tickets and immigration papers. For some sinister reason I was the only person in the entire customs section that evening. It was the opposite of what I had bargained for. The only slim chance I'd make it through would be if I blended in with some large group of idiot gringos travelling my way. Well, what did I have to lose. At least if they detained me I'd have somewhere to sleep. I tried to look relaxed as I walked up to the two people at the bag scanner. 

Evening. 

Good evening, sir. 

Trundling noises. Electrical buzzing. 

You are from...? 

England, London. 

Ahhh, London! I like to learn about geography, my family living in Derby, Nottingham. I been to Leeds also. 

Oh, wow! Midlands, yeah. 

...

An' Scotlan', what the capital is there? Glasgow? 

Edinburgh. 

Edeen...brurj... 

Edinburgh, yeah. 

The guy was taking notes in a little book. He'd done a sketch of the UK with place names written on it. He was a genuine geography enthusiast. Liberpool... Manchesterrr... Jork... 

I picked up my bag, smiling now, and showed my passport at the desk. I was buzzing. I sauntered towards the departure lounge - 

SIR!

My breathing stopped. I was dead, I was done for. 

What is capital of Irelan'? 

I turned and smiled weakly. 

Dublin.