I have no idea where it came from or why they decided to give it to me, but on it was a piece of video – some BBC news footage actually; a documentary of some kind. I didn’t recognise the news reader so at first I thought it was somebody fooling around for YouTube. Then I started noticing other things - the colours and fonts on the screen didn’t look right. It was showing a piece about London but the clothing, the hair styles, the language, everything, were all slightly wrong. Something came up on screen and it made sense but I still couldn’t believe it. Either the date was wrong or I had just seen footage from the future.

It was from one-hundred and twenty years from now. The world had moved on: innovation and invention, one after another, kept on coming and forever pushing the boundaries of modern science. In such a small space of time huge changes had taken place in every conceivable direction and had solved many of the problems we face today. Hydrogen fuel cell technology had taken off and had started powering the majority of vehicles. Nanites, atomic-sized robots, originally designed to clean every inch of the home, are shown being used routinely in the treatment of cancers, widely hailed as a cure.

Even the boundary between man and machine had become blurred - more and more humans had been fitted with bionic upgrades. What started out as advances in prosthetic limbs technology used to treat wounded soldiers, was soon exploited by the rich and the “bioprosmetic” industry was booming. Even the average Joe had, by our standards, super-human strength, vision and memory. Losing your personality to accommodate Zettabytes of perfect recall was seen as a small price to pay for this ‘gift’. It looked like things had gone completely out of control.

I’m not sure what I can do with this video. To be honest, I feel a bit embarrassed writing about it so I don’t think I can hand it in to someone. I don’t actually know who I would give it to, but as stupid as it sounds, it looks real enough to convince me.

Surviving the night was the hardest part of prison; if you didn’t drop down dead from the crippling workload then the other elements surely would get you. Constant brawling and vicious attacks were common place. Disease ran wild amongst the inmates. Malnourishment and poor, sewage-ridden, water supplies lead to dysentery. This and being chained should-to-shoulder for 10 hours a day, like sardines in a tin, saw the floor awash with infected human waste, teeming with rodents and lice. On top of that it was hot and the smell was intolerable.

But worse than this, much worse than the inhumane conditions, were the gaolers. Permitted by law to be able to charge for ‘bed and board’ within their prisons, they were the real threat. For men with money, prices were generally extortionate but bearable and you could get by. For the many with no money, those for example that needed to steal from others to survive in the world (and got caught for it), were in serious trouble. They would have to open an account with the gaoler and would wind up being owned by them.

But today was the last day. The trembling wreck of what the prison service saw as a ‘reformed man’ would be set free. A man who, in almost six months, hadn’t seen proper daylight due to his water-pumping duties. For the last time would he have to live with the fear of being attacked or raped in the dark. It was the last time he would have to hear the slamming of heavy doors, the sound of the sliding bolt that kept him imprisoned or the feel of the heavy iron shackles on his wrists that caused deep wounds and weeping sores.

The big iron gates creaked as a guard unlocked them and the daylight flood in as they opened. Squinting with the pain of such a bright light, he was lead by the shoulder and marched outside. The gaolers showed no change toward a now free man. They were Screws and that’s all they knew. He was escorted to the perimeter, and without muttering a single word, the gaoler turned and scuttled back inside. For the first time in years, he had found himself alone.

At the far end of the grave yard, beyond the ancient crumbling moss-covered headstones, and past the collapsed monuments from hundreds of years of shifting ground, was a freshly dug plot and somebody’s new home. The soil, covered in a tarpaulin sheet to protect it from the elements, still gave off that unmistakable earthly scent.

St Dominic’s Church has stood on that site for almost four hundred years and if local folklore is to be believed, it is built on the land of an ancient Pagan burial site. The church grounds, although had been well kept by the community for many years now, was tended to by an increasingly ageing volunteer workforce that diminished year on year. In fact, many of those left only to take up residency in the yard. The plaster on the walls had become cracked and paint was peeling. Slate tiles had fallen from the rooftop and lay shattered on the floor below. But the doorway was always swept, hanging baskets carried fresh flowers and there was always a supply of craft-works to decorate the walls with.

Whilst it wasn’t as picturesque as neighbouring churches, a sad reality shown by the lack of brides-to-be banging on the door, clearly what mattered most had been taken care of by those loyal few.

]]> http://www.pagreen.co.uk/2008-11-13/the-graveyard/feed/ http://www.pagreen.co.uk/2008-10-23/who-the-heck-is-jim-day-one-when-jeeves-met-keith/ http://www.pagreen.co.uk/2008-10-23/who-the-heck-is-jim-day-one-when-jeeves-met-keith/#comments Thu, 23 Oct 2008 16:34:17 +0000 paul http://www.pagreen.co.uk/?p=46 All stories have a beginning, a great moment when things start. Jeeves and Keith are no exception to this, just not so epic as many great partnerships before them. Whilst it wasn’t such a Big Bang or even Biblical moment, it was certainly a natural pairing nonetheless.

They met at their upper school, aged just 13. Thrown together by a long-since retired three-tier education system, it’s a time everyone was nervously looking around for friends. It’s September, 1996. The first day of a new term, bringing with it the inevitable opportunity to reinvent yourself in a small way; a chance to wipe the slate clean and have yet another go at trying to be cool. Perhaps this time, it’ll work?

Keith is just a normal kid, brought up by relatively normal parents on a council estate in Reading. It wasn’t a rough estate and it didn’t fill you with dread at its mere thought, or nervously look around you when mentioning its name; it certainly didn’t have any reputation to be concerned about. True, he didn’t have much growing up – there wasn’t ever a flash games console like his friends had and his bike was second-hand, but he didn’t mind too much. He was a good kid that worked hard at school and kept his head down, rarely ever getting into trouble. He certainly had that common touch and could quite happily get along with most people.

Jeeves on the other hand came from an entirely different background – coming from wealthy, successful parents he was privately educated and luxuriated in a life of getting what he wanted. It was a life of holidays in hot, tropical places with strange names that even most adults couldn’t point to on a map. He would have a freshly ironed shirt everyday for school and mayonnaise instead of salad cream in his packed lunch box. Yes, it was a nice life for Jeeves and a world away from Keith’s. Yet without realising, the bubble was about to burst. His parent’s had long since become tired of his stinking attitude, his brattish qualities that they had instilled in him through this cushy environment, albeit quite innocently. After all, every parent just wants to provide well enough for their kids. This all was going to change. It had been decided he was to leave his private education at the end of the year and attend a regular, state-run school. It really didn’t matter so much about his schooling; his parents had enough money to pick up the pieces later on and they wouldn’t see him go without. But they needed to be at arms-reach, a slight distance away so that he would appreciate what he had been given. This was about teaching him a lesson in life.

So Jeeves, posh voice and all, began the year with many other kids at their local upper-school. The children waited outside the gates, anxiously waiting to be let in for Day One. It was almost tribal; groups quickly formed along the familiar faces of old middle school loyalties, each group eye-balling the other.  The same team, but not.  Amongst all of this was a lonely outsider, Jeeves, who already had gained unwanted attention for his arrival in his Dad’s Jaguar. Regular kids arrive by bike or on foot, at very least in regular cars. The bell rang and the kids slowly filed into the school grounds, being ushered over to the playground by strange looking teachers for their first registration, where they would be sorted into classes. Here, Jeeves would learn his first lesson: Regular kids, have regular names. Names like Paul or Jeff; Lucy or Laura. Not like ‘Jeeves’. And certainly not like ‘Jeeves Sheridan Walton-Browning.’

He quickly found that most of these kids didn’t share the same level of confidence as him, that irritating hallmark of private schooling, which appeared as alien to the rest of the kids as his name, voice and means of transport did.  Even so, his steely confidence soon took a dent when he answered the register with a plumy Queen’s English. It prompted the response of everyone laughing and staring at the posh-boy-weirdo. It also looked like it was going to be difficult settling in.

Naturally his prior education had set him in good stead and placed him firmly in the top set of all of his subjects. In fact, it was all far too easy for him. It either didn’t challenge him enough or had been covered before in greater detail at his last school. Time passed. Soon his confidence turned into cockiness and growing ever complacent, he became seen an obnoxious snob that alienated himself from his peers.  It was then he found the single biggest difference between the two education systems, and important lesson number two. 

His careless, snide remarks this time had landed on the wrong ears – it was one of those moments that had caused a deathly hush across the room. He had pissed off the wrong guy, one known for being a total bastard, and it had resulted in a sound after-school kicking that he’d never forget. In all of his harsh words to people, he had not anticipated it coming to physical blows. Surely, that just didn’t happen. In the real world, of course it does.

After school it came. The anger that had simmered all afternoon boiled over. From nowhere, a solid right-hook catches him squarely on the jaw, knocking Jeeves to the ground. It wasn’t over. Not finished yet, he waded in further with a torrent of kicks to his abdomen. As his attacker grew bored with not having any competition, clearly having enough, he leaves him a bloody-nosed mess, crying on the floor. Only after a few moments did he dare pick himself back up again. In the carnage, his belongings had spilt out of his back-pack and become scattered around him. Clearly shaking, he starts to scoop it all back up.

At that moment, a kid that Jeeves had barely spoken too was walking by. He probably didn’t even know his name. It was Keith, not the chattiest of people, had seen the attack and had taken pity on him. In truth, he felt that he had deserved it for being such a prick over the last few weeks but had seen this more as a penance than anything malicious. He walked over to Jeeves and picked up his keys for him – a shiny bunch that had a good selection of music-related key rings on it. He collected them, one from each gig he had been to. Keith had never been to a gig, and rarely buys CDs but loved his music all the same; he just got it free from the radio. And occasionally, when nobody was looking, from the internet. One of Jeeves’ key-rings was emblazoned with the Metallica logo, one of Keith’s favourite bands.

“You dropped these, mate” Keith said. With a friendly smile he handed the keys back to him, agreeing with the key-ring that Metallica does indeed rule. Jeeves was grateful for the help and the comment. Jeeves also loved the band and found it difficult to find anyone who shared his tastes. It was only really his dad that liked them, and not so much these days.

Jeeves dusted himself down, pulling straight his jacket and tie. Keith had already started walking away from him, keen to get home after another hard day at school. He ran and caught him up.

“What kind of school is this?” ask Jeeves. Keith looked back at him blankly. “A normal one, you’ll get used to it.” He smirked at Jeeves. “Just stop being a dickhead to everyone and it’ll be alright.” Jeeves looked confused; Keith spotting this felt sorry for him.

“You a big Metallica fan then?” he asked. Jeeves perked up a little, he clearly was.

“Absolutely love them, been to see them live 3 times.” Just thinking about it made his smile, as if the memory was as good as some much-needed pain-killers.  Keith was impressed, but not surprised – he was a rich kid after all. He thought for a while as they walked.

“It would probably help if you had a nick-name or something” said Keith. Jeeves looked back. “Well my dad used to call me Jim when I was younger” Jeeves replied.

Keith shrugged his shoulders; “Sounds alright to me, Jim” He laughing as he continued “It stops you from sounding like a bit of a wanker really.” Jim manages to crack a smile briefly before the pain from a swollen nose takes it away again. For the first time at the school, he felt slightly accepted. “I guess so” said Jim.

And that was it. From that day forward Jim hung out with Keith. It was a little awkward at first, but in time as Jim became slowly accepted amongst his peers, things did get easier.  Over the years, there would be many more times when Keith would help Jim out, and not always as a “social compass.” There’d also be lots of times when Jim would help out Keith, and not just financially. But no matter what their differences were, they both shared a huge passion for music. This resulted in a great friendship, where from this, the world would one day see something amazing.

He had to investigate to set his mind at ease - he was never going to get any sleep at this rate. From his nice, warm bed, he slowly opened his eyes and carefully climbed out. Instantly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. SQUEEK-SQUEEK-SQUEEK. To this day he swears blind that it was the cold, and not fear, that caused this.

I slowly edged to the corner of my room, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboard. I didn’t want to bring attention to myself - I’ve seen what happens to them in films and let’s be honest, it doesn’t usually end well.  SQUEEEEK. I raided my wardrobe and picked out the first big, heavy thing I could find. It was the trophy I had won for the “Air Guitar Championships 1998″ at Butlins with my housemates’ family. It would’ve been a lot heavier if I had actually won the competition, but 3rd place is still pretty good, right?

I took a deep breath, opened my door and inspected the hallway; it looked all clear. My breathing got heavier and I felt sick with nerves - it then hit me: What would I do if I actually found someone in my house? Lightly stepping down the hallway into the front room, I carefully peaked around the door like I was James Bond or a tiger stalking its prey. I couldn’t believe what I had seen - stunned, I took a second look to be sure.

It was Keith, my housemate and Air Guitar Champion of Butlins Minehead 1998, absolutely rutting the backside off of Mrs Polovski, our 64 year old landlady. And I don’t just mean giving her one, I mean a total, heroic, nailing. My fear quickly turned to uncontrollable hysterics, which was about the same time I got caught. It was difficult to be quiet when you’re crying with laughter into your hands in a pathetic attempt to muffle the guffaws. I’m not sure what’s worse - actually being caught doing an old lady, or being caught watching a granny taking it. I hadn’t seen anything like it before, not even in Amsterdam.

I quickly retreated back to my warm bed, weirdly thinking about how much of a bastard Keith was for scoring, but couldn’t help but wonder if he was getting free rent because of this.

A gang of workmates decide to pull a bank-job for Big Vinny, the local crime boss, to get a fast fix of cash. They’re not hardened criminals but one of them in particular has a chequered history and convinces the rest that this will work.

The story follows the get-away driver, who, suffering from intense nerves the night before has a few drinks to calm himself down. He ends up having two too many and wakes up late the morning of job. He arrives late and has missed his mark, arriving in time to see his gang being arrested, which ultimately see’s them, and Big Vinny, being sent down for seven years in jail.

From inside the prison, the gang vow to get their revenge. But being stuck in the nick means that they need help, and so place a bounty on the driver’s head. A network of underground thugs and chancers are now hunting for him and he is on the run. Absolutely everyone, in an impoverished town, will see a benefit of turning him in. To make things worse, his closest friends and family are being terrorised and tortured to give up his location, but not even they know his whereabouts.

Can he keep his head down and get away? Where does he go? How do you cope with living your life, always looking over your shoulder? Find the answers to all of this and more in Paul Green’s tail of rollercoaster suspense and drama in “The Get Away.”

The sunlight streams into a bedroom, dust dances in its glow. On top of a tangled mess of duvet and heavily soiled bed sheets, lays Jim. A mass of matted hair and metal-work, he is a self-proclaimed Rock God and his town’s “best kept secret.” As his eyes twitch, pained from the streaming sunlight, he comes around to face another day.

With a groan, he flops out of his pit onto his feet, dragging his head along the length of the bed, drawing out those final precious few seconds of pillow-time. He shuffles out of his door, passed the organised chaos of dirty laundry, pizza boxes and discarded copies of Hustler magazine that had been rendered useless long ago. And don’t even think about recycling that lot – if they fell into the wrong hands it’ll be potentially disastrous. There was enough in that lot to impregnate half of Didcot’s women. And maybe even some men.

A hand is firmly planted against the filthy wall in front of his face. Still swaying from the effects of half a bottle of Jack Daniels, he pulls out Little Jim with his free hand and lets spill out the other half of that bottle. Head thrown back and squinting with incredible relief, he barely registers the poor aim and inevitable splashes of piss that trickle down his leg.

Now nearing Midday and Jim, after navigating a series of hazards including the stairs, manages to make it into the kitchen. The faint hum of a fridge on its last legs quickly turns into a mechanical shudder of a fridge that is well and truly, to put bluntly, fucked. But that was Jim all over - most of his belongings were in the same state. Even Jim himself was heading that way, no thanks to a month of solid drinking and chain smoking those crappy cigarettes that his flatmate Keith had got from Dodgy Bob down the pub. No surprise really.

Jim turns to face the shuddering monstrosity and pulls open the door, revealing the princely hoard of half a jar of pickled onions (that had been there since he had moved in, almost three years ago), some hard cheese and a single pint of semi-skimmed milk. He used to always get full-fat but this is Jim’s nod towards a healthy lifestyle. Go figure.

He takes out the carton, helps himself to the last of Keith’s cornflakes and pours out a syrupy liquid cheese that once resembled milk onto them. It smelt disgusting. But Jim, being the hardcore embodiment of rock and a true legend in his own eyes, wasn’t giving up that easily. Grabbing a glass from last night’s headache machine – it could even had been from the night before that in all honesty – he pours the remaining dregs of a vodka-Redbull over his breakfast, takes a big breath and tucks in.

So what is it about computing that I don’t like anymore? That’s the hard part, because I’m still interested in it. But I think the difference is that I’m now a user of techology rather than a builder of it, if that makes sense. I’m bored of it to be honest and the whole thing is so frustrating. So I really need a change.

The problem is, then, how do I go about undoing all this hard work? I know what you’re thinking - why would I want to undo all of that crazy effort that I put in over 4 years of blood, sweat and tears (and trust me, there were some very painful late nights in the labs). I’ll tell you why I need to do this - it’s stopping me from getting the jobs that I want and am better suited for: creative media jobs. I’ve become very interested in advertising and I want to create adverts. I love photography, design, colour and creative writing like songwriting and poetry. Working as a radio presenter for Radio Cherwell has only highlighted the fact that I hate my day job and it’s so far away from what I am or where I want to be, it makes me cry like a girl. 

The difficulty is that my CV (or “resume”) just doesn’t show people this. Because of their preconceptions of what an IT grad is meant to be (long haired sociopathic goth with a fetish for dragons and a fear of daylight) they think all I can do is nasty number-crunching and techy programming stuff. Or web development. This is crap. I specialised in Artificial Intelligence which whilst has some maths in it (some even I can handle) it really touches upon philosophy and biology. I studied software engineering, which is all about design. There’s more to me than you realise.  My CV shows what I’ve done, where I’ve been, not who I am and where I want to go. This needs fixing somehow. *Shakes fist in anger*

A lot of people have been suprised by my turn around away from computing - it’s been part of me since I was a kid, and for a long time there was nothing more fun than fixing/breaking computers. But I found girls and music and friends. When I got around to choosing a degree (about the same time actually) I really didn’t know what I wanted to study so just went with what I knew. For a long time I wanted to be a doctor but given my a-level choices (eng lit, history and computing) that wasn’t going to happen. I also wanted to be an army officer and that didn’t exactly work out well.

So here I am, with a degree in something that I didn’t really enjoy, in a subject that I’m no longer interested in, being scrutinised by morons (recruitment consultants) that don’t want to listen. Oh, and I handed in my resignation a few weeks ago to persue a new career which, after a promising start, I’ve been unsuccessful at landing. Technically I’m unemployed in a few weeks time.

My name is Paul. And I’m available for hire.