The inside lane is as empty as Berlusconi’s testicles after a Bunga Bunga party and you’re sat in the middle lane for, apparently, the fun of it.

Outside the Mercs and the BMWs and the occasional plucky Fiat Uno are blasting past in formation and we, in our 1.2 Litre Fiesta, we can’t get out. There’s no room. They won’t let us out. And the rear view mirror is full of lights. And we all want to get past. And you, you’re sat there, smiling. Fucking smiling. And blocking us. Enjoying the power. Must be, has to be, there’s no sane reason.

But we sidle up behind. We give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he’s a fucking retard and doesn’t realise. Perhaps this is our chance, a bit of care in the community. Let’s give the guy a break.

He’s still not budging and I can read the fibres of the bumper. I think they spell out A-R-S-E-H-O-L-E. We’re that close. And he doesn’t see us. Doesn’t want to see us. Doesn’t want to edge faster, doesn’t want to edge left. He’s stuck. He’s stuck caus he’s a bitter man in a Ford Mondeo and in someway the world has wronged him. In some way, this is now his world.

Inside lane. Fuck it. Had enough. Do him. And we swoop in like Jemima Khan and the gang on Julian Assange, a bandwagon full of media magpies, seizing the opportunity, flouting the rules for the ‘greater good’ (the good being us, of course, who else? This isn’t a fricking charity we’re running, find your own star of international bullshit) as those behind watch our progress.

And do you know what the fucker does? He speeds up. He hits 65mph before we pass him. And as we do, he’s staring straight ahead. SMILING.

And we pull ahead and now he’s smiling straight at us. And he still doesn’t move over.

And now it’s a flood. They’re passing him from all sides, we’ve opened the sluice gates, and he’s just sat there smiling, drowning and I realise this is not a kill mission. He’s on a suicide mission. He enjoys it. He’s smiling.

“Jade, speed up, speed up, GET CLEAR! The man’s a fucking MONSTER”

And he disappears into the rear view mirror and we sigh. We sigh long. But wait, there it is, the squat crawl of the middle-lane dweller. There’s more of them, there’s more, they’re everywhere, everywhere, and the fight, the fight begins again, TAKE THEM! TAKE THEM ALL!

So what are we putting for number 12? I’m leaning towards South America. Leaning? One foot in, or just leaning? Ok, one foot in. Any idea which country your foot is in? It feels sort of like Chile. Well, we haven’t got another answer. Chile? Chile.

Elvis Fruit. Elvis Fruit? King… banana? King…. Apricot? King…. Berry? Kingsbury! Fuck that y’all! Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I shouted it either. Yes, I know they wrote it down. Yes, I won’t do it again. No, I mean. No, I’m sorry.

He said squares yeah? Coloured squares? Or colours? Or sides? Coloured squares on sides, or squares of colours, or number of colours, or number of squares? Is whit e a colour? Are all Rubik’s cubes the same? It’s six. I tell you. Six.

54? That fucking cunt of a quiz master didn’t ask the question properly. Where’s the pen? WHERE’S THE PEN? Right, that’s that changed the cheating fuck wit. 54 it is.

Erm…ahem… er.. question one: Salsa. How do you know? Erm… I… well… Nat knows. Nat’s not here. He is. On my phone. On your phone? Ha he cheated! I did not cheat. Jon, I’m disappointed, but I’m writing it down. But this is your cross to bear, not mine. I’m just the scribe. Ok, no worries, it’s not heavy.

It all looks like… bands. They’re all bands. But that’s a loaf of bread, not meat loaf. Does that not count? I don’t think so. Was there a band called Bread? Yeah, there was. Bread. Ok. Bands. Put bands. Unless they’re vultures? Nah, they’re eagles. WELCOME TO THE HOTEL CALIFORNIA. Oh you twat you’ve given it away again. Yes, yes I have.

Shit.

Question 40. last one. We’ve got Teri Hatcher. Jon reckons its JK Rowling on top. Ooo-er! Nah, seriously, JK Rowling, I said it from the start. Quick, papers ready, what are we missing?

Yes! Told you it was JK Rowling! What, what is the face for? I didn’t put it down… What do you mean you didn’t put it down? I didn’t put it down. WHY THE FUCK DID YOU NOT PUT IT DOWN? I didn’t believe you. It doesn’t look anything like her. Clearly it is her though! CAUS IT IS HER! I know, now, but, you know, it doesn’t look like her. I was sure! Final fucking answer! Yes. Fuck. Next time. You’re not scribing. You’re angry?

Fucking Pub Quiz.

Ok, I’ll go first. You’ve hung on the wall too long, you’ve… oh for fuck’s sake, he’s gone, he’s started swimming. And now I have to follow.

And shit he’s doing the fucking backstroke in the middle lane. He’s an upturned tortoise drowning. Stumbling. Sinking. Ever so slowly.

And I’m eyeing the outside lane. I’m thinking, I can get passed him. But coming up the other way. Blasting them all out the water. It’s That Bloke From Last Week.

I look at the empty fast lane and I’m wondering if That Bloke From Last Week’s compass is off. But it isn’t. This is what That Bloke From last Week does.

He does a single lane of very fast front crawl, ensuring he splashes the optimum amount to fill every gob with piss- and sweat-infested chlorine water so you’re forced to stop momentarily to take in his masterly and masturbatory trip down the pool. He then stops at the end and turns and gives the other swimmers a “Fucking pedestrians” look. And then he bobs at the end like a smug Mallard as the rest of us bosh out another 10 lengths.

But he’s not done. He starts diving down because it’s the deep end right and if we had any doubts about his masculine prowess after his peacock one length of speed swimming he wants to dispel them. So he dives down the 8 or 9 feet and he swims under us and he sort of swaggers under water, which looks a bit like an epileptic fit and as you watch you find yourself hoping it is an epileptic fit – not because you want him to die but simply because he’s such a fucking nob.

And then he comes up again. And he gives us all a look. It’s the look of a man deep in the closet of his own denial. And then he hauls himself out and sits on the side cross legged. In Trunks. And that confirms the real home of that denial.

But least he’s not her, Swim Cap. One length fast front crawl, one length crawling breast stroke. It’s like being one side of an accordion. She stretches out on the up length and crushes you into doggie paddle on the return. And all the while the eerie absence of human head that the swim cap does expel. And you want to rip it off and say LIVE A LITTLE! WET THE HAIR! DO MORE THAN ONE LENGTH OF THE SAME STROKE!

Breast Stroke. I couldn’t help it. A mistake. The lanes are so close together. It caught the tip.

The shame sees my exit.

They all nod farewell. There goes Blue Goggles. The prick.

I’m pretty sure I’m rosy.

And that knowledge sends another wave. It’s a second attack and now I am radiating heat, I am a renewable energy resource for the inch circumference of my red head. Come, bathe in my clean heat resource. Bask in my awkwardness.

Not too close. Don’t infringe my personal space. It embarrasses me and… oh god, a third. A third wave. I am boiling. My face is boiling. Little popping explosions of heated blood graffiti my face with yet more red.

I am red. RED.

“Bloody hell Jon, you’ve gone well red!”

“You think? I didn’t fucking notice what with the sweat and the heat and the burning shame. Glad you pointed it out though, really helpful directing attention towards me because, fuck me, here comes a fourth…”

Well, you just give up. It’s hit your stomach and cramping as the eyes all turn your way. Watch the freak burn. He’s such a deep red, you could jump in and swim around. Have a nice little swim in the sea of shame. It’s red, and so salty you can float in it.

Slumped, measure the breathing. Disperse the red. Close your eyes.

Red. And someone just said hello. I am pretty, no definitely, sure, that this is not normal.

And definitely not manly.

Fuck it, that really is embarrassing. But I used all my red already.

And on. The bench held her in a ‘c’ shape. Young but not looking it. Short-cropped blond with smoker’s skin. Not doing anything,really. Just sat, but her arms poised as if ready to applicate make-up. The kind you see on the train failing to notice, or to care, that the transformation is public, that we are all privy to the before and afters. I, in my shame, hoped she was before, and that the office would be treated to the after. But as with these situations, she will not care either way. I am not in her conciousness, how she looks to me is not her concern. Quite right to, comes the call from those women (you know which). And, I suppose, they’re right.

The last, cross legged, sitting awkwardly on the benches of three, positioned in a triangle to suggest cohesion but, all facing out, failing to instill, to enforce it. So apt that he sat alone, on the south-facing arm. A small pot of rice perched on the knee smelling of sweetness, a sugarary darkness, that wafted to the pigeons who pecked at the floor. Dark glasses on dark skin and a trimmed, primed beard. It lent itself to looking contemplative. He pecked at the rice and the pigeons pecked at the floor and they pecked on alternate beats. The pigeons, they did not look contemplative. It did not work for them. Manic, unkempt, they should be near my romantic with the collared hands. But cross legged, perched, facing out, stabbing with a fork, eyes unfocused. It worked for him. It looked like a picture.

“We are very excited to be here!” drawls Ritter. And he is, you can tell. He keeps jumping.

The sombre concrete of the Barbican Hall dressed in rich, deep landscapes of wood oddly lends itself to him. It sets the evening out for juxtaposition. An eloquent, astoundingly literate folk musician who details the sombre journeys of the heart one second and then makes handjob jokes the next. All in song. Reflective, now bold, now hard, now soft. He howls at the audience, who howl right back. He unplugs, goes native, he turns it up to ten, he solos on his knees. It is brave, interesting, challenging stuff.  It is incredibly impressive.

The new album sets out the chapters, he waltzes and spins the tales of loss, of death, of ancient times, of the heart. “The Curse” sees him dancing, “Lantern” sees him rabble rousing, “Folk Bloodbath” sees him at his very cynical and humorous best.

But old friends return too, gratefully enveloped by an audience teetering on the edge of jumping up and down to Ritter’s play at conductor, but contained by that peculiar Englishness of respecting the unwritten law of a seated auditorium. “Kathleen” roars and rips through the audience, “Good man” shakes them in their seats but , finally, “In the Dark” raises us, en masse.

And, creeping in, a cover of Neil Young’s Pocahontas and then of Talking Heads’ Once in A Lifetime. Nods to forefathers he has arguably surpassed.

For Josh Ritter live is an experience. It is intimidatingly intelligent yet all encompassing, welcoming. Affable and humble, he draws you in and you follow, through the filmic, eight minute novellas of the slow ones to the friction of the fast ones.

Josh Ritter is excited. You should be too.



It was lunchtime, sure, people like to eat their sandwhiches, read a book – but I like to have a lunge.

I found a spot in the middle of the grassed area. There were a few people on benches. Some lad on a phone and a big black lady eating her lunch.

The grass was wet from the recent rain so I moved nearer the path where it was drier.

I clasped my fingers behind my back, as I was taught, and decided on the left leg first.

And I lunged. Up. Lunge. Up. Lunge. Up.

It was feeling good. I wondered how the other would fair, it had been a little tricky recently.

I tried it.

Lunge. Up. Lunge. U… oh. The twinge. I massaged the back of my calf.

It was tough, doing this in my suit. Under the watch of the black lady and the lad on the phone.

I tried again.

Luuu-unge. Down. Ok. So up. Up. Ok. That was ok.

Lunge. Up. Lunge. Up. Lunge. Up.

It felt good.

I’m sure, more people should do it. To stretch out. It exercises the brain. Just twenty minutes of lunging.

Sure, they laugh. The boy on the phone, he seemed amused. And the black lady, perhaps a little scared.

But a middle aged man in a suit at lunchtime lunging with a serious face for serious work – this should not be anything unusual.

I may ask someone to join me tomorrow. I’ll see.

I walked back to work fully lunged. It was a nice feeling.

Mothers aren’t meant to do that. They do birth and stuff, the connection is not hang up-able. I am omniscient as a son. Unescapable.

The computer, it did not work. The fault was in the hands of mouse and keyboard.

Can I, she asks, take the keyboard and mouse off the other computer?

I’m 70 miles away, this is an awkward question. That mouse and keyboard is wireless. Tempermental and wireless. Hmmm.

In theory mother, you can. In practice, it might all fuck up.

Mother likes a challenge, see, she’s resourceful. A teacher in a hell hole, lost causes are a speciality. It might fuck up? Well let’s just see about that.

We sign off. My phone rings again ten minutes later.

It is not working, she says.

Have you plugged in the oval thing, with the lights?

Yes.

Are the lights on?

No.

Is the silver pit of the plug all the way in?

A silence. This is where it was going to go wrong. Did go wrong.

I am not an idiot, Jon. I know what a USB plug is.

Well I don’t know Mum, I did tell you to leave it and that it might fuck up. It’s not urgent so grab yourself a new keyboard and mouse tomorrow. Leave it for tonight.

Hmmm.

She signs off.

Three hours later Mum rings back. She has, she says, spent three hours trying to fix the computer. What did I think about that?

I think that was silly, mother, as it wasn’t urgent and I said it would fuck up.

I hate men, says mum. And she hangs up.

I think in her head that whole episode makes sense. It is that mindset that makes you capable of being a mother. I am sure of it.

Church, says Jade.

Hair clipped and pinned, skirt knee length. I concede, she Is correct.

Check the watch, 10.15am and a yawn. The back feels sprung. Shall we go inside?

Darker than you’d think for a religion of light, and the organ sounds like it’s tuning.

A menagerie of children, tweeting in aisles and fluttering against the cage of the wrinkled embrace of Putney mothers and fathers.

The coffee table’s buzzing. It’s no chatter, here, but the long motorcycle drone of wealth.

We are the first to be seated, self consciously staring at ceilings of ornate flowers. Soon surrounded by “shush” and “Darling, mummy wants you to be quiet for her, ok?”.

Prozac eyes. There’s a fair few dads missing. And the occasional young, foreign girl, who the kids run too. And the older lady next to her, not quite knowing what game they’re playing. Birds in cages. And the nanny watching what Mummy will do. And the mummy looking…

Someone clears their throat behind us and there’s a priest in the ailse. A solemn troop of families scamper in behind, loudly, taking seats for schools. So it really is true…

And a couple opposite, we notice them now. Our age, thereabouts. Alone on a pew like us. He bowed, she with a face that clearly and concisely says “Fuck off”. The clarity is appealing. His solemnity, less so.

Banns. Not alone then.

And the service goes forth. An academic dicussion of Vermeer to an audience of screams and laughs and small feet on stone. The chants of history updated and somehow failing. And our names, delivered, at the end.

It’s over to the manic trills of Sheba and the Mums gather broods and the Fathers gather business cards. There’s a tenner in the palm for the priest. See you in school, father.

And we do the rounds expecting some sort of congratulation.

Look, we came! And I didn’t moan that he called me Servers.

It’s bemusement, mostly. Why did you bother?

And outside they congregate. And we understand. We are not unusual.

To be seen is these people’s reality. It is all about, that.  To drag the children in and make a play of it.

An elaborate charade.

And in the car around the corner from the church, the couple who were sat opposite. I point them out. And through the open window…

“I DO FUCKING LISTEN TO YOU”

And we wonder which names they were on the Banns list. And feel a touch of superiorty that the charade for us was a small one, not that.

My fingers are like peacekeepers. Yeah, they look friendly. But, essentially, they still have guns. You don’t go pissing about with guns. Peacekeepers only keep peace when it’s peaceful. My fingers aren’t peaceful. My fingers are fucking renegade. They are insurgent.

My fingers are going to get shot to fucking pieces. For peace. That’s how peace works.

One hundred and fifteen name tags. One hundred and fifteen bits of ribbon.

I’m in a lesson. Pull up, twist, are you watching, so watch, pull up twist, don’t fuck it up, you know you fuck it up, but I can’t do them all myself, so pull up and twist, guide through, pinch, pull, thread, pull, thread, and pull. Don’t fuck it up.

My fingers are shaking. I’m going to fuck it up.

One hundred and fifteen name tags. One hundred and fifteen bits of ribbon.

I take the ribbon. I take a card. I find the hole. I pinch, twist, thread, pull.

It doesn’t look shit.

Repeat.

One hundred and fifteen name tags. One hundred and fifteen bits of ribbon.

Weddings are easy.