Vernon Little's Christmas Letter

Hey Santa,

I've not written you since I was six when I never got that slot car racing set. Don't get worried or anything- it's not like I'm going to shoot you! Sorry, bad joke. The truth is my mum gets kinda funny around Christmas so she never gets the presents right. That's how I found out you didn't exist.

Still, I'm writing now. You're probably wondering why, right? Well, it's a learning I made about having faith. There was this guy in prison- Lasalle- and he made me realise you have to make your own success. Prison can change how you see things, you know? This guy was an axe murderer and what he said saved my life. Sometimes it's good to believe in things. Hell, if you're an axe murderer, you have to.

The thing is, I'm down in Mexico and I can't change anything back home from here. It turns out Ella is pregnant. That's right. Vernon 'Big Daddy' Little. You spend half your life playing with your boy and then he deals you the biggest hand of them all. Still, good things happen in Mexico. We've got the beach house and Ella's started a business. It feels good to earn a living. I go fishing in the morning with the local guys and she cooks up what we catch on a little barbecue we found. It's going pretty well- Pelayo showed her how to make this great sauce. In the afternoons, I'm teaching English to his kids. Who would have thought? Kids making learnings of their own from my dirty mouth.

Sorry Santa, don't get me wrong, I haven't gone back to cussing. Well, not in English anyway. I'm starting to understand more of Pelayo's jokes and boy, he should be going to confession or something.

Anyway, I've been thinking about home alot. I don't want to go back but I still think about what happened. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad about how it all turned out... I'm here aren't I? But when I was giving out my wants, I should have been thinking about someone else... Lally's mom, in Nacogdoches. She was kind of the victim of all of this, and what did she get? And then I think about the big flabby grin she would get if she got one of those big flatscreen TVs, or a new refrigerator like mom did. She probably needs something to brag about.

So can you do that? I mean, screw half the kids in Texas, this is someone who actually deserves a bit of happiness. Can you make that happen Santa?

I'm going to go now- Ella's cooking and I don't want to miss it. Thanks alot.

Vernon

Amazing Catch-22 essays

These essays by Juan Carlos Molina and Paula Santoyo are absolutely marvellous so I have posted them here on my Teaching in Mexico blog. Well done.

Top Ten Films

It's been a great week for watching films and I've managed to get in 'Be Kind Rewind' and 'Burn After Reading' at the cinema as well as indulging myself with a viewing of the classic 'The Third Man' at home. Great Movie.

So I thought, what with all the film-making plans that are afoot, it was time to compile my top ten films. Previous favourite 'Carlito's Way' is now out... I just couldn't bear the Burt Bacharach song at the end.

Here they are in reverse order:

10 Teen Wolf
Surfing on vans, keg parties where everyone wears Ray-bans, a werewolf playing basketball: it's a metaphor for puberty you know. Timeless Michael J Fox hilarity.

9 The Untouchables
So I've cast my mind from one Brian De Palma thriller and am backing this one instead. Everything about this production seems so authentic, and Sean Connery is so man he eats sausage with a knife. Grrr.

8 The Living Daylights
You love the Bond you grew up with and that is no exception for me. Dalton's first outing has spies murdering spies, the fully tricked out Aston Martin and cello tobogganing over the Austrian Alps. It doesn't get better than that.

7 Be Kind Rewind
It's funny when a generation grows up and can then pay tribute to the films of their youth: let's face it, that's how Ben Stiller keeps a steady paycheck (see 'Starsky and Hutch' or 'Nam homage 'Tropic Thunder'). Once the plot of 'Be Kind Rewind' is underway and Jack Black and Mosdef's pair of bumbling idiots begin to make their own versions of 'Ghostbusters', 'Rush Hour 2', 'Robocop' and more, you will be laughing out loud with nostaglic goodness. It also has the best feelgood ending since 'It's a Wonderful Life'.

6 Insomnia
This is the first of Christopher Nolan's films on this list. It shares the illustrative style of 'Batman Begins' and I love the little flashbacks and closeups of blood blotting on cotton. The Alaskan glaciers obviously influenced the snow-topped lair of Ras Al Ghul in the superhero film too. But enough comparisons, this is one of the films that really shows off Al Pacino's abilities and it's great to see Robin Williams not playing a well-meaning dogooder. If you like this, try 'One Hour Photo'... he is as creepy as hell in that too.

5 He Got Game
This is surely Spike Lee at his best: moments of vox pop documentary intertwined with a compelling story about a father trying to reconnect with his son. The son happens to be a basketball star and the father has been convicted for the death of his mother. It's gritty. And although Public Enemy may have written the theme tune, it's great to see how Lee shares his love for basketball by combining orchestral music- not rap- to some beautiful slow-mo footage of the game.

4 Leon
Boys like gangster films and this is no exception. Leon is a hitman for the mob who emerges from shadows with a knife at someone's neck. But this is a story with a heart... he takes in 12 year old Matilda when her parents are killed in a drug raid and is bound to protect her. Director Luc Besson uses a thrilling, violent set of events to tell a very human story about loyalty and intimacy. The extended version has about ten more minutes which develop the relationship between the two.

3 The Departed
There had to be a Scorsese film in here, though I'm not sure this is his best. I'll leave it to you to argue over 'Mean Streets', 'Raging Bull' and 'Goodfellas', my other favourites. What I like about 'The Departed' is it is the first Scorsese picture I have seen in the cinema; I was on the edge of my seat for well over two hours, as the tension and body count kept increasing. DiCaprio gives the performance of his life, Nicholson's villain is creepily overexaggerated and for me this is one of the first films that uses mobile phones well to advance the plot. Gory and full of anxiety, but the performances are what carry it off.

2 The Dark Knight
You may have read my review of this film elsewhere on this blog so you'll know I'm a fan. People were quick to point out its flaws and some of them were right: it is long and continuity is lacking between some scenes. For that reason, I hope we get a Director's Cut at some point. However, Nolan's vision of Gotham City is grim and realistic, Ledger is chillingly psychotic and there is a hell of a story in there too- and did you see it at the IMAX? I don't know another superhero film that has managed to comment on the criminal mind and the nature of humanity. I can't wait for the next one... but I'll have to.

1 Children of Men
There are many reasons why this film is special. It portrays the future in such a believable way that it is hard to ignore the commentary on how lost people can be; the idea of incurable infertility makes our other troubles seem so small. And the execution is impeccable: Cuaron creates a dystopia so similar to modern society it is worrying, portraying it with menacing long takes that reveal constant danger. For once, Clive Owen gives a decent performance as Theo which is augmented by the presence of Julianne Moore and Michael Caine. A masterpiece.

Timothy Sexton's 'Black humor and Negation in Catch-22'

This is article I found on Associated Content that is well worth checking out:

The use of black humor in Catch-22 is a perfect example of its very intention, which is to temporarily distract from the principle serious of a situation by lightening the load, only to come back full force with an even deeper appreciation of that serious.

Find it here. For those of you writing essays, this is a helpful guide for using the Harvard Referencing System. Enjoy!

Why We Still Want Bond Back

Vodka Martinis, a swift dose of easily-escaped torture and the unbuckling of some spherical breasts are the stuff of most pubescent boys’ dreams. Or certainly they are once they have seen a Bond film. For half a century, the British spy has grappled, spanked and murdered on screen to the delight of the cinema-going public.
It is almost laughable to ask why these films are successful; the heady cocktail of derring-do action, exorbitant luxury and breathless romantic clinches is enough to stimulate the urges of any warm-blooded being. But perhaps what is interesting is the level of expectation that surrounds each new instalment of the series, not excepting ‘Quantum of Solace’, opening in Mexican cinemas on Friday 14th November. It’s the second film starring Daniel Craig and for the first time in the series, the story picks up directly from its predecessor ‘Casino Royale’.
Clearly, it’s one of several attempts by the producers to reinvent the franchise and keep the public interested. Gone are the fantastic and coincidentally useful gadgets and the dire quips that accompanied them; Craig plays his ‘half monk, half hitman’ Bond with an equal dose of menace and Shakespearean profundity.
After all, it’s been 46 years since ‘Dr No’ was released in 1962, with six different actors playing Bond. Each one has it played it differently: Connery’s charismatic thug was followed by Moore’s wry gentleman, before Dalton’s affected hero and then Brosnan. If you watched him croon hoarsely in ‘Mamma Mia’ recently, or can remember his absurdly posh scientist in ‘Mars Attacks!’ you will realise for all his commercial successes Pierce Brosnan truly is a caricature of a Briton. With that in mind, it is probably best not to mention George Lazenby at all.
Whatever your opinion, everyone has their favourite Bond. Often it was the one you grew up with and Craig is no exception today. Much like when he was introduced as the ‘Blonde Bond’, the paparazzi pressed their attention on Timothy Dalton when he took on the role in the eighties. Quite similarly, his introduction in ‘The Living Daylights’ was a revamping success and was followed by ‘Licence to Kill’, a darker tale in which Bond leaves the Secret Service to seek revenge for the torture and mutilation of his CIA counterpart Felix Leiter. The public were not amused.
When a hero like Bond has been entertaining you for that long, you’re entitled to your opinions about the series. It seemed that many people didn’t like what they saw as a change to the established formula. ‘Licence to Kill’ was filmed here in Mexico and lacked many of the British trappings of the previous films. There were no Aston Martins and no rich countesses to regale. Moreover, the villain was a South American druglord called Sanchez who was so realistic that he lacked the megalomania and therefore the presence of previous Bond villains.
Ironically, this back-to-basics, darker Bond is just what the producers are trying to achieve with ‘Quantum of Solace’. Perhaps they have learnt from ‘Licence to Kill’; the Aston is looking sleeker than ever and no doubt Judi Dench will provide some classic British gravitas as Bond’s boss M. But there are parallels that remain. Bond sets out to bring justice to the sinister organisation that betrayed his Casino Royale lover. As before, he pits himself against established authorities- here the CIA- as he tries to save some pocket of Latin America from villainy once again.
Instead of druglords, now Bond faces Mr White’s powerful contacts bent on overthrowing regimes, blackmailing innocents and murder, stern murder. The reintroduction of a sinister evil organisation, much like Blofeld’s SPECTRE, is an exciting prospect: Bond is only as good as the enemy he faces.
Yet you cannot help but wonder what the public will make of all this. ‘Casino Royale’ reintroduced Bond to our screens as a taut brute ready to take on the modern world. But it also left him at a crossroads, finishing with the character’s own introduction- Bond, James Bond- a line that didn’t even make it into the final cut of ‘Quantum of Solace’. Our expectations have only been doubled with wondering where this film will leave him, and when he will be back again.
The pressure is on for director Marc Forster to take Bond to the next level, delivering something new that will still entertain the old fans. I doubt he will try to repeat an old formula that was long exhausted by the time of the invisible cars and absurd fencing matches of ‘Die Another Day’. Not only do we need to see this Bond truly tested, but deep down we also want to find out who Craig’s Bond really is. Will his personal agenda come before his Queen and country’s? Is this a man who will abuse women or protect them at all costs? It will be fun to find out.
In the end, the Bond films will always be successful. He’s like an old lover you cannot help but see again: exciting, charming and excellent in bed... yet unfulfilling too. Looking back at the old films, you struggle to name a favourite, or one that supersedes the others. Perhaps that’s because there are so many to choose from, and opinions are so easily divided. Or maybe no one Bond experience is perfect- each film adding new details to the pantheon of our hero’s adventures- and that is why we are always so hungry for the next instalment.
Ultimately, the films are probably the most thrilling brand of sheer escapism on our screens... and only that. There’s a reason why a Bond film never got an Oscar for Best Picture, Director, Actor or anything else except for special effects. However, it is still a brand which we cannot help but remember fondly: it’s no wonder we keep going back for more.

Blogs I'm following

Not only do I amuse myself by checking out Blogs of Note and clicking Next Blog (how strangely compelling is that?), I have been pleased to see roguish blog fever taking off among people I know.

Firstly, my favourite aspiring Dawson has followed in my footsteps and is also recording his creative writing using a blog. Carlos will be a famous filmmaker one day so check out his work from now and do encourage him to continue.

Also, I was very pleased to find Dave Maloney's tips on free fun and diversion. If ever there was a man fit for this task, it's him. I suggested making chutney. You see why it can't be me? It might not have been too recently updated so get those suggestions in quick.

Bravo fellas.

Blogs of note...

...it's well worth checking out this feature. I have just found 'The Hood Internet' a music outfit who seem to make decent, non-gangster rap music. Really interesting sounds and arrangements- if you like Outkast you'll probably like this.

I realise this is a very poorly written recommendation. Check them out anyway.

Dramatic Monologues

Yes people, October is dramatic
Monologue month, which means poems written
From the point of view from a character
In literature or history. If
You want to go the full Robert Browning,
It also means ten syllable lines and
A range of poetic devices like
Clever rhymes. As you will see, already
I've put up a few, although here is my
Offering, it's based on Catch-22:

Captain Black
Eat your livers! Ha ha ha! Look at you
Shitting your pants on the way to the trucks.
What's that? It's an intelligence man's job
To upset the men and who're you asking?
Insolent fuck. I'll have you locked up. It's
Bologna you bastard! You'll cop it this
Time! Take it from me Yossarian, miss
And you'll be straight back to the line. I can
Smell the fear on you, you're dripping sweat!
Eat your liver you swine! Think of me when
You're dead! Captain- wait- are you naked?

The Lonely One

I’m waiting. I strangled the memory
Of your afternoon glory; held it tightly
like a child nursing its toy. All spruced white
As a maiden, you blew scent in the heat
Of the afternoon. Now in blackness, I’m
Gripping the chaos of the darkness; I’m
Remembering her electric screams,
Body taught then collapsing. Now it seems
Neither minutes nor hours, ‘til your coat
Is hung up, and my hands squeeze at your throat.

The Monster

I was mute. Rough stitchwork, crude limbs hacked at
And woven together. All features flat,
Dull, lifeless and now corrupted; sewn in
To a corpse, by a trustless wicked grin.
Who could stare at such a face? As thunder
Surged and vaulted and drove me alive, the
Creator’s gruesome face stared on; loomed
Urgent, expectant, distant, and now doomed.

Smutty Seduction

A conversation with a painting: Diego Rivero's Man at the Crossroads. One of the most abstract and innuendo filled English assignments ever. I blame young Carlos.

"Wow! You're popular."
"What's your point?"
"Well, it's just that's a lot of people around you there."
"I suppose it is."
"So what are you all up to?"
"All? We're not together."
"Oh. So you're single then?"
"Pardon?"
"You're single."
"You could say that."
"So what are they doing?"
"Erm... you know I'm kind of busy right now."
"Oh. I guess so. See you."
"Hey- wait. I'm sorry, I have a lot on my mind."
"No problem."
"You want to know about them?"
"Sure."
"Well those guys, they're soldiers. They're pissed off and are looking to destroy something."
"What do they want to destroy?"
"Well... those guys I guess. They're communists."
"Communists?"
"Communists. See the guy in the middle of those people?"
"With the beard?"
"That's him. He's their leader. Lenin. The communist hope."
"He looks cool. So are all these guys communists?"
"No, I don't think so. Not those guys anyway."
"Wow, they look hungry."
"They do, don't they?"
"So what are you busy with?"
"Me?"
"Yeah. You said you had a lot on your mind."
"I did. I mean, I do."
"So what's on your mind?"
"You really want to know?"
"Sure. I'd love to listen."
"Really? Okay. Well, first it's the hungry. There's people dying to eat and killing to live. Then there's war-"
"War?"
"Sure. The whole thing. Man against man, comrade against comrade, brother against brother. And don't get me started on technology, global warming and industrialisation, let alone what the future holds. You know when you really stop to think about things, you realise just how incomprehensible everything really is."
"Wow. Do you know you're cute when you're serious?"
"Oh. Thanks."
"What's that?"
"This? Oh, it's just a machine that controls the future of humanity."
"That stick you're holding is kind of big, isn't it?"
"I suppose so."
"Want me to hold it for you?"

Taco Stand Man

The cleaver starts hammering down
Beating time on the block
Like a visceral pirate's blade,
Your fingers left untouched;

Coriander bustles under its force,
Festooning the air with potent spice,
Swept into trays of onion and lime;
Tortillas tossed and flipped by hand.

Salad onions are circled,
Sprawling like Rivero's lillies
In a sink of bubbling oil,
Gross bulbs encrusted sordid gold;

Resting in the centre,
Intestine, snout, leg and trotter
Are heaped proudly for customers.
You work them through the oil again.

Someone sits. They order
And you leap to work;
A glob of entrail is picked from the glut
And severed, chopped and diced

Until the final cut,
When you sweep the meat into your hand.
A perfect fit in the tortilla
Which goes on a plate and over the counter;

It pleases you,
Standing back for a moment
To watch him eat and dribble
And take one more serviette.

The taco stand is a white tin hut
With neon paper signs
Peeling painted designs
And odours of putrid delight.

What does it matter that you can't stand up?

Patrick-22

The students assembled gradually in the yard. They milled around and chatted without any sense of urgency, which was completely unacceptable and totally what had come to be expected of the school. It was even this way during earthquake drills, when the students were expected to sit down in rows according to their tutor groups because their lives were not in danger, which is why they milled around and chatted without any sense of urgency.
"Sit down!" the teacher would say.
The students continued to mill around and chatted without any sense of urgency.
And so it was now. Patrick left the group of chatting students and spoke to the teacher.
"What are we doing here?"
"What are we doing here?" his teacher replied.
"I mean what are we doing today?"
"Aren't you sure?"
"No, I'm not sure."
"I'm not sure either."
"So you don't know what we're doing?"
"No. Don't you?"
The teacher sighed with resignation. Patrick was a kind and friendly student who in his short time at the school had made several good friends and even found a girlfriend.
"I hate that kid," the teacher said.

Read more pointless insanity in Joseph Heller's 'Catch-22', coming to a classroom near you soon.

Ivan Denisovich Pirate Song

A Guide to Surviving the Gulags
By
Ivan Denisovich

(A Pirate Song)

Five hundred grams of bread today,
There’s five hundred grams of bread- Gar!
Better not plan an escape anyway
As the cold will kill you dead, M’ hearties!

Four hundred grams of bread today,
There’s four hundred grams of bread- Gar!
Hide it well or gobble it away,
Or someone will have it instead, M’ hearties!

Three hundred grams of bread today,
There’s three hundred grams of bread- Gar!
It’s best to keep the Tartar at bay
Don’t let him find you in bed, M’ hearties!

Two hundred grams of bread today,
There’s two hundred grams of bread- Gar!
Better clean some bowls away
You need to keep yourself fed, M’ hearties!

One hundred grams of bread today,
There’s one hundred grams of bread- Gar!
Spirits are crushed while you work everyday
Your comrades are killing you dead, M’ hearties!

Panicked Sheep?

So, why the title? It comes from a Hunter S Thompson book called The Great Shark Hunt which I am not going to pretend I have read (but do check out Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and also Kingdom of Fear, they're great). It goes like this:

"In a nation ruled by swine, all pigs are upwardly mobile—and the rest of us are fucked until we can put our acts together: not necessarily to win, but mainly to keep from losing completely. We owe that to ourselves and our crippled self-image as something better than a nation of panicked sheep."

He wrote this in 1979 and still, if not more than ever, the USA is a country which is seen to be manipulated by fearmongering figures of power. When Bush declared the Iraq war over in 2003, he also declared that "the war on terror is not over; yet it is not endless". Not only was the War in Iraq not over, but the suggestion was the wider war against a perceived threat would continue indefinitely in whichever country the US Government decided to choose.

Indeed there is still a threat. But threats must be dealt with rationally, and with purpose. There cannot be a war against an idea. Show me how to put terror in a headlock while I am punching fear on the nose. It's a rhetorical fallacy, and it is therefore hard to trust those who use it to convince the masses as the justification of their actions.

Standing up and challenging the 'swine' in power must be one goal of any serious writer. It's not just about Bush bashing- that's easy- but about recognising greed, corruption, indecency and manipulation, and revealing it to the naked eye. This is not about the USA as a country, but about us as people.

Mostly it is about honesty. Perhaps the challenge of writing is to expose ourselves as we really are; to strip away the bravado and disingenuity so we can confront the truth. Look for lies and show them to be false. You don't have to change the world but you can at least 'keep from losing completely'.

For me it's anything from aggressive gangster culture to people who are so hospitable they won't tell you the truth. What is it about us as humans that leads us to deceive each other so readily?

As Thompson says, it's a strange world. Don't be one of the sheep who do as they're told. Write something.

More Hunter quotes here.

Short Story: Neglect

This is a story I wrote around Christmas 2006 set on the estates of Blackley and Harpurhey in Manchester. It's been revised a few times and I think this is pretty much the final copy. That said, any comments or honest critiques would be great- don't hold back.

Before we get started, I should probably point out it is not a fairytale and contains a number of references to drugs and explicit language. It is complete fiction- the only autobiographical element is the cocktail recipe- and also clocks in at over 6000 words so put the kettle on now.

Neglect

Stephen knew he was slowly allowing his mother to die. Since his father left, she’d been throttling herself with endless cider and vodka, chaining cigarettes and necking e’s when she could get them. The flat was worn out, littered with the evidence of her demise; ashtrays slung on top of piles of forgotten bills and school newsletters, cans and crushed bottles everywhere.
In his room, Stephen stood drying himself, admiring his posters, icons of rappers, football players and bikini models. Thumping rap pumped out from the boombox on the floor and he bounced his head to the beat, mouthing odd lyrics. Looking back to the mirror, he flexed the muscles of his taut skinny white body, glaring and shadow boxing at his reflection then laughing to himself, amused. It was going to be a good night.
He sprayed himself with deodorant, then some aftershave, replacing each one on top of his drawers. He put on the clothes he had laid out on his bed: black tracksuit and t-shirt, a Nike hoody and cap, the peak slightly bent up but flat across. Then he sat on the bed and pulled his ivory coloured trainers towards him, inspecting them for dirt and scuffs. Having passed, he laced them up loosely, tucking in the laces under the tongue, rising again to put on his leather gloves and check out his carefully constructed image.
Smiling at himself in the mirror, Stephen reached behind it and pulled out a video case, some football best of his Dad had got him for Christmas. He’d thrown away the tape long ago, and now he admired the neat pile of notes he’d collected over the last eight months, nearly a grand, packed in with the emergency spliff and a handful of phone credit cards wrapped together with an elastic band. He took out two slightly worn twenty pound notes- the worst looking of them all- folded them and put them into his pocket. He picked up his mobile phone and a flick knife from on top of his drawers.
He examined the knife, his thumb poising over the button; then he depressed it so the blade shot out with a snick. He slashed at the air trying to imagine himself in a knife fight, then ran his thumb over the sharp blade, pushing down slightly to see if it would cut him. A moment passed and then he folded the blade into the grip, put it into his pocket with the phone, and edged out of the room.
Smelling his mother’s menthol cigarette, he closed his door and looked across the lounge to see her shrunken yellow body staring at the TV in thoughtless concentration. Her face was a mess of fake tan and last night’s make-up, and she pulled hard on her cig as her other hand cradled her head, strands of highlighted hair spilling out over her fingers. A dressing gown wrapped loosely round her awkward skinny body, showing a loose bra strap.
Stephen motioned for the door, walking slowly, strangely hoping she might ask him where he was going. As he turned the door handle, he said, “See you later mum”, a small echo of affection lingering. His mother’s eyes moved from the TV to Stephen, registering her son in front of her, a half-smile finally appearing like an old routine.
“See you love,” she replied, raising her cig to her mouth.
Closing the door behind him, Stephen stepped out onto the stairwell, ignoring the smell of piss and bounding down several steps at a time. Emerging from the block, he tugged at the security gate, and stepped through it onto the streets.

Stephen walked down the road into the belly of the estate. Blocks of flats erupted ominously into view, towers of ashen bricks stuck with satellite dishes and washing lines stood over council-planted trees. Further down, rows of terraces appeared, each house ugly in its own way: boarded windows, smashed walls and graffiti. Where people had tried to improve their house, it only served to make the terrace more awful; awkwardly fitting porches and painted gates stuck out beside cars on bricks, and forgotten fridge-freezers.
He walked on, slightly bouncing on the balls of his toes like a younger, more enthusiastic boy. As his trainers ate up the tarmac, Stephen watched his path ahead. Obliviously, he passed a mother pushing a kid in its chair and dragging another one behind her, then two grannies muttering knowingly to each other about the state of the nation. He noticed the grim details of the next estate appearing ahead of him, its dusty bricks and concrete stairwells, doing his best to ignore the unknown people he encountered in its confines.
Outside the off licence, a group of hoodied lads leant against the wall, smoking and jostling in youthful bravado. Two more circled on bikes, pulling wheelies and cat-calling their friends. As Stephen approached they paused and watched him. Instinctively, the group rearranged itself into a circling pack with a short, aggressive looking teen as its head, flanked by the two riders.
Stephen inhaled and fingered the knife in his pocket. He ran his fingers along the grooves of the grip, aligning the knife carefully in his hand so he could pull it out of his pocket and release the blade quickly, his thumb ready over the metal button. He slowed his pace a little; he didn’t want to seem rushed. He knew not to show fear on these streets. He put his head up, and stared straight at the pack in front of him, the knife now warm in his hand.
As he reached the bollards a few metres from the group and the shop, Stephen looked straight at the one in front of him. He was squat and angry looking, his ruddy face shadowed by the cap pulled down low over his eyes, which were staring right back at Stephen. He looked him over, as if sizing him up and recording his face in just one look. And just as quickly, the moment passed; and the short one stepped out of his way.
As Stephen cruised past the group, they looked at him and then seemed to ignore his presence just as quickly. Then one of the riders circled off and jumped his bike up onto a bench and back off before landing so hard his nuts were crunched on the crossbar. Laughter and insults returned and the old positions were taken up to watch the trick show again.

The bell rang as Stephen entered the shop. At the front was a variety of food; ranges of crisps and pick and mix for kids to fancy, with pies, sausage rolls and blocks of tasteless cheese in the chiller on the side next to the Coke and fizzy drinks. The back half of the shop was devoted to alcohol, from super strength beers to huge bottles of cider, cheap European wine alongside fortified British stuff, and spirits behind the counter with the lottery machine and the cigarettes.
Stephen walked through the shop, passing two kids in identical t-shirts picking out freeze pops from the ice cream freezer. He fingered a shrimp from the pick and mix on his way past and chewed the sweet noisily on his way to the chiller, where he picked up two large bottles of Dr Pepper. At the counter, he was accosted by the owner, Mr Porter, who still sported a small scar on his left eyebrow from where Stephen had hit him a month earlier.
“Hello Stephen, just these is it?”
Stephen looked at him carefully, unable to disguise his mistrust of the aging man. He had found him sat at home with his mother in the lounge. They weren’t doing anything, but something about the way they both looked at him guiltily, the flowers on the table looking so alien in their flat, it turned him, made him angry. He ran.
Now Stephen eyed Porter with determination and spite, pointing to the spirits behind him.
“No, a litre of that Vodka as well,” he said assuredly.
Porter looked back at him. There was a strange mix of guilt and pity in his eyes, remembering how he went to see the boy’s mother now she was single, hoping to court her, wondering if she could work with him in the shop, maybe the boy too. Stephen had hit him the next day in front of a queue of customers. He was all rage and frustration, launching his hatred into one single punch before he ran off into the estate. Porter just carried on serving, holding a tissue to his split eyebrow, trying to deal with teenagers and mothers alike clamouring for their booze in the middle of the day.
And that’s what he did now. He knew better than to ask Stephen for ID as he was only fifteen. He raised a finger to the crusted scar above his left eye, then reached for the vodka and put it into the blue plastic bag with the other bottles. Stephen waved over one of the twenties and Porter took it, handing back the change and watching the boy stride out of the shop.

***

Becky’s house was one of the few on her street that looked good. Her lawn was mowed and there were a few toys in the garden, a wendy house and a slide. Inside, the laminated wood flooring of her front room gleamed under the stand of her flat screen TV, with the rest of the room being taken up by a huge corner-hugging sofa. There were traces of her kids in every room; paintings and photos, or boxes of toys tucked away. Her kitchen was newly decorated, a silver microwave sitting spotless on the side.
Stephen checked himself while he waited on her doorstep, adjusting the cap into position and looking down at his trainers. Becky opened the door with her daughter Molly in one arm, mobile phone in other with her ear cocked to it, smiling at Stephen and flicking back her golden hair, motioning him into the house. By the time he had plunged himself down onto one cushioned seat of the sofa, she was off the phone and following him into the room.
As walked past, she stroked the side of his head reassuringly, asking, “So how’s Stephen, and are they new trainers?”
He stretched out his legs, wiggling the new sneaks to show them off. “Yeah, got them Monday.”
He loved the attention. Becky was 24, and had her first kid Dean when she was about his age. Now she lived alone, looking after her family full time, and always made a fuss of visitors to her house. In Stephen’s eyes, Becky was the perfect woman. He always felt calm there, it seemed like a real home to him. She was beautiful too. And she sold killer weed.
“Lovely,” she said, “now what can I get you?”
“Just a twenty bag, got a party tonight,” he replied.
And she nodded, getting up and leaving the room. Stephen studied her backside carefully through her jeans, trying to ignore the three-year-old girl staring at him over her mother’s shoulder as he did so. Suddenly Molly made one of those childish giggles, and his concentration was broken. He sunk back into the sofa in disappointment, checking his sneakers and reposturing himself on the chair.
She returned promptly with a snap bag crammed with bright, almost toxically green weed, its powerful stink breaking beyond its confines. Stephen grinned, getting up to receive it and handing Becky the other twenty. She took it and folded it carefully before putting it into her back pocket, Stephen trying not to notice her hand and where it was.
“Thanks Becks, yeah?” he said.
“No problem,” she replied, smiling sweetly and showing him to the door. As Stephen stepped carefully down the path, she called after him:
“Just go easy on those girls okay?”
Stephen looked back, grinning, then headed off down the street. He tapped out a quick text message to his friend Tubbs: On way ova got gear, then he scrolled through to find a suitable hardcore track to accompany him on his journey. With the song reverberating in treble through the tiny speakers of his phone, he bounced along in his trainers down the road to Tubbs’ flat.

Tubbs was waiting for him as Stephen made it down the street to his house. Standing in the front doorway, Tubbs had folded his arms in some would-be gangster pose, trying hard to look tough only to be given away by his beaming grin at his friend’s arrival. Tubbs was so called because he had been the fattest kid at primary school, using his grin to charm the dinnerladies and get extra portions at lunch. Since he had hit puberty he had rocketed up to over six feet tall and was stocky with it, although the nickname and the insults remained.
Stephen arrived at the door, holding out his fist for Tubbs to punch playfully back.
“Yes Ste,” Tubbs greeted him excitedly, looking over the blue bag, “are we sorted?”
“Course fat boy,” said Stephen, smiling and showing him the glowing green bag cupped in his hand, as he entered the house and Tubbs shut the door.
Tubbs showed him to the front room, where two older lads with identically messy hair were sitting low in the sofa, gripping playstation controllers and concentrating hard on their game of football. Stephen edged around them, recognising their faces and waiting for them to say something.
“You remember Mike and Dave, right?” Tubbs intervened.
“Yeah, sure,” said Stephen, “you were above us at school until you got kicked out”
The twin faces paused to smile briefly without feeling the need to explain themselves, then focused back on the TV, their faces worn again with concentration. Ste and Tubbs looked at them for a moment and realising no further conversation was to be had went through to the kitchen.
“Come on then big man, you sort some drinks and I’ll build a spliff,” Ste suggested.
Tubbs found four glasses and uncovered the contents of the bag on the kitchen table.
“Vodka and Dr Pepper, you really are classy,” and he flashed a grin over at Stephen, who was now assembling a weighty joint, picking off pieces of the sticky bud with his nails and dropping it into the tobacco bed in the Rizla on the table.
“I always thought it would make a wicked alcopop,” Tubbs continued, “they’re always looking for new ways to get kids into booze right? Remember Hooch? Well, this would be the same. Alcohol that doesn’t taste like booze. Kids would be fucking crying out for it. I’d call it PepVod.” And he laughed, showing off a dirty white smile.
“What’s their story anyway?” Stephen asked, pointing the half-built spliff towards the next room.
“You know those two,” Tubbs said, “always in trouble. Dave’s on bail for messing with stolen phones and Mike’s been nicking cars for some asian guy.”
Ste considered it for a moment, mulling it over in contempt and admiration. “Bet they’re raking it in,” he concluded. Then there was mocking laughter and shouting from the other room as the TV blared out Goooooooooal!
He smiled then focused back on his hands, licking the edge of his spliff and rolling it carefully into a cone. He twisted the excess paper at the fat end and bit it off, spitting it into the ashtray on the table. Tubbs offered him a lighter which he took, and he burned away at the end of it, flashing the flame as if he was lighting a fat cigar, taking in deep puffs of the pungent smoke.
He exhaled slowly, puffing a stream of hot little clouds into the room. Each time he did so, the muscles of his face relaxed a little, and he seemed to look his age again, his features more rounded and childlike. He handed the spliff to Tubbs, who held it thoughtfully.
“Have you heard from your dad?” he asked.
Stephen looked at him and shrugged his shoulders, “Fuck him man, I’m my own man now,” he said convincingly enough except for the quick look at Tubbs to gauge his reaction.
“Yeah man,” Tubbs agreed willingly, “You don’t need him anyway.”
Stephen looked at his friend, glad that he had bought the act, then took hold of the spliff and drew a long drag. A moment of silence passed, until Tubbs turned on him, raising his glass.
“Fuck it, let’s neck these,” he said as he clinked his glass on his friend’s. And the pair downed their drinks, refilling them and taking the rest back to the front room.

***

They arrived at the party in the early hours of the morning, the boys laughing and ready for some fun. They had spent the evening drinking and smoking, telling stories of mischief from school and Dave’s latest run-in with the Police. Stephen was smiling, hooked on Tubbs’ infectious laughter and doing his best to forget his dad, Porter and everyone else.
The party was in full force when they got there. It was deep in the middle of the estate, a squat in one of the low-rise concrete blocks. Many of the other houses were deserted, or occupied by drug fiends or old people who had nowhere to go. As they turned the corner, the lads could hear the party, pulsating basslines and the chatter of girls. Soon they saw bodies spilling out into the street, people who were too wasted or just to go for a piss in someone’s garden. No-one would complain.
Tubbs led them in, grinning wildly, and heading for the noise. Past the kitchen at the front, they threaded their way through the revellers into the back room. A red police style light was sweeping through the room, illuminating the graffitied walls and dancing bodies. Underneath the light a skinheaded DJ was working on two record decks, scratching over some evil-sounding drum and bass, while another youth in a hooded coat was shouting lyrics into a mic with the resulting sound all pumping out of a huge sound system running on a petrol generator idling noisily in the garden behind. A crowd far too big for the room had formed, tracksuited lads throwing their hands up next to sweating girls in little tops, and in the middle a shirtless man was jumping wildly in excitement, barely in time with the music. On the outside of the room, several built guys were smoking spliffs, looking menacing, nodding their heads to the mix.
Tubbs leant over to Stephen, shouting:
“This is not our buzz. How we going to get some girls in this noise?”
Stephen nodded. “I need a piss anyway.”
And the four of them threaded their way back out of the room and through the hall. Hearing some female voices, Tubbs lead Mike and Dave into the kitchen, while Stephen headed upstairs.
As he climbed the stairs Stephen was faced with a pair of stilettoed black leather boots. His eyes followed the legs upwards, tracing the girl’s buttocks through her black miniskirt, enjoying the playful rolls of fat peeping out at her waist. The girl was chubby and her heavy boobs bulged out of her black scoop top. He tapped her leg.
“Hey, is this the toilet queue?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she replied, turning so her long black hair revealed her chubby pasty cheeks and black lipstick. She looked him over. Stephen nodded at the other doors.
“What else is going on up here then?”
“It’s fucking horrible. Bunch of losers are jacking up. I wouldn’t go up there.” And she looked at him admiringly.
“What’s your name anyway? I’m Amanda.”
“Stephen”
“Fancy a snog?” she asked, quite relaxed. Stephen looked her over again.
“No thanks, I’m not into moshers,” he said, as the toilet flushed and someone left to go into the next room. The girl laughed and went in.
Stephen looked across at the door opposite the toilet, which was now ajar and revealing a harsh red glow. He could see a bearded man propped up against a wall, his head listing, his eyes glassy and lost. Next to him were someone’s feet strewn beside them, motionless. Stephen fixed his eyes on the room intently. The man turned and, after a second, registered Stephen’s eyes on his, and pushed the door shut. Stephen blinked.
The toilet door opened and Amanda appeared next to him, drunk and still fancying her chances. Stephen ignored her and went inside, locking the door behind him.
When Stephen joined the others in the kitchen, Tubbs was in full flow explaining some third hand conspiracy theory of how the British Government was responsible for most of the drug sales in the country. He loved to tell a story. From years of jostling and names, Tubbs had somehow survived by going to the gym until the fat was gone; now he spent his time trying to get the attention of the people who used to upset him. He lived on the estate like everyone else, getting wasted, telling stories and flashing his big grin to impress girls.
“How else do you think they pay for the Queen and all that shit? They fucking want you to get wasted,” Tubbs concluded, the room amused by his enthusiasm.
“Bollocks” replied Mike, who was more interested in the three girls sat upon the kitchen worktops. “Come on Ste, get that weed out,” he urged, holding his hand out imposingly. Stephen dug into his pockets and handed it over.
“No, no he’s right,” said one of the girls sat up on the sideboard, “I mean, how else does it get into the country? Customs are in on it, everyone is…”
Mike dismissed her comments with a sniff and now tried to impress the other two by backrolling a spliff. He took the lighter and burnt off the excess paper like a magician, before lighting it and taking a few quick puffs. He passed it on, without the recognition he expected, but between them they had the room overwhelmed.

And so it continued for over an hour: Tubbs telling his stories and starting pointless debates, Mike getting everyone stoned. Outside, the first glimpse of sun had started to appear over the estate making the high-rise blocks appear as gloomy shadows on the horizon. In the street, beer cans and bottles were strewn like a trail from the front door, and someone was asleep in a driveway a few doors away.
The party had died right down. In the back room the music had stopped, and only a few seated stragglers left, smoking spliffs and wearing coats like blankets. Back in the kitchen, Stephen nodded as if to signal Tubbs, who now looked across at Dave for the subject of his final story. A cute brunette girl had been sitting on Dave’s knee for the last twenty minutes, but when he motioned to kiss her she had turned away, smiling.
Now Tubbs’ face lit up as he looked across at her, and asked the room:
“Does anyone remember that teacher from St.Catherine’s that got sacked for having sex with her pupils?”
The remaining group, especially the brunette and her friends looked puzzled at this new topic, until finally one lad in a diamond-chequered jumper seemed to register what was being said.
“I remember that. It was crazy. She was knocking off some 15 year old in the book cupboard, until the kid filmed and put it on the net,” he offered, recalling the information through the haze of marijuana. “My mum went crazy, complaining at school, but my Dad just laughed and said it was fair play to the kid for getting laid.”
“That’s it,” Tubbs continued, pointing at Dave, “and it was this fucker here who did it.” The brunette sat back and looked at him as if trying to decide on her reaction. Dave just smiled and shrugged it off, and the girl took his lead, her face now curious and excitable.
“How does something like that start?” she asked, looking to Dave for some sort of cue.
Dave looked at her with a mix of pride and amusement, and started to explain. “We came back one term and had this new teacher, and she was all friendly, tried to get on with everyone. She must have taken a shine to me...”
Once they were all engaged in the story, Stephen moved quietly out of the room, avoiding the sleeping casualties on the floor and up the stairs. He trod carefully past the toilet to the bedroom, opening the door halfway, careful not to hit the feet he had seen hours before. He crept in.
The small room was still bathed in the same murderous red light. It was sunken with the smell of cigarettes and stale body odour. Stephen counted the six bodies in the room, all sprawled in awkward positions, seeming dead if not for their shallow breathing and odd drooping movements. They were all unconscious and surrounded by the evidence of their drug abuse; dropped needles, blackened spoons and piled ashtrays. He looked at the lifeless fingers and toes, wondering if they would notice if he touched them.
Picking his way through the room, Stephen went through each of their pockets, careful not to touch a needle or wake up his victim. He collected their few shrivelled fivers and coins in his pockets, taking their mobile phones and their cigarettes. Nearing the door, he crouched down to face the bearded man he had seen hours before, his eyes rolled back in his head. Stephen didn’t dare to take his eyes off him.
Feeling through his coat pockets, Stephen found two mobiles and a large yellow cloth bank bag. He put his hand inside and pulled out several bags of brown powder. He contemplated the heroin intently. He knew this was money in his hands, but trouble too. As he paused, the feet next to the man flinched. Stephen turned, fearing his discovery, to look at the last body in the room. The girl lay flat on the floor, her stringy top twisted awkwardly across her body, her head propped up by the skirting board. Her eyes were looking straight at him, yet somehow she didn’t seem to register his presence. She flinched again, her arm jerking to reveal a tiny trail of blood leading from her arm to a needle on the floor.
He turned back to the dealer and rifled the other pockets more quickly now, unsure of what he would find or do. More cigarettes, and then his hand gripped a roll of notes. He pulled them out quickly and dropped the bags of drugs. He nodded at his decision, then the girl started to flinch again, only more violently now. Stephen bolted.
“... it got to the point where I was doing her every day in that fucking book cupboard after school. I was getting so bored of it that I was sending Mike in pretending to be me.” Mike grinned in agreement. “Then one day I met her in her car and she wanted me to run away with her, off to Spain or something, told me she loved me. I just laughed. I was fifteen.”
“What happened then? Did it stop?” The girl was hooked.
“She got weirder with me. It had to stop, and we were skint too. I filmed us doing it on my phone and then Mike sold it to kids at school for a couple of quid a time. Someone’s mum complained and then it all came out at school and we were expelled. Mum went mad and went to the papers, got ten grand for it too. By the time they were finished with it the teacher was sacked and we were offered our places back. We never did- we had much better things to be doing.”
Dave finished his story and looked over his audience. The girl and her friends were impressed, the brunette smiling and calling him a dirty bastard. Mike was still smoking away, his eyes reddening, and Tubbs now noticed Stephen in the doorway, his forehead beaded with sweat. Stephen glared menacingly back at his friend Tubbs, his eyes screaming danger. Tubbs took the cue. Not caring to explain their impending exit, he stood up and dragged Mike’s stoned body from the chair.
“Dave, ditch the girl, we’ve got to go.”
Dave had leaned over and was now kissing the girl perversely, rolling his tongue around her mouth.
“DAVE!”
Dave’s head snapped back startled, like someone who had suddenly woken up. He looked from Mike’s stoned face to Stephen’s and realised something was wrong. There was some banging from upstairs. Dave cocked his head quizzically before bolting after the others for the door, pushing the girl off him despite her grappling.
They ran hard, following the trail of cans out of the low-rises, Stephen ahead with Dave now close behind, then Tubbs still dragging Mike, who was lumbering along next to him. They didn’t speak as they threaded their way through the alleys and paths of the estate, and it was only when they reached Tubbs’ road that they started to slow.
“Hurry up fat boy,” called back Stephen, the tension beginning to lift from his face.
They slowed to a walk as Tubbs and Mike had now caught up, Tubbs flashing his grin as he released Mike to go at his own stoned speed.
“So we kept the crowds entertained while you’re giving hand jobs to crack addicts for their pocket change and I’m the liability?” he grinned suggestively.
“You eat because you’re unhappy- it’s okay, we understand. It just slows you down,” said Stephen, continuing the well-trodden banter.
“Oh,I must be mistaken- I thought it was from dragging Cheech over here from whatever shit we’ve just escaped.” The grin widened.
Mike took a moment to realise he was the one they were talking about.
“I got everyone stoned,” he protested.
Tubbs laughed and slapped Mike on the shoulder, before he took out his keys and walked up to his door. Once inside, the boys circled the kitchen table, with Tubbs pouring out the last of the Vodka and Dr Pepper as Stephen emptied his pockets. First the phones, cigarettes, small change and scrunched up notes, and finally he produced the dealer’s roll of notes, taking off the elastic band, and fanning them out onto the table.
“Fuck me Ste, there’s a couple of hundred there,” said Dave, mouth open. “Who the fuck did you rob?”
“Don’t ask,” said Stephen, pausing while he remembered the fitting girl’s face, and then diverting his attention by dealing the notes out to each one of them like cards in a poker game. Dave looked down at the small pile of notes amassing in front of him.
“Nice one lads, but since when do I get paid for trying to pull some fucking bird? You better not regret this, I’m not one to give money back.” He grinned.
Tubbs looked over at him.
“Calm down, Ste got the stuff, but the rest of us made sure he didn’t get caught. And at least you kept one of them occupied,” Tubbs laughed to himself. “Anyway, we need to you to get rid of the phones- that’s what the Police got you for, right?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t mean I can do it again though,” Dave said coyly.
“Course you can. And you’ll bring whatever you get back here to split. That way it’s fair.”
And Tubbs nodded like a judge who had passed sentence and would not go back on it. Stephen had finished dealing out the cash, and now slid the phones over towards Dave in agreement. He picked up the cigarettes and threw them at Mike, who managed to clumsily catch two of the boxes and drop the rest.
“You can have those for a spliff,” Ste said, his confidence growing. Then he raised his glass in recognition of his companions, before finishing his drink in one.
“I’m off, got to get this home.”
Tubbs followed him to the door.
“What are you going to do with all that cash anyway?” he asked.
Stephen paused.
“I dunno,” he replied, “get a car or something.”
“And drive out of this fucking hole,” Tubbs added for him, presenting his fist for his friend. They touched knuckles, and smiled at each other, before Tubbs swung the door open and gestured his friend outside.
“Laters fat boy.”
Stephen strode out into the growing daylight.

***

As Stephen walked up the hill to his house, he thumbed the money in his pocket, smiling to himself. Another day, another dollar, he thought. The sun splashed rays through the trees above him, and the pools of light seemed to eclipse the tower blocks around him. The weed and alcohol had taken the edge off it all, made it all seem prettier. Even his own block looked brighter, as he tapped the code into the buttons of the security gate to get in.
He bounded up the last of the steps to his front door. As he put his key to the lock, the door pushed open ominously. The lines of his face became taut again, as Stephen edged himself carefully through the doorway. Looking around, he could not tell if the flat had been turned over or not, it was such a mess anyway. Bottles lay strewn at his feet, the coffee table was piled high with rubbish and spilt ashtrays. A chair had been knocked over. Was someone in here?
He made straight for his room. Someone had been in there. The drawers were all turned out, his bedclothes and mattress disturbed. Then, on the floor he saw the video box, opened, the money gone and the phonecards spilled out over the carpet next to his deodorant cans. Only the spliff was left. He picked it up, his face dripping in desperation, and he hurried back to the lounge.
“Mum?” he cried out in uncertainty, thumbing the knife.
As he crossed the lounge it became clear. He could see new, half-empty bottles of vodka and rum left on one of the chairs, and a table mat covered in white powder, dusty with his mother’s fingerprints and a rolled up twenty. As he started for her room he was overcome with a paralysing rage. He felt his blood pulsing through his head, the softness of the weed now destroyed and only his anger coursing through his mind, unable to comprehend this betrayal. He was rooted to spot, looking hopelessly at the closed bedroom door in front of him, spying the man’s shoes strewn at his feet. Who was in there? Porter? And then his mother’s laughter, and a man’s deep voice.
Then the door opened. A man walked out wearing just some jeans, someone Stephen had never seen before, and went to the table. He bent over and snorted a line off the table mat, arching back until he was upright and looking at Stephen.
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
Stephen tried to talk but had no response. The man seemed to straighten up in front of him. A moment passed. Then Stephen bolted. Out of the flat, leaving the door wide open, and down, down into the streets below, his face eaten with frustration. He desperately struck at his lighter to light the spliff in his hand, tugging furiously at it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs so he coughed, then doing it again. Still his blood was coursing, the weed only seeming to augment his fear and anger.
Around him the estate blazed into view. As he paced hopelessly down the hill, the ashen blocks reared themselves again, now tinged by a reddened and overcast dawn sky, the white hot edges of every building slicing at him as he descended further into its core. He looked around him, his vision blurred by the weed and his rage, and occluded by the harsh fences, walls and trees standing over him. He was trapped.
His pace quickened. In the boiling haze ahead he could see the shadows of the pack of lads at the shop. The riders were gone, and now the squat leader saw Stephen approaching and started towards him, instinctively reading the anger and emotion that was tormenting him. With each step he seemed to grow in confidence as the circle formed.
Stephen felt the estate closing around him as the shadows approached. His mind was screaming.
The squat one strode up, his chin jutting out, flanked by more hoodies eyeing their prey.
“Where are you off to sweetheart?”
Stephen pulled out the knife and released the blade, flickering in the light like a fin, and plunged it deep into the chest of the lad as he met him, his cap falling backwards to reveal his helpless eyes, his face flashing with blood and then draining to release a crimson splatter from the wound in his chest. He fell backwards, the knife still half in him, landing awkwardly on one of the bollards before slumping to the floor.
Stephen took a step back, his face dotted with blood, not noticing the shop door open and the bell ring, or Porter coming up behind him. As Porter grabbed him, Stephen struggled maniacally, his arms and legs flailing wildly to try and release the desperate embrace. At first Porter held steady, not knowing if he was trying to save the boy or the aghast group around him, until the point of Stephen’s elbow struck at his scarred brow to open the old wound, his captive’s body twisting frantically as his other elbow flicked round embedding deep into Porter’s ribcage, winding the old man and knocking him double as blood ran down the side of his brow and nose.
Stephen stepped back, looking numbly at the body on the floor, and then the old man bent double, coughing blood. He turned and ran, disappearing into the molten shadows of the estate.

Dark Knight review

‘The Dark Knight’ might borrow from the old films, but there are no superheroes here

Gruesome. Utterly gruesome. Where ‘Batman Begins’ re-introduced Bruce Wayne and his crime-fighting alter-ego with an equal measure of realistic plausibility and sinister fantasy, ‘The Dark Knight’ presents us with a disturbingly convincing world where suffering and horror are inflicted without compromise.

After saving Gotham City from the Scarecrow, Batman (Christian Bale) must deal with how the criminal underworld will respond to his actions, as well as putting his personal life in order as millionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. But it’s not that easy, as new District Attorney Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart) has stolen Bat’s girl Rachel Dawes (Maggie Gyllenhaal). Striking up an alliance with loyal cop Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman), Dent promises to tackle organised crime and strikes a fine figure as an honest crime fighter who doesn’t hide behind a mask.

The mafia need help and turn to the villainous Joker (Heath Ledger) who announces himself to the mob bosses with the plan: ‘Kill the Batman’. Ledger is haunting in his portrayal of Batman’s vicious, visceral foe; his lip-licking, knife-wielding Joker is a fearless sadist who stops at nothing to destroy Dent and Gordon’s quest to restore order to Gotham and will make them suffer for their efforts.

Watching this film is like sitting in an electric chair. The tension is unbearable as Batman is outmanoeuvred and manipulated by an opponent who fears no pain or consequence. The Joker grimaces with delight as Batman smashes him against a wall, and is later seen strutting capriciously away from an explosion in heels, nurse’s uniform and wig. This last image recalls Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’ but this villain is ultimately more memorable and macabre as his psychoses are in our full view, like a car crash you cannot stop yourself from watching.

But this is not the most surprising aspect of this film, nor is Aaron Eckhart’s admirable turn as Gotham’s would be saviour, or Nolan’s ability to craft a compelling story of moral values that outweighs our interest in any one character. It is, in fact, the number of times other Batman movies are referenced throughout the film. The batsuit’s new ‘sonar’ technology was first used in Joel Schumacher’s rubber-nippled Gaultier advert ‘Batman Forever’ and the vehicle-within-a-vehicle idea of the Batpod was the brainchild of Tim Burton for ‘Batman Returns’, although his Batmissile lacked the brutal charm of Nolan’s hedgehog crushing two-wheeled tank.

Perhaps the most interesting allusion comes in the film’s climax, where, as in Burton’s ‘Batman’ of 1989, the Joker’s fate hinges on gravity, a skyscraper, and Batman’s belt of nifty tricks. Does the Joker plummet to his doom? Let’s just say Nolan’s version of this situation marks him out as the most gifted director to take on this story; if he really is referring to the older films on purpose, he’s only showing us how much better his realistic, revisioned Gotham really is.

This is a rare treat; other superhero movies released this year have entertained but not satisfied. ‘Iron Man’ was a witty fan-pleaser and ‘The Incredible Hulk’ descended into a cartoon fight between the pea-headed smasher and a pointy marshmallow man on steroids. Perhaps the appeal of these Marvel heroes is the sheer fantasy of stories which can now be brought to life by computer effects. What director Christopher Nolan has given us is quite the opposite. Buildings explode, trucks are flipped and Batman cavorts between skyscrapers like a ferocious acrobat: the action sequences are slickly rendered without any hint of computer meddling.

That’s the disturbing thing too. Superhero films have always offered us the comfort that the world is an okay place and evil can be stopped. But there is no escapism here. The Joker is a masochistic terrorist who plays on very modern fears. By the time the he is finished, Gotham is in chaos and the rules which our crimefighters have held dear are shattered. ‘The Dark Knight’ is 150 minutes of excitement and terror with a resolution that is as gratifying as it is malevolent: the film left me with a knot in my stomach and a bad taste in my mouth. Unmissable.

Why write?

I remember it clearly. It was almost Dickensian, or something of a Disney film. A young wannabe learning from his mentor.

I was a naive student writer who only cared about publicising music events that my friends or I had organised. It was just an opportunity to get our rocks off and show off to girls, and I was all too happy to cover whatever suited me and my social life, turning in bad copy in the small hours of the morning.

I had been writing for the student paper and it had lead me to other contacts and publications. This was a local going out guide called City Life - Manchester's Time Out- and my editor was Marc Rowlands, a softly spoken mop haired Manc who loved clubs and DJs and music producers. He was guiding me through the best and worst parts of my latest piece. And if I remember it rightly, he said "...that writing is special. That being able to put your ideas out there, to express your opinion to a captive audience, to be published... is something to be respected."

And he was right.

It's taken me years to actually do it, but now I'm taking writing seriously. It's hard trying to explain your motives- showing off still has a lot to do with it- but the chance to write something worthwhile, that does justice to the people who have given you their time to read your self indulgence... that's not to be sniffed at.

George Orwell probably put it best:

When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art’. I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing.

There's nothing more satisfying than being able to express your ideas using the written word, the ability to put your opinions out there. I think it was Dostoevsky who said we do not truly understand something until we put into words. But it's more than that. In writing we have a chance to represent who we are and what we think, to expose lies and challenge the world.

Having accepted that, you must then decide what value you think a book has. Perhaps one of the things that rankles with me is that writing a book is likely to affect no-one. Did 'Animal Farm' really stop Stalin killing? In the end, books are a very weak way of trying to achieve something for the greater good.

But it's easy to criticise, right? And it's also easy to sabotage your creativity, criticise your ideas and others, and thus not see the point in achieving anything. There's more to writing than just self-indulgence; if you have the privilege, luck or success to stir up one debate, or challenge one person's point of view- to get that 'hearing'- then that has to be worth it. Perhaps this is a step towards that. Next stop, presidencies and franchise restaurants.

So this blog is an invitation really to anyone who wants to write something beyond their means, or about more than just themselves. To try. Friends, peers, students and all. Do your worst.

In the meantime, check out the whole article here.