Well I have to say this topic stumped me (hence the lateness) so in the end I decided to post a story I wrote a few years back, on the grounds that it was vaguely biblical.

I warn you, it’s a long one.

Enjoy!

It was the year of our lord two thousand and five, and I was dining in the Savoy. This is not in itself, worthy of much distinction, after all I am much given to dining in general and in the Savoy in particular. Indeed it was a affectation of mine to dine there at least once a fortnight and in two thousand and five I must have done so several dozen times. Nor was my fellow diner of much distinction, I do indeed dine with Hubert Cunningham on  many an occasion and have been steadily doing so for some years.

Of Mr Cunningham himself, what can be said? Well much, although it lessons not the enigma of the man. The Cunningham was a large, burly man of indeterminate age, one could place him anywhere between twenty five and forty five quite easily, indeed he once claimed to have partaken of the philosopher’s stone and to in fact be two thousand, five hundred and thirty three years old. And it is such claims that distinguish  our dear Hubert from the everyday man, that and his curious affectation of never paying for anything. If a man could have only one aim in live, mine would be to get the esteemed Mr Cunningham to pick up the cheque.

At this particular juncture we were well into the main course, indeed I was preparing to broach the subject of payment, not to mention the three Guineas I was already owed by my companion, I had decided to do so early, lest he decide to slip away. “… my dear Hubert, it has been a most wonderful experience dining with you here today.”

“Has been?” Came the immediate response “I would vouch it has much yet to be, and to become.” His ruddy face fixed broke into a benevolent smile. “There is much ‘being’ left in the dining experience, do not yet confine it to having ‘been’”

“A point well made” I acquiesced, “but it is something pertinent to this experience that I wish to bring up”

“Pertinent?”

“Most pertinent”

“Ah, I see, well I thought that would be forthcoming,” He replied, somewhat deflated, “I had thought to bring it up myself  in fact.”

I prepared myself for excuses, pleadings and designations, I was resolved, I would not pay for this meal, and there were still the three guineas to consider.

“It does after all,” continued the Cunningham, “Concern why I invited you here today”

My memory was somewhat hazy, due to imbibing some somewhat inferior champagne, but nonetheless it indicated that it was he, not I that was upon the receiving end of the invitation. I was about to raise that fact when he made onward ploughings.

“Tell me, old friend,” spake Hubert, leaning forward, in a low voice he continued, “why do you think we are here?”

A puzzling question indeed, I felt I needed some clarification. “Do you mean in a cerebral, spiritual, or philosophical sense?” I queried. “Or do you refer to why we are here, now, drinking inferior champagne?”

Cunningham’s great brow knotted. “In both senses admittedly, but let us concern ourselves with the former, as it has more… dramatic portent.”

I nodded thoughtfully, although this did not necessarily indicate a thoughtfulness on my part, for I often use it as a substitute for speech, when I had nothing substantial or witty to say.

“To whit,” continued he, “Religious matters”

This surprised me somewhat.

“You look somewhat surprised” said the Cunningham, a master of deduction as ever, “after all, I am not a religious man.”

I felt the need for a rebuttal. “You did once claim to be on first name terms with God”

“A trifling boast,” Hubert dismissed airily “doubtless I had imbibed too freely of the amber nectar at the time”

“It was ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning.”

“Almost certainly then. But it is of water rather than wine that I wish to talk to you of now”

This piqued my interest.

“My tale seems to pique your interest.” My companion unnervingly spotted “also my doing this seems to unnerve you”

“Very much so,” I replied, hiding my annoyance.

“There is no need to be annoyed,” said he, “The secret is knowing when to stop, you can’t keep a running gag going indefinitely” said he, concealing his amusement.

“You seem amused,” said I

“No am not,” he replied sharply, “And to my tale, it takes place in the most delightful little café in Stratford”

“What were you doing in Stratford?” I ventured.

“Why, watching Shakespeare dear boy, for that is all anyone ever does in Stratford”

“Dash and baulder” said I, “Surely someone must do something else, the residents perhaps.”

“Actors” said the Cunningham sagely. “Regardless, it is the café that concerns us.”

“What was it called?” I questioned.

“I see not how that matters,” Cunningham glowered.

“Neither do I, I was merely stuck for something to say”

“Then say nothing.” he said sternly. “That is the best practice, nod thoughtfully if you must, you have such a talent for it.”

I nodded. Thoughtfully.

“Better” came Hubert’s approving reply “The café was called the Menagerie, as it happens, the owners tried to find a hip, French word for café, not knowing, it seems, that the hip French word for café is… café.”

I nodded thoughtfully once more.

“Regardless, the afternoon threatened rain, so I took shelter there, and ordered a glass of their finest white wine, and dish of rainbow trout, as is my wont”

“Which you no doubt, did not pay for.”

“My dear friend, merely because I have been caught fiscally short once or thrice in your company does not mean that penniless”

“I have no doubt you have money;” I replied “you merely choose not to use it.”

“Returning to the subject at hand,” Hubert continued, hastily papering over the cracks of his financial irregularities, “I had ordered wine, as I have said, white of course.”

“Of course, only solicitors and the unemployed have red wine with fish.”

“But of course, and the wine arrived at my table, as did the now ever present basket of complementary bread”

More thoughtful noddings ensued.

“I was somewhat the worse for hunger, having sat through some hours of King Lear before hand, so I reached for the basket, and, as our uncultured cousins across the Atlantic are wont to say, began to ‘tuck in’”

I nodded, thoughtfully as ever, but with clearly degrading interest in the tale. Thankfully the Cunningham seemed not to notice.

“Indeed, so ravenous was my hunger, that I had consumed two whole rolls of bread before I sampled my wine”

“Fascinating.” said I.

“I believe I preferred the nodding,” came the reply, “even if your interest was clearly degrading”

The nodding resumed.

“Regardless, I sipped my wine, as any civilised person would, and then promptly ejected it from my mouth in a fashion which, though uncivilised, I am given to understand is the traditional method when you have been surprised mid beverage, so to speak.”

Another thoughtful nod conveyed my respect for such traditions.

“Of course I summoned the waiter, for it was not the wine I had ordered.”

“A substandard vintage?” I interjected.

“Nothing so simple.” replied he. “For it was not wine at all”

I nodded with thoughtful surprise.

“As I have said, I summoned the waiter, and challenged him most vocally.”

I suppressed sympathy for the waiter, the sight of the Cunningham waxing wroth is not one I would wish on any man.

“’Good sir,’ I said.” he said .“’One has heard of insalubrious establishments ‘watering down’ their beverages, but this, dear man take not only the biscuit of proverb; but the proverbial cup of tea, saucer and small fairy cake as well!’” The towering range diminished somewhat as the Cunningham ceased to quote directly. “He tried to assure me that they had sent the wine as ordered, but I insisted he taste it, after which he was forced to admit that there  had been some mix up, and I had been served water instead.”

I nodded, thoughtfully sorrowful.

“While the minion scurried to fetch more wine, I sampled again of the bread rolls, consuming two more thereof.”

I went to nod again (thoughtfully of course), but the Cunningham had already continued.

“While it may not seem so, at this time, believe me, the number of rolls consumed will soon become important.” He assured me. “Regardless, the lackey returned, whereupon he stammered a cretinous apology, it seemed every bottle of wine in the place had gone off, although he hesitated before the ‘off’.”

“No doubt the staff had been imbibing”

“As thought I, at the time. The underling was sent forth, to bring a cup of tea, I distraught at the lack of alcohol and the continued absence of my fish, partook of the bread again.”

I nodded, conveying at once the mandatory thoughtfulness, a mournful sympathy for his ruined meal, and a faint ray of desperate hope for future improvements.

“Oh I do say!” Hubert exclaimed, “That was very good, could you do it again?”

“Probably not,” I grudgingly admitted. “Besides, I believe this gag has run its course.”

“Indeed,” the Cunningham smiled. “But to the tale, I had partaken of two bread rolls and was starting on my third as the tea arrived, as by glorious chance, did my fish.”

“A happy ending.” Said I “The best way to end such a tale, now if I might draw your attention to the matter of the bill…”

“The tale is not yet finished.” Glowered my companion. “As I admired my newly acquired meal I was minded of a strange thing, there were still four rolls of bread in my bowl.”

“A large bowl indeed,” I was forced to comment “For your had consumed no less than…”

“Six rolls” the Cunningham finished, and I held one still half eaten in my hand, however, this what gave me pause, my pause was given thusly; there was only space for five rolls in the bowl.”

At this Hubert sat back, satisfied, I ventured to comment.

“Presumably someone had refilled to bowl?”

“Most definitely not, however I looked around in the manner favoured of the paranoid schizophrenic nonetheless.” He asserted. “Assured that no-one was playing ‘silly buggers’ of the classical school I decided to experiment. I wolfed down all two more rolls, also finishing the one in my hand, and stared at the bowl; nothing. I must have stared for some three minutes and nothing was forthcoming, at which point a passer-by brushed my shoulder.” The Cunningham was becoming more intense, leaning in, describing his tale in hushed whispers “I turned in aggravation, only to be uncertain as to who the perpetrator was, I made do with a general scowl, as one does in such situations, I then turned back to the table and found there that were once more four rolls in my bowl!”

“Come now Hubert, surely someone was making fun of you, or you are making fun of me, it is uncertain on that score.”

“I assure you,” came the grave tones of the Cunningham, “I am deadly serious.” He continued “As I was seated not far from the waste disposal, I decided to take the bull by the proverbial horns and cross to it, upturning the offending bowl and emptying the contents therein. The job presently jobbed, I returned to my table, and sat the bowl down on the table, only to discover four more rolls within it!”

I attempted to comment, but my companion made ploughed onward forthwith.

“I was somewhat addled at this juncture, and thinking most unlike myself, indeed ‘Decorum be damned!’ thought I, and began to throw rolls directly into the bin from where I sat. Distraught as I was, I cared not a jot for the aghast stares of the other customers as I threw one roll, in two rolls, three rolls, four, five rolls!” At this the Cunningham paused, to gather breath “When I looked back,” he said gravely, “four rolls were present in my bowl. And that was not all.”

“Not all?” I said, aghast, for though this was an extraordinary tale, I had never seen my good friend Hubert as anything but jovial, this grave demeanour was most unlike him.

“Not all,” echoed the Cunningham “For my fish, previously fairly small, was now overhanging the plate upon two edges.”

“It had grown!” I exclaimed.

“Had grown, was growing and for all I know grows still!” came the veritable bellow of a reply, thumping the table for emphasis, the Cunningham raised eyebrows around the room. “Within seconds it was twice its previous size, then larger, the size of a freshwater carp, then the size of a pike, a swordfish, it was beginning to verge on dolphin territory, no doubt would be the size of a whale had I not intervened.”

“How?” I mouthed the words.

“How else does one accomplish anything in a restaurant? I summoned the waiter of course. The underling scurried forward nervously and I said to him” The Cunningham’s chest began to inflate, I feared another bellow.

“Please Hubert, contain yourself, would you have us thrown out of the Savoy?”

“Ah, no.” Hubert deflated somewhat “I would not want such a fate to befall any man.”

“Except perhaps,” I tried to amuse, “The underling?”

“The underling.” Hubert bristled, “’Take this foul spawn back the hell from whence it came!’ I told him ‘Begone with these abominations!’,” sneeringly the Cunningham impersonated the tone of his adversary “’You have some issue with the food?’ said he, somehow disregarding the creak of the table as under the growing bulk of the erstwhile trout. ‘I have issue!’ cried  I ‘I have issue as should all that is good and right with these monstrosities, take them, burn them if you must, but for God’s sake destroy them!’, ‘They are undercooked?’ Said the minion, quizzically ‘No, just take them, take them!’ Wailed I.” The Cunningham finally relaxed after his torrent of invective “He summoned another waiter, and they carried the dishes away, he asked if I wanted something else, I demurred, the bread had quite filled me, indeed between the infinite bread, and the ever growing fish the whole restaurant could have been filled, were they prepared to eat such devilry.”

“Perhaps something of technological origin,” I mused “I have heard much said of this ‘GM food’ whatever it was, it was most definitely unnatural.”

“Natural, no.” Said my companion. “Nor man made, twas supernature, the occult, I was sure of it! And the next thing I saw more so.”

“There was more?” I inquired.

“Oh indeed there was more,” the Cunningham growled, for shortly after I had sent the accursed meal back to the depths of hell, I was attempting to leave the café far behind, when I spied a small dog,  running wild along the roadside.”

“Indeed?” said I, bemused as to how this fitted in.

“Indeed, I was about to cross the road to leave the place when the dog ran out beside me, and, dogs being as dogs are, it did not obey the green cross code.”

I nodded sagely.

“I thought you weren’t doing that anymore?”

“That was nodding thoughtfully, this is nodding sagely” I informed my companion.

“Ah,” he realised, “My apologies.”

“Think nothing of it” I demurred. “An easy mistake.”

“Indeed. To the dog…” said he.

“To the dog!” said I, raising my glass.

“What are you doing?” scowled the Cunningham.

“I thought you were proposing a toast.” I ruefully admitted.

“I was not, am not, and never will propose a toast to that accursed dog!” He glowered, “Now pray, interrupt my tale no further”

“May I interrupt once more, on the subject of money?”

“No you may not, fiscal matters can be dealt with after the tale is told.”

“Very well,” said I, “I will hold you to that.”

“To the dog,” said he glaring, lest I attempt to toast again. “It darted out excitedly into the street, as dogs are wont to do, panting excitedly and wagging its tale to and fro, yapping and bouncing around, it was a sight to warm the heart of any dog lover.”

“At least until it was hit by a car.” I interrupted.

“How did you know that?” The great brow wrinkled.

“My dear Hubert,” I reassured, “It was positively obvious where you were going with that, how very dull of you to do so, especially when for one who prides himself on his unpredictability, as you do.”

“Then predict away,” said he, “Since you will clearly have seen this all coming, you will not be surprised to hear that the dog was dead.”

“Indeed, A dead dog is such a mournful sight, I am sorry you had to witness it.”

“Indeed, a terrible sight it was, panting excitedly and wagging its tale to and fro, yapping and bouncing around…”

“I feel I have missed something there…”

“Indeed,” Said the Cunningham, “The dog was dead, mark me on that, but it got to it’s feet and carried on, walking around is if it were alive!”

“Are you entirely certain on that front? It may merely have been injured.”

“It’s head was several yards from it’s body, my good man, although, as previously stated, it panted still.”

“A most unusual turn of events,” I understated.

“Indeed,” said Hubert as he mopped his great brow, “And the dog did advance toward me, in a most unthreatening manner.”

“Did you say unthreatening?”

“Oh yes, wagging it’s tail and bounding excitedly, it clearly wanted only to be friendly. It was however headless.” Hubert swallowed fearfully at the memory “I retreated to the café”

“An understandable manoeuvre” said I.

“Indeed, as I retreat the rain, which had threatened all afternoon, began.”

“I would have assumed you were past being concerned about the weather” I interrupted tentatively.

“Indeed, I welcomed something as prosaic as rain, but rain alone it was not, the winds picked up, lightning struck, thunder boomed, and a storm was there, where seconds ago was an ordinary day.”

“I have read of odd weather lately,” I admitted, “Global warming is often said to be involved.”

“Kindly desist from you explanations, I know the cause of these events, and I will relate them to you when  ready.” bristled the Cunningham.

“The storm blasted, “What manner of devilry is this?”  I muttered to myself. “ Only to hear the words ‘You like not the storm?’”.

“From who?” I queried.

“ As I wondered. I espied a friendly looking fellow nearby, he was sitting at a table a little distance away, watching me with a look of faint amusement on his face,  I was bewildered as to how I had not noticed him before, but now I know that it is because he choose to reveal himself to me.”

I listened on.

“’Hello Hubert’ he spoke. ‘How are you?’,  ‘Do I know you?’ I replied, ‘Oh yes’ said he.”

“Dashed odd,” said I.

“’Some very strange things have happened to me today’, I admitted. ‘I know’, said he. ‘but at least we can do without the storm.’ At which point he stood up and raised his hands to the clouds.”

“Odd behaviour” I interjected.

“Not so add as to what happened next.” The Cunningham continued. “For the clouds parted and the storm abated, no rain nor thunder, no lightning to be seen, just a clear blue sky, where once there had been storms, and where minutes before it had been overcast.”

“You located the sorcerer!” I exclaimed, caught up in the tale. “What manner of devil was he?”

“Not devil,” said he “Something different and more.” He looked downward for a second, “I turned to study my companion properly for the first time, he was an average man of average height, medium brown hair, skin that was neither very pale nor very dark, not a distinguishing feature upon his entire face.”

I listened, spellbound.

“’Are you responsible for those?’ demanded I, face no doubt purple with rage.” The Cunningham paused briefly, to collect his thoughts, a master of suspense as ever. “I must confess that I do not know how I knew for certain he was responsible for it all,” He professed “The knowledge was simply part of me,  and I could no more deny it that I can deny my very being.” He paused again, “Where was I?”

“Purple with rage,” I said breathlessly.

“ Ah yes, ‘Are you responsible for those?’ I demanded, ‘But of course I am, Hubert’ said the fellow ‘And how do you know my name fiend?’  I continued, irate. ‘How could I not?’ Said he, ‘But fiend I am not, I come from very different stock.’ ‘Then return there!’ I bellowed, raising my fist to strike my tormentor”

At which point he stopped and took a sip from his champagne. His spell momentarily broken, I looked to mine, and sipped, my throat suddenly dry, I looked at my dinner, far to cold to eat, I had been quite entranced by the tale.

“I made to strike him, and then I did not.” The Cunningham spoke in hushed tones. “For there was light around him, around and about, and it came from him, and it flocked to him, and he was the light.” He paused again. “I dropped to my knees at his radiance. ‘Do you know who I am Hubert?’ Spake the light, and I nodded. ‘I am he who has come before and will come again.’ It said ‘And soon shall I come again, and you shall prophesise my coming’” Hubert paused again, Somehow I remembered to breathe. “A book appeared before me” he continued, “I reached into my pocket and put on my reading glasses, to see it better, and the man of light touched me, and suddenly I needed them no more. ‘You will tell of my coming, and you will know of it’ the man of light said, and suddenly I knew he would come, I knew the when and the how, and  the why. ‘And you will write it, for it must be written, and you shall tell all the creatures of the world what is to come’”

Hubert stopped, and gathered himself once more, I realised to cause of my dry mouth, it had been hanging open for some time now.

“And then he was gone, and there was I, and the book, and a perfectly ordinary café.” He said, “I looked at the book, I saw the title, and the blank pages within, and I knew my duty.”

”What…” I croaked. “What was the name of the book?”

The Cunningham smiled with the benevolence of saints. “’The Last Testament.’”

My mouth hung open evermore, I could not bring myself to say another word, I was struck dumb, entranced by his tale.

“And now I see you see entranced by my tale” surmised the Cunningham, “And now I will take my leave, for there is much to do, before the dawning of a new day.”

After he had left I sat there still, amazed at what he had told me,  that that most sceptical of men, that playful hedonist, Mr Hubert Cunningham had been contacted by, what exactly? That he was  on a holy mission, it beggared belief, yet belief itself seemed beggared in face of his tale. A voice broke the spell.

“Sir?”

I looked up, it was Andre, the head waiter.

“I am sorry Andre, I have just head a most singular tale, which shred of sense tells me must be wrong, but every fibre of my being deems true.”

Andre though for a few seconds.

“I always think it wise, sir, with such tales, to take the reputation of the individual telling it under consideration.”

“That’s hardly fair Andre.” Said I. “I could hardly bring myself to base my entire perception of truth upon something as changeable as reputation.”

“I suppose not, sir” replied Andre “Which is why Mr Cunningham has left you to pick up the cheque.”

Tom

Bi-Millennial progress report on universe 3B, subsection zeta 352, designated ‘Earth’.

Dear God,

Subsection zeta three five seven has largely been quiet for the last five hundred years, although there has recently been some wear and tear on the local gas giant, incident reports put this down to material fatigue, replacement parts are on order.

The main focus of zeta three five is the planet designated ‘Earth’ by the local population, an intelligent life form called ‘humanity’. While the rest of the sector is proceeding along stable lines ‘Earth’ represents a volatile and changeable environment that requires special consideration.

You were informed in the previous reports of humanity’s rapid progress with mechanisms and industrial technology, this has exceeded all expectations, they have rapidly advanced to electronic mechanised status and have integrated technology into every aspect of their lives.

There is no unified leadership in place on Earth, it is divided into nation states (see appendix 3b) although international diplomacy has seen a marked increase since our last report there is currently no evidence of a leader figure with the necessary charisma to achieve unified government (EDIT - Recent developments cast doubt on this, request background check on subject ‘Obama’ for possible divine origins) The development of a shared information sphere, or ‘internet’ caused us some concern, but was rapidly derailed by an abundance of pornographic material, we suspect interference from the demonic branch.

Certain aggressive tendencies in the population have caused us some concern, the development of apocalyptic technology occurred far in advance of our schedule, thus far the population has been reluctant to use it, which has confused our analysis, given their liberal use of less cataclysmic armaments. I have requested several times for emergency authority to override the ‘free will’ protocol in this instance, and have been rebuffed each time, I must once again protest this judgement.

Ramifications are still being felt from the discovery of agent ‘Jesus’ as detailed four reports prior, I seriously suggest amending our observation procedures for future developing civilisations. These consequences are lasting.

The most worrying development is that the species seems to display a reluctance to stay in it’s designated zone, recently it has attempted to expand to it’s neighbouring satellite, though no action was taken at the time some sort of border patrol might be in order.

I have upgraded Earth’s priority to Sanguine Red, I feel careful attention will be required to safeguard her through the next Bi-Millennial unit.
Yours sincerely,

Gabriel.

Tom here.

The idea I had for today was a visual one, so I decided to do a comic. Unfortunately I can’t draw like the others, so I did stickmen. Bad stickmen. To those who don’t think there’s such a thing as bad stickmen, you have been warned.

Hello, I’m Tom, we’ve probably met.

If you’ve met me, you’ve probably noticed I’m very tall, extremely so. In fact it tend to dominate conversation when I first meet people, so I’ve decided to provide a FAQ. Now next time someone asks me I can just give them the URL:

Q: How tall are you?

A: Six feet five inches, or one hundred ninety eight centimetres.

Q: How did you get to be so tall?

A: “I ate my greens.”

I get this one a lot, I can only imagine it’s people speaking without really thinking it through, because there isn’t really any way I can explain it. At least not without complex genetic analysis. So I usually tell them (especially if they’re young children) that I ae my greens. Or drank a lot of milk, it’s simpler that way.

Q: Are you parents tall?

A: Not really, no, my dad is just under six foot, my mom is fairly tall for a woman, but my ister is tall.

Q: Were you always this tall?

I was always very tall for my age, although I went through spurts and lulls the same as everyone else. When I was younger I was a lot skinnier though, so I was beanpole tall, rather than rugby player tall like I am now.

Q: What’s it like being so tall?

This is a fairly open question, but I get asked it a lot. Seeing as I don’t really have a frame of reference I don’t really know how to respond, but for now I’ll just give you a few insights.

1: Low hanging lights are to be feared and respected.

2: Buying clothes is more about finding ones that fit than ones you like.

3: There are a number of sports you are immediatly considered an asset when playing (Rugby, Basketball, American Football, Real Football)

4: But you’re only marginally more likely to be good than anyone else.

5: You sense of balance will suck (high centre of gravity).

6: Not all doors are built with you in mind.

7: Houses with high ceilings are to be cherished.

8: Your weight will be comparable with shorter people who are overwweight or even obese. Try not to worry about it.

9: You will frequently be asked to get things off high shelves or change light bulbs by small people. Consider turning the tables by asking them to do anything that involves reaching into tight spaces (changing wires behind the TV, etc)

10: Everyone will remember you, even if they’ve only met you once or twice.

That’s all I can think of right away, but if you have any more feel free to ask them in the comments and I’ll answer as best I can.

More big chunks of text I’m afraid. I lack the ability to do anything else.

Such an odd phrase, I wonder who came up with it? It makes one picture a bright, cheerful suburban street. All trimmed lawns and white picket fences. Clean. Orderly. You can imagine yourself driving down the street, you cruise slowly, there’s no other traffic to be seen, admiring the houses of your memory. Sometimes you stop and investigate one in detail, all laid out for you. Simple. Elegant. Beautiful.

My memory has never been like this. My memory is neither simple nor elegant. It is not a quiet suburban street, but a convoluted mass of roads, streets, and alleyways. It is a concrete nightmare. It is, without doubt, a city.

It is not an American city either, all laid out in simple grids that are easy to navigate, instead it is a British city, one that has grown organically over the years without real planning or design. There deserted areas no longer in use; whole areas of geometry lessons are abandoned and only rarely visited. There are high streets bustling with regularly accessed knowledge and vast motorways connecting frequently travelled areas. There are alleys that no longer lead anywhere (my hometown has one of these, it’s called Needless Alley, says something about our sense of humour) complicated one way systems, embarrassing memories that have been fenced off as danger zones, not safe to venture into.

I can lose myself in this city, if I’m not careful, if you stray from the beaten paths. I can circle endlessly around the antique architecture of the treasured memory of my first kiss (twelve, behind the curtain at a theatre, I nearly missed my cue). I can wander vast industrial districts processing facts and figures listing the cast and crew of various films, or long lists of football players and their clubs throughout the years.

The edges of this city give way to wilderness, half realised, vague memories, little more than gestures on my mental canvass. Vague, stylised landscapes charting what might have been and what never was.

To call my memory a lane is a disservice, it is a city, complex and wonderful, warped and fantastic. And it is me, through and through.

Sorry about the late posting guys, I’ve been a little busy lately:

There’s a new buzzword being spoken of on the intertubes lately, it’s ‘crowdsourcing’ the use of the public access the net provides to process vast amounts of information. It may not sound terribly exciting, but it’s certainly very intriguing. It’s probably not new either, but it’s new to me, okay? I’ll start again.

I’m here to talk about ‘crowdsourcing’, a new (to me) word to describe an old internet phenomenon, that of getting lots of people to donate a small fraction of their time instead of a small group donating all of it (and usually expecting payment).

I ran across the term recently, with the publication of the MP’s expenses database the Guardian, unable to sift through the mammoth amount of data in order to find irregularities itself, decided to open it up to it’s readers and ask them, to flag up sections worthy of investigation. The response was phenomenal, with thousands of people scanning through and sending in hundreds of inconsistencies.

I suppose I should not have been so surprised, after all, this kind of practice has been the backbone of the internet for a while. Wikipedia is founded on this very policy, replacing the dedicated staff of an encyclopaedia with millions of hobbyists editing sections of particular interest. Open source programming also works on this, amateur coders making products that can compete with those of huge software companies like Microsoft. Even the dark art of digital piracy relies on an impressive amount of collaboration between users.

It’s almost like a form of mass socialism, each gives according to his ability (and desire) but it’s given to not just those in need of it, but to those who might fancy it a little, or are just downright curious. And it’s only possible in the digital age, where the effort required in taking part is reduced to the absolute minimum (although many go above and beyond) and the distribution of the benefits is instantaneous.

But is it good for anything other than ludicrously detailed articles on comic book continuity? Well yes, it’s not only the Guardian trying to harness this idea, in fact one of the earliest examples is the SETI (search for extra-terrestrial life) program. Which, faced with enormous amount of radio data to analyse, launched the SETI@home project in 1999, you too could help discover aliens! Amazingly it worked (well, apart from the lack of Aliens) the amount of people downloading the software gave them processing power in excess of the best supercomputers on offer.

I’m almost certainly recycling things you’re already familiar with here, but it’s also things we’ve accepted without thinking about its power and possibilities. So far most crowdsourcing has gone through a central hub, but we may moving beyond that.

The current Iranian election crisis has seen an uncoordinated, disorganised but tremendously powerful movement to get information in and out of the country despite the current regime’s best efforts. Through twitter and other social media, through projects that set up crowdsourced proxies for Iranians, the internet is bending its will to the Iranian nation in every way it can. No one told it to, it just decided.

So what comes next? Anything and everything, quite possibly. What happens if the protestors succeed in Iran? If the internet wakes up one morning and realises that every one of us, in tiny, tiny ways, just helped change a nation? Where can we go from there? The sky would truly be the limit.

Many hands it seems, do indeed make light work, but only when they’re tapping at keyboards.

Tom

Something a bit different this time, looks like I’m the first one to try something non-comedy:

My father seldom spoke of the war, though I knew he played a part in it. It is possible he was ashamed that he never served on the frontlines themselves, though at forty years old, short sighted and with a pronounced limp, he was no-one’s idea of a soldier. He was, however, a clever man, in a slow and cautious way, and he spoke fluent German. It was these factors that would lead him to work for MI:5 in counter espionage.

One thing he did speak of, often, was a day three years before the war began, Sunday October 4th. My father lived in the east end of London at that time, as many of us Jews did, and was involved heavily in the local community groups. That Sunday was the day Oswald Mosely and the British Union of Facists attempted to march through our home, uniformed and jackbooted, Hitlerites in all but name, in a world that had yet to wake up to what such people were capable of.

There is some mystery as to why the march was allowed to go ahead, it was not as if the government was unaware of its provocative nature, a police escort was even provided to protect the Blackshirts from those who would oppose them. Yet one must remember that we had yet to stand against German expansion at the time, that we were seeking peace with the Nazi part that had such close ties with Mosely. Fascist, alas, was yet to become a dirty word at that point, it would not be until after the war till its name truly became mud.

But while the government would rather look the other way, the people of the east end would not, my father’s group, and several other local Jewish groups, formed together on Cable Street and attempted to stop them. When they arrived they were shocked to find they weren’t alone the street was thick with Socialists, Trade Unionists, Irish catholic immigrants and anti-fascists of every stripe. They built barricades and manned them together, the police tried to eject them, but they stood firm. My father spoke that day of the way the Blackshirts carried themselves; they, I think, would call it pride, but he saw it for what it was, not pride in themselves, but distain for others. Yet he could also look at those who stood with him, shoulder to shoulder, and speak of a different pride, one that is earned in a shared experience, in solidarity between those who are different, not one that is donned with a shiny uniform, and came from hate of those who were not the same. Years later, he would see that look again.

My father had a favourite trick in those years, if he suspected a man of having sympathy with the German cause; he would begin to play up his heritage. He would introduce himself as a Goldberg, even though he commonly went by merely Gold, and his given name as Elias, Elijah or, if he were feeling particularly daring even Ezekiel (in reality Eli was never short for anything, but his name in full), he would mutter to himself in Yiddish, on one occasion he even produced a yarmulke and donned it in the middle of a conversion. Not all those siding with the Germans were fully exposed to their Anti-Semitic propaganda, but many where, and my father was always very good at reading faces. And not all of them could keep the revulsion out of theirs.

One of the few tales he told me himself, was a story from 1943, an agent had been somehow passing information on ship movements in the enemy, and his superiors feared that this might result in the German’s realising that we had broken their Enigma code and were co-ordinating our ships in response to their communications (my father was not that we had cracked Enigma at that point, that information was not made public till 1974). My father was always methodical, he spent some time monitoring our radio traffic, switching ciphers did not seem to stall the response, so he monitored the radio operators, but none triggered his suspicions. Needing a quick result, he arranged for several ships to transmit false locations, changing the information himself at each step along the chain, then he waited for the German fleet’s response.

Eventually word came to him (via the Enigma cracking ULTRA project, although he wasn’t to know it) that the fleet had fallen for one of his scams. He had narrowed his target down to a small telegram office. It was at this point that he began his scheme; firstly he took a job in the office himself (as Elijah Goldberg of course). Immediately the leak stopped, the spy was worried that my father was an MI:5 plant (as he was) he was clever, but not clever enough not to confirm his location so readily.

There were three men my father suspected; their names were Henderson, Allen, and Wakefield. My father then put phase two of his plan into operation, he began to act suspiciously, asking questions often, disappearing for stretches of time, watching the other men explicitly. The suspects primed, my father sent a colleague of his, a large, burly Irishman named Callaghan, to interview the suspects, he told them he was looking for a spy, that someone had been passing movements to the Germans. Allen told Callaghan he suspected my father, Wakefield outright accused him, Henderson said nothing. It was at this point that my father knew he had his man, any innocent man would assume he was the spy, but a guilty one would not, as he would know that he himself was the spy, and that accusing the only Jewish employee would be a suspicious move on his part. He was smart, but not smart enough, my father’s favourite kind of target.

All that remained was for my father to confirm his suspicions. He knew the spy would not dare transmit data for some time, so, garnering information about procedure from a previously captured agent, he sent a an emergency message to Henderson, telling him MI:5 were onto him, and to proceed to a rendezvous in order to be extracted. The rendezvous was of course false, my father captured Henderson right there, damned by his own attempts to flee.

Henderson, it transpired, had long been a Nazi sympathiser; he had been a member of the BUF, the other side of the barricades on that fateful day in 1936. He had been passing information to the enemy for years, the British Navy estimated his actions had sunk at least five ships, and damaged many more. When Henderson was faced with this, he dropped his façade and sneered openly at my father, that same contempt and arrogance he had seen on the faces of those young men in 1936, so brazen despite their defeat. My father told Henderson he would hang.

But his superiors had other ideas. The allies were planning to invade Sicily, and a mass mis-information campaign (dubbed Operation Mincemeat) was planned in order to convince the German’s otherwise. Henderson was ordered to be turned, despite my father’s protests, and his crimes absolved. Once again the government had sided with a home fascist, and this time my father had no-one to man the barricades with him. Operation Mincemeat went ahead to great success, the invasion of Sicily paved the way for the Normandy landings the next year, and the end of the war the year after that. My father sometimes wondered how many ships Henderson’s loose lips had sunk on the German side. Three? Four?

A few years later my father was forced to leave MI:5, he was amongst those outed Kim Philby, the Soviet mole. He spoke of this to me only once, when he talked of how great the betrayal felt; the socialists, he said, had stood by him at Cable Street, only to stab him in the back years later.

My father spoke of Cable Street often. It was an icon, for him, people of all kinds standing together. But he would later confess to me, in his darker hours, that he no longer knew who stood by him at the barricades, and who marched in the street, and who let them go by.

Tom

Hi, I’m Tom, (not to be confused with Thom) and I’ll be your contributor for today. I’ve got a piece of short fiction for you:

(NB: I have no idea how to do page breaks in tumblr so you’ll have to tolerate this monstrous wall of text untill one of my co-conspirators helps me fix it)

The following is an interview I conducted during my tenure at New Scientist Magazine. The interview was with Dr Loquacious Everlast, author of the study “On the obstacles of undersized upper limb appendages in the donning of millinery attire in saurian reptiles.” The article was never published, as the editor rejected it for being “too silly” the unedited transcript is reproduced here for your reading pleasure.

NS – So Dr Everlast, could you give our readers an outline of your study to begin with?

Dr E – I certainly could.

[Pause]

Dr E – Oh, you mean now? I thought you meant when we began recording.

NS – We are recording

Dr E – Oh right. Well… er… can we start again.

NS – It’s probably best if we carry on, we’ll fix it in editing.

Dr E – Editing, oh yes. Wonderful what they can do these days isn’t it? With… er… words.

[Pause]

Dr E – Where was I?

NS – Introducing your study.

Dr E – Ah yes, well “On the obstacles of undersized upper limb appendages in the donning of millinery attire in saurian reptiles.” is primarily… that is it’s primary objective, is understanding, if you will, the obstacles that would theoretically, that is in theory, be encountered by said saurian reptiles when they attempt to don millinery, ahem, attire.

[Pause]

Dr E – Is that it?

NS –Er…perhaps if you’d like to do into more depth on the experiment, explain some of it to the layman.

Dr E – Oh yes of course, well let me assure first that we tested a large sample size of saurian reptiles, some four hundred in fact, and of course a control group.

NS – A control group? Of non saurian reptiles.

Dr E – Oh no dear boy, we felt a wide range of organisms were required in order to offer a fully diverse control group. We used many different species; primates, canines, arachnids, humans, bacterium, the welsh. All were required to participate in the donning of a variety of pieces of millinery attire.

NS – Yes, perhaps you could explain exactly what you mean by ‘donning millinery attire’ it’s not really a term our readers are familiar with.

Dr E – Really? Standards really are slipping, very well, ‘donning’, from the Latin donye refers to the act of insinuating oneself within a piece of ‘attire’, or garment. ‘Millinery’ of course has it’s roots in the ancient proto-Italian tribe, the Millinieri famous for the decorative headwear they wore into battle.

NS – Hang on, so what you’re saying is that you investigated their ability to wear hats?

Dr E – Of course not.

NS – Oh good.

Dr E – Their ability to dress themselves in hats. There’s a subtle difference, they were not permitted outside assistance in placing the hats on their heads.

NS – I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I see the scientific value in dressing a load of iguanas in hats.

Dr E – Iguanas? My dear boy I think you must have misunderstood me. By saurian reptiles I refer of course to the terrible lizards.

NS – Dinosaurs?

Dr E – Indeed! Specifically those of the ‘Tyrannosaurus Rex’ as it is commonly known. I say! I’m getting the hang of this ‘dumbing down’ lark, aren’t I?

NS – I’m sorry, just to clarify, you have spent the last six months studying whether T-Rexes can wear hats, correct?

Dr E – Very much so, the common theory is that their abridged appendages would prevent such action, we set out to find out for certain.

NS – Abridge…

Dr E – (interrupting) Tiny arms.

NS – Okay.

[Pause]

NS - Don’t you think your time might have been better spent finding out if a non extinct creature could wear hats? Or doing something with actual merit?

Dr E – I’m sorry? I don’t follow.

NS – Well I mean, you go to all the trouble of putting together a simulation of T- Rex movement, in order to…

Dr E – (interrupting) I’m sorry? Simulation?

NS – Well yes, I assume you used some sort of computer simulation of a dinosaur for testing purposes.

Dr E – Oh no, not at all, can’t trust simulations old boy. No I insisted on using actual biological samples, it’s the only fair way.

NS – Actual Bio….but there aren’t any T-Rexes; they’re extinct.

Dr E – Yes that was a bit of a sticking point there, many was the time I said to my research assistant, Jebidiah Jeffries; “Jed” I call him Jed you see “Jed, I just don’t see where we’re going to get these samples my boy. But Jed, god bless him, he came through for me.

NS – How exactly?

Dr E – You see he found another project, part of the biology department, that was getting some very promising results in the area of DNA synthesis, specifically that of extinct species. Well, of course that was something of a godsend to be, so I spoke to the Dean, he’s and old friend of mine, we play golf together, and Bob, as they say, is your proverbial mothers brother. The project was rolled into our department, under my jurisdiction, and we were good, as you might say, to go.

NS – And they managed to clone a dinosaur?

Dr E – Oh yes. Not overnight of course, but after several attempts they finally managed it. It took them three months to begin mass production, they’d already done most of the legwork before I came on to the scene you see, then of course, it was down to my team and our hats. We used predominantly top hats for this experiment, you see they have a unique density…

NS – (interrupting) I’m sorry, you say you had four hundred T-Rexes here?

Dr E – Well not here obviously, we housed them at a stable just outside town.

NS – Can I see them?

Dr E – Why my dear boy of course not. Once the experiment was concluded all biological samples were destroyed.

NS – You… you managed to clone four hundred T-Rexes and you just killed them?

Dr E – Well we had the data we needed, it wasn’t an easy decision you know, we would have liked to keep them in case we needed a repeat study, but housing them was simply exorbitantly expensive, not to mention dangerous. I lost three grad students before we figured that one out.

NS – You had what you… you mean your stupid hat thing?

Dr E – Indeed. A mere zero point two five percent of test subjects managed to don a hat to standard, compared to seventeen point five percent of the control group.

NS – But you could have… hang on, doesn’t that mean one of the T-Rexes actually managed to put on a hat?

Dr E – That’s a very literal interpretation. Our current working theory is that that was just a statistical anomaly. It’s well within our margin of error.

NS – But… surely at least the cloning team are planning to publish their data?

Dr E – Funny enough their project lead, Dr Validima Silverheart, had the same notion, she’d got her feathers a bit ruffled over the merger see, and she approached me to do so.

NS – And?

Dr E – Well of course I told her “Liddy” I call her Liddy you see “Liddy; I understand you position here, but this is my project, I can’t have people publishing minor findings. Now I know you want to talk about this, but my feeling here, my gut feeling, is that it should be about the hats, after all that’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it?” And do you know what she said?

NS – You bastard.

Dr E –Exactly! How did you guess?

[recording becomes unintelligible at this point]