The Deadliness of Leisure

Sweden

2012-02-24T23:27:00.001Z

The great thing about having a broken ankle and a lot of painkillers inside my body, was that I could adopt the demeanour of a drooly, semi-conscious boyfriend, who was in no way motivated by the same rampant jealousy as he had been prior to his accident. My voice was weak, I watched cartoons all day, I only wanted to drink strawberry Nesquik. I seemed incapable of being like anything that resembled “jealous bastard” or “overimaginative and unreasonable”, so my girlfriend obviously decided this was the perfect opportunity to push all of my buttons.

Like going for a drink with a guy from work who I know she fancies, and wearing a lovely dress for the occasion. All while I am lying prone on the couch with a really, really itchy ankle.

She looked great, and it killed me. All I could do was be gently venomous from the couch.

Oh, and of course she was going to lend him a book. Great. It was time to reassert my position.

“What are you taking him? 101 Cupcakes?”

“Stop being stupid. Robert is not gay.”

Of course he wasn't. She selected a worryingly serious looking volume from the top shelf. That's when my eyes rested on it. The Other book. The origin of all my book-lending contempt.

“Pass me down that collection of Strindberg plays, will you? I need something to read tonight.”

Obviously she was not going to be fooled. She cocked a skeptical eyebrow and said “Really? Friday night Strindberg? Come on Vic, I said it was private.”

I wanted that book because I wanted to read the dedication inside the cover. The dedication from the Swedish crime writer and wanker who was my predecessor. For nine days, I had been marooned upon the couch, just inches away from it. Hannah had cunningly placed it on the top shelf, after she had discovered it in a box with the Christmas decorations. I knew that look. The fond smile, the momentary silence, the humming of ABBA songs all afternoon as she placed other trinkets from their relationship around the flat. She was trying to pretend it was no big deal. Of course I wanted to be fine with her putting photographs of Swedish landscapes on the fridge. I could definitely just admire them for the striking, bleak scenes that they were. I definitely was not thinking about whose culture she was so keen to absorb. A piece of smoothed glass from the beach? Fine. Just put it on the toilet cistern, where I have to stare at it four times a day for the rest of my life. I am the master of disassociation. No problem.

I had washed my last lot of pills down with a beer. I could be pretty bad-ass. I was a Jealous Boyfriend, for a start. And I had broken my ankle falling down an entire flight of stairs. Drunk. So I probably was hallucinating Erik the Swedish crime writer and wanker standing over me.

He looked just the same as in his endless Facebook photos; the peroxide quiff, the leather jacket... all that was missing were his sunglasses, which was a shame, because his eyes were horribly pale, like little petri dishes of spunk. But really, it seemed perfectly natural that he would be here. I knew now why Hannah had favoured so much flat pack furniture, 'pops' of colour and angular sofas. This was his domain.

He removed the cigarette from his mouth and said “Hello, you must be Vic. What happened to you?”

“I fell down some stairs.”

He put on a little twitch of sympathy. “Oh dear. Well, I won't keep you. I came to return some things of Hannah's. Spare key. This blanket that her mother crocheted for me. Her handcuffs – I suppose you've been missing them.”

I tried to keep my face impassive. “Lovely, how thoughtful. You can just leave them by the door as you leave.”

“Can I have a snack first? I think my blood sugar is low.”

Without waiting for my answer, he whipped out a small plastic tub and a fork from his satchel. It was sweet pickled herring.

Things had just got weirder. I thought I may as well try to get the answers I so badly craved. I eased myself up on one elbow and decided we could talk about literature while he shovelled forkfuls of sweet, vinegary fish down his gullet. We could talk about literature, and in particular Swedish literature, and then Strindberg, and then he could read out the dedication. And then I would know what it said. I would have won. Hannah may be out sipping gin & tonics and connecting with Robert, but I would finally know what kind of deep shit had gone down with her previous boyfriend.

But I didn't even have to say a word. He could read my mind.

“So Hannah told me she found a box of Swedish stuff the other day. Has she showed you the dedication I wrote inside her Strindberg anthology?”

“No. But how about you just get the book down and read it out to me, man to man?”

He considered, slurping the last vestiges of fish juice from the tub. A little bit of it glistened on his beard. I didn't know if I was dead or alive. But I wanted to read that dedication.

“Alright. I suppose we could do that.”

Slowly, Erik finished his snack and stood at the bookcase. Even though I hated this guy, my rage at Hannah for keeping this from me for so long, even when I was an invalid, was far greater. This was a stroke of luck, even if I did have to have their old sex accessories paraded in my face.

He pulled the book out and turned to the inside cover. He mouthed the words, there was a glimmer of fond memory... I wondered if I should offer him a beer before we commenced our reading.

He closed the book and, though I reached for it as if this was the most natural thing in the world, he tucked it firmly under his arm and crouched down in front of me.

He stroked my hair.

“Vic...”

“Erik, come on. Don't leave a poor man hanging. You know how it is -”

“Vic, I'm thinking of branching out from crime fiction. It's becoming a bit of a saturated market.”

That was it; all hope was lost. He was entering a reverie, freshly stoked with pickled fish and memories.

“My next book will be my memoirs... with a romantic slant. So if you don't mind, I'm going to keep this. It can be my first piece of source material. The love between Hannah and I...”

The itch under my cast was reaching a critical level. I now knew this was Hell.

I reached for the nearby ruler, accidentally dislodging a stack of 'easy reading' from the coffee table. Erik suddenly stopped. He blanched.

“Is that... The Moomins?”

OK, so there were a couple of cool things that had come out of Hannah's box of Swedish memories. I liked The Moomins, because they were Swedish, but they weren't scary. Sure, they got up to some crazy stuff, but I knew I could take them all (well, apart from Little My) in a fight, and that was fine. They had snouts. They were harmless.

Apparently Erik didn't feel the same. I tried holding his gaze and scratching my ankle with the ruler as menacingly as possible.

“Yeah, it's The Moomins. It's one of our favourites.”

“Well... alright. Listen, it was great to meet you, Vic. But I have to run.”

“To start your memoirs.”

“Well, maybe. I might just leave this with you, anyway. You're right. It's in the past.”

He left the Strindberg book on the coffee table, dropped the bag, and let himself out.

Sweden finally beat at its own freaky game, I settled back in the couch, feeling much better.

You do eat!

2012-01-27T20:45:00.000Z

Remember that gift of a day for newsreaders recently? TV chef Antony Worrall Thompson was reportedly caught shoplifting some low-value items from a local Tesco store. After hearing this report, I spent a disproportionate amount of my evening thinking about what those items could be.

Now, my limited knowledge of shoplifting tells me that it doesn't matter what you steal; you don't actually want the items, you just want to stick it to the man (see also: Riots, 2011). So he probably did just go at those aisles like a demon possessed, picking low-value items at random.

But what if Antony has actually fallen on hard times? Eclipsed by Jamie's springy butter face, blinded by Blooming Hestonthall's shiny pate, out-sexyed by Lorraine Pascale, he has become passé. So it's not beyond the realms of possibility that he's simply out of cash. If this was the case, he would surely be stealing a loaf of bread, a pint of milk, and a block of cheese. Because this man needs to eat, and you get a lot of meals out of a whole loaf and a large block of Cathedral City. How can he come up with all those recipes JUST OFF THE TOP OF HIS HEAD on Ready Steady Cook without some proper brain food?

A. L. Kennedy wrote in her Guardian column recently that she is terrible at self-maintenance when she is writing. She skips meals, and doesn't sleep, snacking only on splinters from her bare floorboards I'm sure. Now, I love an exaggeration as much as the next person; I like to pretend that I survive only on plain oatcakes and orange squash, or cigarettes and Mini Rolls, or a light dusting of speed on some cream cakes. These are all lovely, romantic notions of the life of a writer. But it is time to admit that there is no such thing as a starving creative. In fact, I'll go as far as to say that we are the one sector of society whose cells are simply bursting with balanced nutrients.

Our heavy reliance on caffeinated beverages is a given. But I have been known to jump up mid-sentence to bake a cake to accompany my fourth cup of coffee. I can spend hours bent over a pot of homemade curry, composing poems to the spit of tinned tomatoes.

This is obviously a terrible sickness. The other day I made Nigella's chocolate and marmalade 'storecupboard' cake. I love a good storecupboard cake, because it means you don't have to go to the shops and spend money that you don't have. Yeah, I already had a large bar of 'best' dark chocolate in the cupboard. I was actually saving money, making this cake. And you know what? It was bitter and horrible. But that's not the point. I made the cake, because I had to have something good and delicious to soak up my coffee with. Because I, like a lot of people, like making and eating food. It might be a sickness that will bankrupt me, but it gives me lots of energy and nutrients to burn whilst Not Writing.

A. L. Kennedy's supposedly slap-dash attitude to nutrition is a lie. I simply don't believe that she just forgets to eat. And before you get started on the correlation between malnutrition and literary acclaim, I brandish my broccoli at you in defiance. It probably is true of some, but is there really no space for someone who can write and eat three meals a day? For a failing TV chef to just be shoplifting the essentials that will keep him moving til his next pay cheque? Does he really have to be nicking wine and Haribo? It might make for a better story, but this charade has to stop. Let's stop pretending that we don't care what we put in our mouths. Go and spend twenty minutes making a sandwich. You'll feel better for it. Go on.

poem

2012-01-17T21:45:00.000Z

I wonder if I can beat my heart.

Defiant, I imagine ignoring it for a day, or a week, or three

or until you are the one who can't take it any more.

I could feign a mind and body in harmony, claim my head is simply distracted

by world events and the flavour of garlic and those new shoes I bought

a bargain.

 I want to know who can do it.

Do you have to be a voracious reader, or sucking on mind-altering substances?

I try it anyway, without the magic formula.

What happens is my blood is tempted elsewhere for a while; the vessel is duly drained and I can imagine it blue and bored and I am triumphant

until

like a bruise I can't help but press

it's as new as it is old

as it begins its beat again, and I have lost.

***

 I haven't written much poetry at all, so any feedback would be much appreciated.

Sweet

2012-01-05T20:40:00.000Z

I first met him when I was twenty-five, when I weighed just under ten stone. He worked in a bank, but in his spare time he baked. He baked everything at home; as far as I knew he never had the ambition to make it a profession.

At first I thought he was wet. My mother did not approve. But, after two or three weeks, when I realised that everything – and I mean everything – he made was without fail absolutely delicious, I began to enjoy it. A simple snack, if it was a little grey outside, would be some blueberry scones, always served with fresh cream and his own coulis. He made clafoutis, Sacher torte, and a thousand miniature chocolate soufflés that filled the kitchen like little chocolatey children that I devoured like a snatcher with a net. Apple pie, trifles, all the Italian puddings, meringue after meringue after meringue.

I know what you're thinking. You think he was gay. You think I got fat. No, and no. So clichéd an outlook.

I knew I could trust him; he was such a mild-mannered man. He had told me, after the third batch of strawberry tarts had won my heart completely, that all he wanted to do was to bake beautiful things and watch my lovely mouth gobble them up. That was what made him happy.

I had an American friend visit, who arched an eyebrow and said “Honey, he's a feeder”, like he was some kind of criminal. She threatened to kidnap me and take me back to New York, “for my own good”, purging me along the way. She was quite insistent. But that was before she tasted the meringues.

That summer, there was a heatwave in Paris that lasted for the whole of July. By Bastille Day, we felt like we couldn't go on. But we had been invited to a party given by my sister and her new husband, who was actually almost royalty.

My chef wanted to make a croque-en-bouche to take to the party. I wanted to lie down for the whole afternoon with a cold compress over my eyes. Even the walls were sweating. He was sweet about it. He brought me iced lemon water with a straw and drew the curtains.

I drifted in and out of sleep all afternoon, but later I was woken quite suddenly by a noise from the kitchen. It was followed by a string of curses. Hearing those, I was a little jarred, to say the least.

I lifted my compress; “Darling?”

There was no answer. I padded across the room, fearful of what I might find; let me tell you, so many disasters can befall the pastry chef in their kitchen. And our kitchen was not spacious and the floor sloped a little.

His croque-en-bouche had collapsed. Even my untrained eye could see that it couldn't be saved.

The man was weeping. I'm telling you, he was on the floor, with spun sugar all over his hands, like a funny little pair of gloves. And the tears were just flowing and flowing. I understood that he was disappointed; the guest list at my sister's party included some of the city's very best, and now his croque-en-bouche would be a disgrace.

The problem was the heat, you see. It was such a hot day that the air had ruined the stability of everything. And his hands were too warm.

Well I thought it was best to leave him be. It was almost six by now, so I shut myself in the bathroom and didn't emerge until I had showered all the stickiness of the day away. I puffed talcum powder over myself to cover the gleam that was already on my skin from the heat of the shower. The powder was new, scented with violet.

When I emerged, in my new white lace dress, the kitchen was unrecognisable from before. All traces of the earlier disaster had been wiped away, and on the table were two batches of millefeuille. My mind boggled at how quickly his hands had made them, but there they were; the icing was still drying a little, but the crème pâtissière looked plump and triumphant between the thinnest of pastry sheets. The chef, he gave me a modest smile, and a little taste of icing from his finger, before he went to get dressed.

***

The party was beautiful. My sister had covered the house in red, white and blue candles, and there was ivy looped around the bannisters and over the fireplaces. First, we had gin martinis on the terrace. The bitter taste of it danced on my tongue.

I watched my sister take the millefeuille in their little box, and put them in the fridge for later. I knew the owners of some of the best restaurants in Paris had been invited, and maybe if they tasted his millefeuille they would give my chef a job.

The guests were certainly important; there were members of the aristocracy, some classical violinists, and various titans of trade and industry.

But my sister seemed keen for me to meet one man in particular. He was introduced as Mr. Cavalieri, and he had recently opened a chain of leather shops in the city. He was very good-looking, that was for sure. The host topped up my gin, and my new friend told me all about the leather industry. He showed me the belt he was wearing, and his shoes. Every time he leaned closer, I caught his scent. At first I thought he must be sweating quite a lot under his suit. But then, as I smelt it more, I picked up the good scents underneath. The salt curl of sweat gave way to leather, and a bit of cigar smoke, and garlic.

The stories he told me about his business were very compelling. But the second martini had been strong, and I began to be conscious of how I was behaving with this mysterious new man. I didn't want to ignore the others at the party. Moreover, it had been twice now that he had, with his conversation, pressed his hand on my knee - a little bit too much in that way. I didn't want the chef to see.

I excused myself, and went to the kitchen to find something to soak up the gin with. The taste of it was coating my mouth like a lovely smooth film, even though it was so sharp. I wanted salt, or cheese, or bread.

Just inside the kitchen door, there was a bowl of cashew nuts, gleaming with salt. I grabbed a handful and licked them greedily. After my first mouthful, I squinted towards the end of the long kitchen. The doors onto the garden were open, and at the table sat my chef. On the table there was a tray, already set with cup and saucer skeletons for coffee. He was slumped in his seat, and his finger was dipping again and again into the sugar bowl.

So unsanitary!

I noticed now that the suit he was wearing was the suit he most often wore to the bank, so the seat of it was shiny. It was a little short at the ankles and wrists. He was too big for it. Too fat. Maybe my friend was right; maybe he was feeding me. But I remembered my metabolism; the family blessing. The fact was that, even after a year of this, I was still just shy of ten stone. But everything I had eaten, he had eaten too. And well, it didn't sit so well on him. His face was pallid. His lips were moist with sugar, like always. He never went to the park or for a swim, and he never went to the dentist.

***

Soon after the party, I came with Mr. Cavalieri to Naples. Here, he introduced me to the wonderful flavours of tomatoes, salamis, garlic, basil, and the finest saltiest mozzarella. Our whole house is scented with leather, and let me tell you, it never cloys. We're getting married in the Spring.

Camping Out, not Copping Off: a story about when you fancy someone who lives far away, written as a terrible camping metaphor.

2012-01-03T17:49:00.002Z

I first wrote the bare bones of this last summer to submit to a competition where the subject was 'camping'. Needless to say it didn't win, as I reckon it's a pretty tenuous metaphor, but here it is a little re-jigged for your entertainment.

***

2011 must have been a bumper year for tent sales around the world. Obviously, the worldwide Occupations are partly responsible for this. But in the UK, people also camped out for the Pope, Kate & Wills, and the Habitat clearance sale. In these cases, camping out spells devotion; you are willing to become a temporary nomad, and you will bring flags. You camped out the longest so you could be the first. The closest.

Last summer I got to thinking about camping out as a state of mind. I was moving flats, from one city to another, so for a while I felt nomadic – although nomads don't tend to hire a man and van off Gumtree to move their stuff. My story about mental roaming begins with me taking a train down to London town: the very centre of civilisation, I think you'll agree. Virgin Trains can get you from Glasgow to London in under four hours. Never mind that their super-fast tilting Pendelino trains make you want to vomit the whole way down; you can get there. The purpose of my trip was to attend a weekend writing course, and I spent some time with family and friends too. Well, for the purposes of this story, I should mention that I was in love with one of these friends. However, in his recent emails he had mentioned a Californian girl, who he was obviously seeing; he'd bought her Ladurée macaroons for her birthday, and we all know they're no fuck-buddy birthday present. So we just had dinner and went Dutch, like all good friends do.

After the weekend, I returned to the North, this time being careful not to choose a tuna sandwich for the journey. I know the central belt of Scotland is no wilderness, but I definitely felt far away. For a while, any fantasy of returning to London to surprise him and confess my feelings ended with knocking on his door to discover the two of them licking macaroon crumbs off each other's naked bodies. Not only that; she would actually be glowing golden, as we know all Californians do. My skin was still a blue shade of pale, from the Scottish “summer”.

So I stayed put. The sky humoured me, and it was the wettest June in Glasgow on record (well, we all know that was really 2007, but never mind). Meanwhile, in London, I imagined them sunny and crumby, discovering all that the bustling capital had to offer; riding Boris bikes, ordering takeaway in one click, and other things you can do in metropolises.

The thing with mentally camping out, is that you're not part of a crowd. There is no camaraderie, and seemingly, no end point. You're thoroughly on your own, with no-one telling you when it's time to go home. There are numerous horrific camping/misery metaphors to share here. For example, maybe you're 'shivering, heart and gut exposed, under a thin canvas of faith'. Or maybe you 'can't light the camping stove flame of your love'. Try some yourself, I'm yet to think of one that doesn't make me want to vomit. We all know the romantics who have camped out under balconies, or on doorsteps, waiting for their love interest to let them in. They tend to make a point of being near the person; not being able to be physically ignored tends to help their cause. Instead, I was waiting miles away like a little coward, consuming wine by the litre. If that's not devotion, I don't know what is.

Eventually, when I stopped being a literal nomad, the metaphorical stuff took care of itself. It may be chilly out there folks, but it's also true that camping out is a temporary state, so keep the faith. Keep waving that wee flag for your special person. Bleurgh! Happy New Year.

A Very Cat Batchelor Christmas

2011-12-22T16:41:00.004Z

You can remind yourself of his all-year-round misery here.

***

Like elves, John Lewis delivery drivers and naughty children, Christmas is a particularly difficult time of year for the jilted. So what better way to spend the festive period than at someone else's wedding?

Cat Batchelor has been engaged in sparkling conversation with the Nice Girl next to him since the prawn cocktail. His mother approves of her, and she actually isn't too bad.

When he's scraping the last bits of cream from his dessert plate, he realises she is too. She's exactly in sync. She's been following him, stalking his cream mouthfuls. Weirdo.

She's not a coffee drinker. This troubles him; all the pluses are fading quickly. She is running her hand around her glass, about to say something. He steps in.

“Yum! Great pud.”

Critical eyebrow.

“Yeah, it was good I suppose. Sort of mass-made hotel - you know?”

“Well, it's tiramisu for a hundred and fifty. That is mass-made.”

“But I mean, made by a machine. In a factory.”

This woman is deranged.

“You think this tiramisu was made by robots? Little bolted claws pushing the sponge fingers into the little cups? You're right. That is terrible. That must be why it tastes so awful.”

She is unphased. Definitely crazy, then.

“Anyway. Look at what they have for a cake. What even is that?”

She's looking over at the full-sized croque-en-bouche that he assembled as a wedding cake. It took him all day, and two attempts. He's left the first one in his kitchen, so he'll probably return to a cat in a sugar coma. He decides it's best to be honest.

“Oh, I made it actually. It's a croque-en-bouche. It's cream-filled choux pastry, held together with spun sugar.”

“You made it?” He can see the cogs turning as she tries to picture an actual human being assembling something without the aid of a factory production line. All of a sudden he misses the seafood chef. She understood that people could do beautiful, complicated things with food. For about the hundredth time, he wonders if he can get over the crustacean smell. When he told her he didn't want to meet up again, he pretended it was because he was still too broken up inside to be useful. But really it was the smell. It was faint, very faint... but like the ticking of a clock, once you remembered it was there you just couldn't ignore it.

He sees his mother coming back from the toilet, giving him The Look. He is supposed to be Making An Effort with this girl, so that at least by next year, his mother will have an easier time writing the Christmas letter.

She had chosen to phone him at work about it, which already put him on edge.

“I'm just in the middle of composing The Christmas Letter, and I -”

“ - just leave me out. I really have to go, Mum; I'm practising my choux for the weekend.”

“Lovely, darling.”

“Well it won't be lovely if it's heavy. So can we talk about this another time?”

“Well not really, Daniel. I want to get it printed out tonight so I can get them away in the morning. We've already had hundreds, including one from the Morrises, who I had thought we could strike off the list, but -”

“Say I went to Peru. I've been perfecting the craft of pastry with the Peruvian master baker... Jose Filo.”

“Oh stop it. You should be glad I'm phoning to ask your opinion at all. Your father said I should just tell the truth.”

“You could do that, and then include a little insert of a paper dartboard with Sophie's face on it.”

“Oh, your father already has one of those.”

“What? Really?”

“Yes dear. Now, if you could just give me some suggestion of what you want, then you'll be happy and I'll be happy and you won't have to worry about it again for another whole year.”

Dan did not get married. It was a very last-minute decision, but he really enjoyed the trip to Barbados. It's such a beautiful part of the world. He still lives in Hammersmith, with a cat, and he's getting a lot of work done.

Or:

Remember Sophie, who was included in the family photograph on last year's letter (the blonde...chubby cheeks)? Well she only went and jilted Dan at the altar! Please find a little festive dartboard enclosed, where you can share in some of the Christmas cheer currently being enjoyed in the Hastings household. Merry Christmas!

To be fair to her, his mother faithfully took down both options and said she would discuss it with dad. But then he knew which one he would choose.

Hey, Sporty!

2011-12-18T22:04:00.003Z

I have just finished watching the first season of Friday Night Lights. It is an American TV drama series following the fortunes of the fictional town of Dillon, Texas. The beating heart of this town is the Dillon Panthers, the high school football team. The television series is based on both a feature film of the same name from 2004, and a non-fiction book 'Friday Night Lights: A Town, A Team, and a Dream' (1990) by H. G. Bissinger.

Now I am as surprised as you all will be, at the idea of me enjoying a series about American football. I'm sure you American TV fans can name one other series 'about' sports, but I should emphasise that this series puts One Tree Hill's 'basketball brothers' slant well and truly in the shade. What surprised me the most is that this show has been running since 2006, with very little popular success. It had to change networks in the States after two seasons, although it is now beginning to gain the critical acclaim it deserves; it has recently received numerous nominations in the Primetime Emmys. But just to give you an idea of how well it got on over here, it was first aired on ITV 4 in 2010 on a Tuesday night, before moving to 1.30am on a Thursday. That's nasty!

The pilot episode in itself is an incredible piece of drama. It is shot entirely with hand-held cameras, which adds to the docu-drama feel of the episode. This is a technique that continues to be used throughout the series; it takes a little getting used to, but it definitely adds to the authenticity of the portrayal of this small town. It is this authenticity that makes this show different from One Tree Hill, for example. When I watched One Tree Hill, I remember thinking that it was refreshing to watch a show about teenagers who weren't rich like they were in The OC. Only after watching Friday Night Lights do I understand what many small American towns are really like. For example, the idea of the entire town shutting up shop on game days was alien to me. The show confronts the issues of racism, religion, parenting, and ambition through fully believable plotting. It also casts a largely unknown set of actors; all in all, it feels new, and different, and deserving of greater acknowledgement.

And before you worry, I should point out that football matches do not dominate every episode. The clichéd structure of pre-game troubles and post-game bliss is thankfully missing. Often entire episodes pass without a game being played on screen, and when we do see them, it is often just a fleeting glimpse. This was a relief for me, keen athlete that I am.

If you're still not convinced, I suggest you simply watch the pilot episode. If series aren't your thing, then you can at least enjoy this episode as a programme in its own right. It gives you a great idea of the themes of the show in a pacy yet intriguing way, with a stunning ending. And if you are musically inclined, try Tony Lucca's 'Devil Town', which is the show's recurring theme song.

So, if you're stuck for a last-minute Christmas present, or when you have some cash to splash in the sales (ha!), give this series a try. I promise you will not be disappointed. And while you're there, get Whip It; it's about sports too, and it's got Kristen Wiig in it, and she's great.

Being a thoroughly unathletic Scottish female, I am puzzled at my burgeoning interest in American football and the towns it is played in. By complete coincidence, last week I listened to a recent podcast from This American Life, which just happened to be about American football. It was a follow-up episode, where they returned to Penn State University following the allegations of sexual abuse that now surround their football team and its coaching staff. It was a follow-up episode because, back in 2009, they had previously visited the school to report on its new position as America's Number One Party School. This report was about the school's alcohol-fuelled atmosphere, and in particular, its fascinating primal relationship with its football team and football culture. Hearing about these allegations, and the strain it has put on this American tradition, was certainly thought-provoking. I'm no quarterback, but I just can't seem to get this sport and its fans out of my mind. Who knows; maybe there could be some American football short fiction coming soon.

I'm off to practise my cheers.

I first read about Friday Night Lights in an article in The Sunday Times Culture magazine, and a lot of what was written there remained in my mind as I watched the show. This article is no longer available online, and when it was, it was only available to subscribers. At the time I did not note the writer's name, but if they ever read this, thanks for bringing this show to my attention. I hope I haven't ripped off your article too much.

You can listen to the archived This American Life podcasts about Penn State
here, and you can download the latest one every week for free from the iTunes store.

bear and pineapple

2011-12-17T23:11:00.001Z

Here are two unrelated flash morsels that I wrote during my recent cabin fever stint. I could try to blame Cocodamol for their incomprehensibility, but that would be a lie. Enjoy!

Bear

This is a still day; a grey sky with no push or pull. There's nobody here in tears or with stories to share or angry at world leaders. They call this cabin fever – sure this tenement rocks like a temporary shelter - but outside my window, chimneys and cranes remind me that I pay taxes to keep these roads smooth; this is the city, not the woods.

What if one day this familiar silence was broken by a bear?

I would be safe up on the third floor, so maybe I could dangle a steak on a string down into his hungry mouth. A steak washed down with traffic cones and hard hats from the abandoned roadworks nearby.

A Lothian bus, not forewarned - or just fearless? - would hiss its way into the bear's path; being a locally owned company they have a duty to keep this city running smoothly. Thanks to their regularity and their plentiful routes, two or more buses hem the bear in until zoo officials arrive and with one swift movement fell it still.

***

Poor Pineapple

I read that if you leave pineapple flesh uncovered in your fridge, before too long everything else in there will start to taste of it.  

Put a pineapple in a room – in front of an audition panel, say – and it doesn't stand a chance against an all-singing, all-dancing human being, with the ability to reason or apply logic or tie shoelaces.

But the pineapple is top of its class – it is top of Tropical Fruits; more attitude than the mango, cheaper than the passion fruit, and more accessible than the guava.

So it has some mad skills, even if it doesn't have a mouth.

However, it has come to my attention that the pineapple is now the go-to object for the mundane creative exercise. For example, photography student: “See how many interesting angles and shadows you can get from this baby!”. Or, playwright: “It's two men in a room! With a pineapple! Nothing happens!”

The days of the simple apple-and-cloth still life are clearly behind us. But can't you see, in its flesh-piercing eyes and mid-90s 'crazy' hairstyle, that the pineapple has no place in the GCSE art lesson? Take your eyes off him for a second, and he's ruined your cheese. This fruit is not to be underestimated.

If any artists out there would like to draw me a picture of Hamlet holding a pineapple like Poor Yorrick's skull, then it could appear RIGHT HERE under this very fine piece of fiction.