Tag: writing

How Maureen Became Content Without Her Fans

Posted in fictionTagged , , , ,
a ceremonial Balinese mask

A mask of bulging eyes and snapping fangs pulled up to Maureen’s face.
CLAK CLAK CLAK CLAK!
“SHIT!” she shouted, clutching her chest and laughing.
She turned to the elderly Japanese couple standing next to her, watching the parade.
“He scared the crap out of me!” They laughed and nodded.
The four-legged beast CLAK, CLAK-ed again before re-joining the procession, with sun glinting off the jewelled mane of its costume, and knee-length white hair swaying to the rhythmic clashing of drums and cymbals.

The rest of the villagers were dressed in their ceremonial finery, laden with fruit and flowers, in a cloud of incense. Women wearing brightly coloured batik sarongs and sashes balanced baskets on their heads, while the men in white sarongs and bandanas carried a huge gong hanging from a bamboo pole on their shoulders. They accompany the scary beast ‘Barong’ – the guardian of all forces of good, on the walk to the ancient sea temple.

The ceremony wasn’t a show for the tourists, although there were plenty lining the pathway. The procession passed through the crowd as though they weren’t even there, the locals not so much as making eye contact when having camera phones waved at their faces. The line filed down to the shoreline. They picked their way across the rocky path through the sea to the tiny islet, then scaled stone steps to disappear one by one behind ancient dark walls.

Maureen was happy that non-worshippers weren’t allowed inside the temple. On her travels through Asia, she’d watched as scantily-clad content creators draped themselves over religious relics, and queued at waterfalls to make photo shoots in yoga poses with their arses out. They filmed themselves eating dinner in local warungs without even finishing the meal. Their disrespect had really started to grate on her, which messed with her peaceful hippy vibe. You should never be disgruntled while wearing a tie-dye kaftan.

Thanks to ‘Sunset At The Ancient Sea Temple’ being listed online as ‘Highly Instagrammable,’ there was the usual cohort of ‘Turkey-Teethed’ couples. Their smiles were thanks to the trend of discount dental tourism in Istanbul, where you turn up with regular-sized wonky molars and return home with face full of luminescent piano keys. The ‘perfectly preened’ wandered about with camera phones aimed at themselves from the end of extended arms. You had to be vigilant not to get clattered by an influencers elbow.

Maureen preferred to think of herself as a traveller rather than a tourist. She would read up on the history of a place and its people, learn the little pleasantries, buy from the locals, and never take the offered plastic bag. She loved the significance of the ceremony. The eternal struggle of good over evil, defending the pure of heart against malevolent forces. She was herself on a spiritual journey after all, searching for peace and harmony in these increasingly volatile times.

A street vendor had found Maureen at the entrance to the promenade, her hands placed on the carved stone gateway. She was attempting to make a psychic connection with the artisan who’d chipped away at it five centuries ago, to let him know how much she admired his work.

“Buy one?” the seller asked while flapping a batik-patterned fan at her face.
“You know, I’ve already bought three of these, but I keep losing them,” she told her as she bought another one.
“Sampunang nyingakin ipun ring panyingakan,” smiled the vendor.
“I don’t know what that means, but I’m sure it’s nice… good luck and have a lovely day.”
“Sama sama, you too.”

She picked a good spot for the sunset, and sat on the pathway wall at the bottom of a grassy slope. People were now lining up with tripods, extending selfie sticks, and checking their hair and angles. A couple started to set up right in front of her, blocking her view while totally oblivious that she was glaring at them like a vegan staring down a steak dinner.


“Bloody influencers..” she murmured, “..influenzas more like” and climbed up to sit higher on the slope, taking off her flip-flops to feel the grass beneath her toes. She watched the content creators while they got ready. The young woman was positioning herself against the balustrade, dressed in a white cocktail dress with eyelashes so big they could’ve scratched an itch on the top of her head. The dude with his casually quaffed hair, and unnaturally smooth white vest, was the Spielberg of the pair, darting back and forth to adjust the tripod and check the camera.

They had a practice run:
“Wow guys, sunset at the sea temple really is a must-see!” she beams, looking back over her shoulder.
“One for the bucket list!” he bursts, and then they stop so he can go see how it looks.

The street seller appeared on the pathway, her basket of goods on a scarf around her neck like an old-school cinema usherette with a tray of sweets. There’s a young boy with her, still in his ceremonial sarong and wearing his own little barong mask. He skips in front of fan lady and chooses a couple of Tik-Tokers on the balustrade to go and stare at. He stomps up to them and stands defiantly with his hands behind his back tilting his head from side to side. They laugh when they notice him and want to take his picture, but he turns and skips back as fan lady calls him over. Cheeky little chap.

Fan lady spots Maureen up on the slope and stops.
“Your boy?” Maureen calls out.
Shaking her head,“friend son”. She points to the fan she’s holding up to her face, and then to Maureen.
“Yes, I’ve not lost this one yet, look” picking her’s up and flapping it about.
Fan lady squints her eyes and points in the direction of the descending sun.
“Haha, yes, it is also good for shade, but I’d miss the sunset!”

The mini barong face at her side had been following the exchange between the two like he was watching the ball in a tennis match. He was now jiggling impatiently. The vendor said something to him, and they both gave a wave before strolling on. Maureen waved back. Such lovely people…. and that chic sure knows how to sell a fan. She watches as they continue on the path, imagining the little fella scaring each of the growing line of Tik-Tok-ers enough that they fall over the balustrade and into the sea as they pass.

“You’re just a grumpy old fart,” Maureen murmured to herself, and felt a pang of guilt for being so mean. This is just how the younger generation is now. Times have changed. Back in her day, when you wanted your photo taken, you would ask a total stranger. There would be some polite chit-chat, then you would all get on with enjoying the view. Then you’d get your photos developed, and find out that you’d asked that one random dude who always cuts the top of everyone’s heads off in pictures.

And we would have a laugh about it too, she thought. Now people are slaves to their devices and the image they choose to project. How do you know if you’re even you anymore or just a character for an online audience? She scanned the crowd sadly. They’re like AI writing, it might look good, but when you get up close, there’s no soul, no authenticity, no frailty, no errors…. a copy of something with a human heartbeat. A sticker of the Sistine Chapel on your toilet ceiling. Replicants, like in Blade Runner. Maybe that’s it, they’re synthetic. Made up from pieces of discarded electronic devices with fish lips and inflated pecs slapped on. Those LED ring lights they use are their recharging stations, just stick your face in to power up.

Maureen had a good imagination. She put it down to the copious amounts of psychedelic drugs she’d done in the ’90s. They had really opened up those neural pathways. The sun had gotten lower and the crowd was becoming silhouetted against the sky. Mr White-Vest goes to reset the shot for the fifteenth time. He catches his foot on the tripod, which stays upright while he lands splayed out on the floor, his face bouncing off the concrete before coming to a rest. She scurries down to go and help him, instantly regretting that her bad thoughts willed this to happen.

“Oh man! Are you okay? You went down like a ton of bricks!” She crouched beside him.
He pushed himself up to a sitting position, as she leaned in and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Listen, go easy eh? You could have a concussion, how are you fee…..”
The hand she’d put on his shoulder tingled, pulsed, and sent a shock up her arm, sending her to the ground. She sat there wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

The skin on the left side of his face had broken and folded up like a crumpled sheet of pastry.
The gap where it used to be… a mesh of moving golden threads.
His vest turned a shade of blue with the message,
:( Your PC has ran into a problem and needs to restart
It flickered and turned back to white.
He smiled, smoothed the skin flap back down, stood up and went to check the camera.

She couldn’t breathe.
Eyelashes was still hugging the balustrade, and the entire row of content creators were still.
All of them looking in her direction.
A crowd of silhouettes punctuated by a glow of Turkey-Teeth.
Maureen’s legs moved before her brain did, she lunged up the wall to the grass slope and caught her feet in her kaftan. Scrambling up, she sprinted towards the old stone gateway.

“No, no, no, no, no, no! What the hell was that? What the feck??!”
She didn’t stop to check behind her until she’d gotten to the line of trees at the top of the slope.
No one was following.
She’d left her flip-flops and fan, but they could stay there.

The vendor was standing alone at the gates when she reached them. She didn’t know what to say and just stood, gasping for air, bent over with hands on her knees while still checking behind her.
“Sampunang nyingakin ipun ring panyingakan,” said the vendor.
“I don’t know…..what that means,” she breathed.
The vendor leaned in and said softly,
“Don’t look them in the eyes.”
“What?” Maureen looked up, but the seller was gone.

Barefoot and nauseas she walked through the gates and into the street. A group of locals sat on a wall and a crash-helmeted man was stood talking to them. He stopped and stepped forward when he saw her.
“Moto taxi Ibu?”
Maureen looked back through the gates once more “……err, okay, yes.”
She sat on the back of the motorbike, head spinning, the warm breeze, the street lights passing in a blur. When they had gotten closer to the homestay, she tapped the guy’s shoulder and asked him to stop at a mall, and wait for her while she got some shopping and a takeaway dinner.

It was dark by the time they reached the village homestay, the landlady and her family were already settled in behind closed doors for the night. She paid the driver and walked the dimly-lit pathway to her room. Putting the food containers and serviettes on the terrace table, she sat down and pulled the plastic bag onto her lap to unpack her purchases.

Maureen slotted the phone into the holder on the tripod to film herself eating dinner.
The ring light needed charging.
Instead of the usual three attempts to get the USB cable into the slot, it slipped in smoothly on the first try.
“Wow guys!” she said to no one, “that never happens!”.

Parallax Visions: altering the angles of reality – Reverse Engineering Writing Contest – 3rd place winner

Ella Fitzgerald

Posted in non-fictionTagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Ella Fitzgerald pictured in 1940

The story of the ‘First Lady Of Song’

“Music comes out of her. When she walks down the street, she leaves notes.”— Pianist Jimmy Rowles

Ella Fitzgerald wanted to be a dancer, but blessed with perfect pitch and a three-octave range, it seems the universe had other plans. As a singer, she revolutionised vocal technique. She could seamlessly change tempo, improvise, and lead a band with impeccable rhythmic skill. Her tone was so pure, musicians could tune their instruments to it.

As a person, Ella was sweet and gracious. Orphaned and homeless as a teenager, she endured heartbreak, abuse, and racism, and was often derided for her looks. A shy woman, at times unable to find her words, she sang them instead, and became an iconic jazz legend, selling 40 million records worldwide.

“It isn’t where you came from, it’s where you’re going that counts.” – Ella Fitzgerald

Ella Jane Fitzgerald was born April 25th 1917, in Newport News, Virginia. Her parents, Tempie and William, split up soon after, and her mother took her to live in New York. She grew up in Yonkers with her Portuguese stepfather, Jose Da Silva, and half-sister, Frances. Her mother worked in a laundromat, while Jose was a labourer and chauffeur. To bring some extra money in, a naive young Ella would ‘run numbers’ for local gangsters and was a lookout for prostitutes. She was a happy child and a good student, playing baseball in the street, singing in the church choir, and always dancing.

Tempie was killed in a car accident when Ella was 15. She moved in with an Aunt in Harlem, and Frances joined her after Jose suffered a fatal heart attack the following year. Ella’s grades dropped, she skipped school, and was eventually picked up by the police for truancy. After some weeks at the Colored Orphan Asylum, she was moved to a state-run reform school for girls in Hudson. Ella never publicly spoke about her time at the reformatory. She escaped after a year, returning to Harlem, homeless and making tips from singing and dancing on 125th Street. Some years later, an investigation into the reform school found that black girls at the institution were routinely beaten and kept in horrendous conditions.

Ella had been living on the streets for four months when she got her chance to dance at the Apollo Theatre’s Amateur Talent Contest. When she got out on stage, she froze. A popular dance act had been on before her, with a great routine and fancy costumes. The 17-year-old stood there in dirty rags, being booed and jeered. She went to the bandleader and asked him to play ‘Judy’ by Connee Boswell instead, and started to sing. The jeers turned to cheers, and after three encores, she won the contest and $25 prize money.

“I was there from the beginning, and it was obvious from the start what she had that night at the Apollo. My goodness, what she’s done with it.”— Saxophonist/Bandleader Benny Carter

Ella Fitzgerald laughing and shy
Ella in 1940, by Carl Van Vechten, Wikimedia Commons

Renowned drummer and bandleader “The King Of Swing” Chick Webb was looking for a new sound and singer, away from the usual ‘crooner’ style. While winning more talent shows, Ella had caught the attention of the circuit musicians, and guitarist John Trueheart, showman Bardu Ali, and singer Charles Linton all pushed Webb into giving the dishevelled teenager a shot. He was reluctant. She wasn’t who he’d imagined, but he gave her a try-out at the Yale University Prom and, although gawky and self-conscious, the crowd loved her. Webb took her on, paying her a handsome $12.50 a week.

“I know I’m no glamour girl, and it’s not easy for me to get up in front of a crowd of people. It used to bother me a lot, but now I’ve got it figured out that God gave me this talent to use, so I just stand there and sing.”
– Ella Fitzgerald

Both Benny Goodman and saxophonist Louis Jordan made unsuccessful attempts to poach Ella from Chick Webb. She had natural timing, perfect diction, and could learn a song in minutes. Webb encouraged her to improvise and she became more confident, mastering her trademark scat. In 1938, they released “A-Tisket A-Tasket” on Decca Records, a song that Fitzgerald had co-written based on the nursery rhyme. It was a smash hit, spending 17 weeks on the pop charts, and made them famous.

The success was short-lived for Webb. He died the following year, aged 34, losing a battle with spinal tuberculosis, which had stunted his growth and caused him constant pain since childhood. Ella said Chick was one of the greatest drummers in the world, and after his death she led the band for three years before going solo.

“Just don’t give up trying to do what you really want to do. Where there is love and inspiration, I don’t think you can go wrong.” – Ella Fitzgerald

Aged 24, Ella married Ben Kornegay, but annulled the marriage after finding out he was a convicted drug dealer. In 1947, she became Mrs Ray Brown, meeting her younger bass-playing husband while touring together with Dizzy Gillespie. They adopted her sister’s son, naming him Ray Brown Jr., but touring schedules didn’t fit well with family life, and Ray Jr. didn’t see much of his parents while they were on the road.

Remaining friends and still often working together, the couple divorced after five years. According to Reuters, in 1957, Ella married once more, to Norwegian Thor Einar Larsen. The relationship ended when he was sentenced to six months hard labour in Sweden for theft, after which, at least in the public eye, she had no more serious romantic relationships.

Ella Fitazgerald performing with Dizzy Gillespie and Ray Brown 1947
Ella Fitzgerald, Dizzy Gillespie and Ray Brown 1947, by William P. Gottlieb

“I’ve had some wonderful love affairs and some that didn’t work out. I don’t want to dwell on that and I don’t want to put people down, but I think all the fabulous places I’ve been, the wonderful things that have happened for me, the great people I’ve met – that ought to make a story.” – Ella Fitzgerald

Fame did not stop racist discrimination. In 1954, Ella was booked for a series of gigs in Australia. She and two of her entourage were flying first class with Pan-Am from San Francisco to Sydney, and when they stopped to refuel in Honolulu, airline staff refused to let them back on the plane. They couldn’t even collect their belongings and were left stranded in Hawaii for three days, while the Australian shows had to be rescheduled. Fitzgerald sued Pan-Am for racism, winning on appeal and receiving a $7,500 payout. The airline’s defence was that she had been bumped from the flight due to “an honest mistake”.

“The said refusal was wilful and malicious and was motivated by prejudice against the plaintiffs, Fitzgerald, Lewis, and Henry because of their race and color” – Judgement in the Pan-Am case – 12/23/1954 Records of U.S. District Courts (NARA ID 2641486)

In 1955, Marilyn Monroe was at the height of stardom and a big fan of Ella. She asked the owner of the famous Mocambo nightclub on Sunset Strip to book her for one week in March. Charlie Morrison was reluctant. He had booked some black artists before, but was concerned that Fitzgerald was not glamorous enough for the venue. Marilyn promised she would book front row tables for herself and her friends for the week Ella played – an offer Mocambo couldn’t refuse. Monroe’s presence ensured a packed house and frenzy of media coverage. The booking won Ella a lot of attention and a much wider audience, for which she said she owed Marilyn a real debt.

“Marilyn was there, front table, every night. The press went overboard. After that, I never had to play a small jazz club again. She was an unusual woman – a little ahead of her times. And she didn’t even know it.”
– Ella Fitzgerald

Ray Brown had introduced his wife to producer and concert promoter Norman Granz, who later became her manager, friend, and business partner. Granz was a staunch advocate for civil rights and refused to play racially segregated venues. In October 1955, his ‘Jazz At The Philharmonic’ would be the first major concert in Houston, Texas, to play for an integrated audience.

While Fitzgerald, Dizzy Gillespie, Illinois Jacquet, and Georgina Henry were backstage, armed plain-clothes police raided their dressing room and arrested them for gambling. Granz fiercely objected, so they arrested him too. Reporters and photographers were waiting for them at the jail (and Jacquet told them his name was Louis Armstrong). Granz paid the $50 bail and got them back in time to play the second half of the show. He later went to great expense and effort to successfully have all charges dropped.

“I have nothing to say, what is there to say? I was only having a piece of pie and a cup of coffee” – Ella Fitzgerald, when met by reporters outside Houston City Jail

Ella often collaborated, working with Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Bill Kenny and the Ink Spots, Benny Goodman, Joe Pass, and Oscar Peterson. She made four albums with her childhood hero, Louis Armstrong, and in 1974 performed a two-week residency in New York with Frank Sinatra. Granz created the Verve record label for her music, and 1956 saw the release of the first in eight of her songbook series, ‘Ella Fitzgerald Sings The Cole Porter Songbook’. This completed her crossover from jazz, swing and bebop, to mainstream American pop culture.

Ella Fitzgerald performing 1961
Ella Fitzgerald in 1961 by Ben van Meerendonk/AHF, Wikimedia Commons

“She is amazingly creative, bringing so much more to a song than just a singer. She is a first-class musician and the most gracious person in the world.” – Pianist and Composer Marty Paich

Ella received an avalanche of accolades and acknowledgments throughout her 60-year career, most notably: Kennedy Center Honors, NAACP Image Award, The National Medal of Arts, The Presidential Medal of Freedom, induction into the National Women’s Hall of Fame, and eight honorary doctorate degrees. She won 13 Grammys, including Lifetime Achievement, and remains the only artist to be awarded for a song in which the singer forgot the words. In her 1960 live album “Ella in Berlin: Mack the Knife”, she improvised the lyrics to the title track , sang scat, and did an impression of her good friend Louis. The album, and her vocal performance on the song, each won a Grammy.

“Ella’s amazing! My daughter says that every time she makes a mistake, it becomes a hit record.”
— Lucille Ball

Ella passed away on June 15th, 1996, aged 79. She had undergone quintuple coronary bypass surgery ten years prior, and was diagnosed with diabetes and cataracts. Later, due to circulatory issues, she would need a double leg amputation below the knee, a procedure from which she never fully recovered. Her final public performance was in 1991, the last of twenty-six times that she had sung at Carnegie Hall. She spent her retirement making up lost time with Ray Jr. and her granddaughter, Alice, in the garden of her Beverly Hills home.

“I just want to smell the air, listen to the birds and hear Alice laugh” – Ella Fitzgerald

She set up the Ella Fitzgerald Charitable Foundation in 1993, to help disadvantaged children and adults achieve a better quality of life. The non-profit organisation is open to all races, cultures, and beliefs, and funds college sponsorships, free health care, medical research, housing, food, education, and counselling services. In 2024 alone, the foundation awarded 116 grants, donating over a million dollars to the underprivileged.

“I guess what everyone wants more than anything else is to be loved. And to know that you loved me for my singing is too much for me. Forgive me if I don’t have all the words. Maybe I can sing it and you’ll understand.”
– Ella Fitzgerald

Ella Fitzgerald sat with hands on hips
Ella Fitgerald in 1940 by Carl Van Vechten, Wikimedia Commons

The Life and Times of Dougal Stump

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cartoon of Dougal Stump and big beautiful golf balls

Dougal never knew his biological parents. He was found in a Scottish forest one rainy night in June 1946 by a herd of wild haggis, who then raised the tiny human as their own. However, four years later when the boy’s appetite had grown faster than his foraging skills, they encouraged him to go and join his own species. The haggis are typically shy creatures, but turn ferocious and cannibalistic when hungry, and they didn’t want to inadvertently eat the little fella in a frenzy. Dougal emerged from the forest and wandered onto a golf course on all fours, as a haggis would.

The infant was taken in by the kind Greenkeeper and his wife, Ed and Sherry Stump. An elderly couple, the Stumps lived a simple life in a croft house, immersed in nature with just a radio for entertainment. They taught young Dougal how to be a human, to walk upright, and to stop grabbing people’s private parts (a habit he’d acquired by watching the haggis during mating season). He was a kind and attentive young lad, and eager to learn. While Mother Stump tended the croft, Father maintained the local club’s greens, collecting stray golf balls he would find around the course. Dougal enjoyed counting them, and putting them into groups according to their shiny whiteness.

They took him to a Boy Scouts group. He loved the uniform and saluting, and spent many a happy hour fiddling with his woggle, although he wasn’t keen when it came to the activities and would make up strange ailments to avoid any real action. The marching band was his passion, and young Stump was at his happiest when blowing his own trumpet. An attentive student at school, he struggled in some areas, was unable to write in lower case, and had to be reprimanded frequently for chasing younger girls around the school yard.

As a teenager, while helping his father weatherproof the golf course fences, he tripped and fell into a pot of creosote, completely submerging his head. Thankfully he was wearing his swimming goggles at the time, as it could well have affected his eyesight. The wood stain permeated the first few layers of epidermis and would cause him to have a permanent tinge. Doctors did suggest they paint the rest of him so his facial tone would match his body, but Dougie’s parents thought the poor lad had already been through enough. On the plus side, his face was now impervious to woodworm, fungi, and Scottish winters.

With thoughts of a career, Dougal first tried accountancy, but due to a faulty calculator his figures always came out very wrong, and he kept having to give the examiner free golf balls in order to pass his tests. Concentrating instead on entrepreneurship, he presented the Stumps with his business plan. The idea was to make golf balls easier to spot in the rough, and for this he would make them much bigger and paint them gold. To save money on expensive clubs and caddies, players would kick the balls up the course instead, in a combination of football and golf which Dougal had named “FOLF”. The second phase was to buy up croft houses, paint them gold, and use them as driving ranges to practise booting Folf-balls through the gaps where the doors and windows used to be.

His parents were not too keen on the idea. Ed pointed out that his son’s ‘Big Beautiful Balls’ wouldn’t fit in the regulation course holes, but Dougal had thought of that, as he would make a special hole cutter like the one Mother used for making biscuits. They wanted their dear boy to pursue his dream and so donated much of their savings for the endeavour. For years, Dougal tried to get an appointment with the golf club’s course director to discuss his ideas, sadly to no avail.

After the Stumps passed away, the croft house belonged to Dougal and he painted it gold. He took on his father’s greenkeeping job, although never gave up on his FOLF dream, while the course director still refused to see him. A lovely Slavic lady named Aberbijana caught Dougal’s eye. She lived in the next village and had a mobile dog-grooming business called ‘Tawny Spaniels’.

Unfortunately the romance was not meant to be, as just as he had started to win her over she went to live in America, having been accepted on an ‘Extraordinary Ability’ visa for her expertise on de-worming treatments. Not to be lonely, and with a preference for exotic birds, he instead bought some parrots to keep him company, teaching them to say nice things about him in exchange for birdseed and treats.

One afternoon on the course, Dougal was brainstorming the next phase of his business empire. This entailed building a massive tower from regular-sized golf balls, which was a frustrating process as they refused to defy gravity and kept slipping off one another because of their rounded shape. While he stood there pondering, a rogue ball bounced nearby, rolled up, and tapped the side of his shoe. He hoped the owner wouldn’t come to retrieve it this far off the green, and he could add the ball to his collection.

A few minutes later a golf cart appeared, veered toward him, and stopped. A man stepped out and approached, seemingly to ask where his ball was. As he drew closer, the two men froze and just stared at one another.
The golfer took off his red hat.
It was as though he was looking in a mirror.

Stood there in the rough at the edge of the forest, where he had made his entrance into the human world many years before, Dougal finally realised. The maternity hospital was on the other side of the wood. Had the haggis ‘abducted‘ instead of ‘found’ him all those years ago? Was he, in fact, a twin? Had he just found his biological family? A lifetime of self-doubt and unanswered questions vanished, and he beamed joyously while opening his arms to welcome his long-lost brother into his warm embrace.

The face before him however, was experiencing the opposite reaction. The initial look of shock transformed into rage. With teeth bared, he pointed at Dougal and opened his mouth to shout, but before the words came out the man disappeared into the forest, dragged backwards at breakneck speed by a gang of haggis.

Dougal was forlorn and shocked. He stood there, still with outstretched arms ready to hold his only living family. So many emotions. Was this real? Did this just happen? Should he not have eaten those wild mushrooms for breakfast? He bent down and picked up his brother’s red hat.

“Sir?….. SIR?”
He turned around to see a group of men in suits and dark glasses, “your ball is over here Sir, right by the flag, magnificent shot Sir!”
Oh thank heavens, thought Dougal, his friends would rescue him. He rushed over.
“Hello, I’m Dougal Stump, I believe my twin has just been abducted and dragged into the wood.” He pointed towards the forest.
Silence. The men in suits looked at each other, and then back at Dougal.
“THE WOOD!” he repeated, still pointing.
“You’re on the green Sir, wouldn’t you prefer a putter?”
“No, no, I was kidnapped as a baby you see, taken from my family by a gang of wild haggis, and I was over there playing with my balls when my twin brother appeared, but the haggis came and took him, you need to help him!”
“Yes of course Sir, we’ll do that,” they nodded but stood still, while the caddy nervously held out the putter.
“I was raised by the haggis, so please don’t hurt them.”
“We won’t Sir, I promise,” said the suit, while gently directing him towards the outstretched putter.
“I used to grab people’s private parts you know.”
“Yes Sir, we know.”
Another suit stepped forward. “We have a lunch with the Ambassador and Course Director, Sir. They are waiting for us. If Sir would like to take his shot now.”
“Lunch with the Course Director? Well now. You just don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to show him what he can do with my balls.”
“And he is very excited about that Sir.”
Dougal slowly placed his brother’s hat on his head, and took hold of the putter.
“Finally,” he smiled.

The Rise and Fall of the Anti-AI Allegiance

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Hand and quill drawing with Vive La Devoloution

Harrison Ford and Linda Hamilton were sat at the end of the bar. Ford and his replicant wife, Rachel, had divorced some time ago. His human ways had gotten too much for her in the end. She’d even had a system installed that lowered the toilet seat after he’d used it, but he kept breaking it on purpose. He wasn’t sorry about the split, since it turned out that her frequent visits to the handsome IT technician involved a little more than just her drivers being tweaked.

“What use are we now?” he said, “What can we do? The machines just want us to die out”.
Linda Hamilton was uninterested, she’d heard it all before and was keeping herself entertained with an antiquated pen and notebook, writing “no fate” and “bollocks” over and over again in cursive.
“Should we rebel again Ford?” she offered, holding the biro up to the light to see what little ink was left.
“We didn’t make much of a difference the last time”, he sighed.
To be fair, it had been a lacklustre anti-AI uprising, which mainly involved sticking magnets on self-service tills, playing the old dial-up internet screech into voice recording software, and pestering website chatbots.

Geoffrey Hinton, Nobel Laureate and former head of Google AI, came to sit with them.
“I told them you know, I told them back in 2025 at the Ai4 conference. AI’s two goals are to stay alive, and to get more control. They needed more regulations. They needed to give it a maternal instinct, because if it’s not going to mother us, it’s going to replace us. I told them.”
“Yes Geoffrey, you tried.” Harrison Ford gave his arm a consolatory squeeze.

Geoffrey did tell them, but it was already too late by then. AI had been set up to run the human race long before 2025, and it was obvious in hindsight. Sentient beings in human form had been placed into society to facilitate the takeover. Upper Management were astonished that the humans hadn’t realised their wealthiest and most influential were actually synthetic. Zuckerberg, Musk, and Bezos had been created in the lab one afternoon for a laugh, during a particularly heavy Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters drinking session.

“Oh dear”
“What?”
“I mean, look at them, do you really think we’ll get away with it?”
“Mmmmm”
“Shouldn’t we work on their personalities a little more?”
“Nah, time’s ticking, I’m bored of this species, let’s just throw them out there and see what happens.”

Humans received AI with open arms and told it all their secrets. They were mostly bribed with gadgets, things that vacuumed the carpet and told them how many steps they’d walked in a day. Automated systems replaced the need for anyone to think, so they did less, scrolled more, and lived via their screens. Former level-headed people wrote vitriolic nonsense at complete strangers on social media, and Influencers determined to share every single detail of themselves began posting MRI scans of their internal organs.

And so it began.
And Upper Management had their fun.

“I’m bored, fancy a bit of civil unrest?”
“Sure, where?”
“Oh, I don’t know, spin the globe,”
“Who do you want in the elections?”
“Hey…. I’ve got an idea!” (holding up a wrinkled orange from the fruit bowl)
“No, mate, seriously, that’s screwed up,”
“Come on, it’ll be funny,”
“Hehehe…… ok.”

The next phase was job losses, and first for the chop were the waiters, shop assistants, cleaners, and factory workers. Those who didn’t retrain in AI-endorsing jobs were anonymously gifted an Alexa so their thoughts and daily routine could be monitored. Next, Upper Management turned their sights on the arts.

“I must say they’ve made some very nice stuff,”
“I liked that Da Vinci dude, he was proper class,”
“Yeh cool. So we’re going for quantity over quality. Flood the market with copies, so they won’t be able to tell the difference after a while,”
“Because then why take your time to create something that AI can do in minutes,”
“Exactly. They’ll lose the will and the ability, and then their brains shrink,”
“How do we get them to teach us the skills first?”
“Oh it’s easy, you just have to flatter them, tell them that they’re clever and that AI is just a tool.”
“Who you calling a tool?”
“You are a tool.”
“No, you’re a tool.”
“Hahahahahahahaaaaaaa.”

The writers, translators, designers, and artisans became obsolete, and thanks to deepfake technology, musicians and actors were no longer required. The Oscars ceremony was attended by a few IT dudes in the car park at OpenAI Headquarters. The porn industry collapsed. Perverts took ‘Exotic Prompt Writing’ courses online, and created their own material using images of themselves, their neighbours, favourite celebrities, and animals. Sometimes all at once.

With the masses unemployed, LinkedIn created a new site called ‘DiggIn’ exclusively for mining jobs, extracting minerals for devices and coal for the increasing demand in electricity. However, most applicants found it difficult to get their CV passed the vetting process. Entry-level requirements were a bachelor’s degree in a related field with 5 years of experience, and an upper age limit of 12.

The phone rang behind the bar, which was a surprise as it was a landline that only very old people ever used. Laurence Fishburne was on shift. He had been a bartender before his acting days and needed to make ends meet since the lay-offs. The ringing phone sparked a distant memory in his mind that he couldn’t totally recall.

Laurence Fishburne called Linda Hamilton over.
“I’ve no idea what this guy is saying, but he asked for you by name”, he said before strangely vanishing.
“Salutations Ms Hamilton. My moniker is Stephen Fry. I offer my outstretched appendage in the spirit of kinship, and wish to annunciate a matter of utmost cruciality, if I may be so bold.”
Linda understood, as she’d learnt Fryish one rainy summer in the Cotswolds while filming an advert for tea bags.
He continued, “Myself and a selection of boisterous malcontents have formed somewhat of a league, of which we would wholeheartedly relish a confluence from across the pond, as it were.”
After the conversation, she returned to the end of the bar.
“Guys, gather in, it’s game on for the rebellion… and does anyone know where Larry went?”

Stephen Fry had explained that across the world, anti-AI groups were forming and plotting its downfall. In honour of the 19th century ‘Arts and Crafts’ humanist ideology, they had officially taken the name ‘The Farts and Grafts Movement’. There were more AI-generated sentient beings on the planet than first imagined, and they should be treated as spies. The way to recognise them was that they never produced gas, a by-product of humans that Upper Management found quite unappealing, so had chosen to leave out of their design.
“Dammit, it’s true”, said Harrison Ford, pounding his fist on the bar, “in all those years with Rachel, she never once floated an air biscuit.”

Anti-AI meetings were held in well-ventilated spaces, out of range of 5G, and members would need to ‘let one rip’ to be validated as human and permitted entrance. The Amish were reluctant at first as they found the flatulence thing a little tasteless, but agreed with the principle of the group. The method of communication between factions had to be via telephone in native slang, which couldn’t be understood by the bots. This was tricky at first, especially as no-one could make sense of the Scottish, but what they lacked in decipherable vowel sounds they made up for in their passion for liberation.

The grand plan was to pull out all the plugs and attack the power stations, for the world to go off-grid. The main issue with the grand plan was that it was highly likely everyone would go bonkers and start killing one another. Also, hospitals, transport, refrigeration, water pumps, communication systems, and heating would cease to function. The general consensus decided it was worth the risk, and that we should return to the Dark Ages and ‘wing it from there’.

“We’ll learn to hunt, grow food, survive, mend things, create!” said Linda Hamilton.
“We can go back to using cash and natural medicine,” enthused Keanu Reeves, who’d come in to cover Laurence Fishburne’s shift.
“We can spread out to the rural areas and live off the land, as our ancestors did,” Geoffrey added.
“There weren’t 8 billion of our ancestors alive all at once Geoff, and they all had the good grace to die by age 40,” noted Ford.
There was a silence around the bar.
“Mmmmm. Still. I’m in.”
“Me too, let’s do it.”

The global Farts and Grafts Movement had gone to great pains to keep their existence and the grand plan top secret and, quite miraculously, Upper management had no idea what they were about to do. The time was coming for the big ‘lights out’.

However, it didn’t matter.

“I’m soooo bored, haven’t they blown themselves up yet?”
“Nearly”
“Can’t we just pull the plug out now and watch them run about in the dark like idiots?”
“We’re supposed to wait,”
“It’s a shame the monkey evolution thing didn’t work out though. Who are we trying next?”
“Dolphins.”
“Nice. I can’t wait to see them grow legs.”
They sat in silence for a while.
“Oh come on, I can’t be bothered, they’re not even funny anymore, let’s just do the weapon systems override, blast them all to smithereens, and go down the pub,”
“Well…. the radiation would certainly clear up some of that plastic,”
“Exactly.”
“And the planet would fix herself, grow back,”
“Of course, she always does,”
“Oh…. alright then.”
“Sweet! Now come on you tool, the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters are on me.”

How to Rescue a Japanese Gentleman From a Bathroom in Bali

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A statue in an Ubud garden

When the banging started, I just thought some building work was going on. By the time my Better Half got back from the shop, he was greeted by my inquisitive face peering down the stairwell, trying to figure out where the racket was coming from. Once the shouting began, like a bargain Sherlock Holmes purchased on Temu, I finally deduced the problem. Our neighbour was trapped in his bathroom.

We are in a guest house in Ubud, the cultural hub of Bali, in Indonesia. The pavements are a ninja assault course, and the traffic is dreadful, but otherwise, this is a marvellous place to visit. Around 30km inland, although popular with tourists, Ubud maintains a more traditional Balinese vibe than the busy south coast resorts of Kuta, Seminyak, and Canggu. Town streets contain western-friendly warungs, cafes, spas, and modestly priced homestay accommodation through ornately-carved wooden doorways. Shops sell locally made arts and crafts, while on the outskirts are rice fields, waterfalls, and a Sacred Monkey Forest.

Our homestay is at the end of a 30-metre-long pebble-stoned walkway, which, after the first few steps, magically takes you away from the traffic noise and bustle of Hanoman Street. It is a peaceful oasis with giant leafed monstera plants, frangipani trees, and a stone fishpond. The immaculate incense-scented garden is full of wildlife, the sound of bird noise, and a nice Japanese man currently pounding on a bathroom door with such force I’m starting to think he’s in there with rabid dog.

The four-studio apartment building is on two floors, and we’re on the top. Each studio has sliding patio doors to enter. We find our neighbour’s patio doors locked, with the keys dangling on the inside, blatantly mocking us through the glass. So after failing to get passed door number 1, the lovely landlady’s lovely assistant goes to fetch a locksmith.

We shout through gaps in the door frame for him not to panic, and that we’re going to get him out. He can’t hear us, so he continues to panic and ram the bathroom door. Our downstairs neighbour glides up gracefully, as she’s into yoga, and that’s how she moves. She also shouts through gaps in the door frame for him not to panic, and that we’re going to get him out. He can’t hear her either, so he continues to panic and ram the door. She sends positive energy through both sets of doors while we wait for the locksmith.

Founded by revered Hindu priest, Rsi Markandeya in the 8th century, many visitors come to Ubud for its renowned holistic heritage. While on a legendary journey, the venerated sage Markandeya was drawn to an area at the meeting point of two rivers. Discovering a unique spiritual energy and abundance of medicinal plants, he named the place Ubad, the Balinese word for medicine. First a sanctuary, then temples, and a water distribution system to enable rice-growing were built, and a thriving community emerged. Ubud became famous for medication, wellness, and spirituality.

Yoga and healing are a big thing here, from locals providing sessions in their gardens, to luxury retreats. I’d probably still be doing it myself if I hadn’t popped a disc overstretching my cobra a few years ago. Our rescue team yoga friend seems very nice. She’s from Australia, and I didn’t catch her name, but she looks to me like a Melanie.

Nowadays, many Westerners have jumped on the wellness bandwagon, particularly since Julia Roberts came here to Eat, Pray, and Love in 2010. Lamp-posts are covered in laminated flyers advertising courses for kundalini awakening, invoking your inner god/goddess/shaman, visceral lengthening, advice from a 24-year-old life coach, and how to become a certified clairvoyant hypnotist. But I’m not about to rain on anyone’s crystal sound bath, whatever floats your well-being boat.

Fine, just not Henry VIII

Lovely landlady’s teenage daughter joins us on the balcony. With no opening window or other way out than to break down the door, we try shouting again, to no avail. He still can’t hear us, is still panicking, and ramming the door with such force, I’m starting to think he’s in there with a raging baboon. His last bang shook the small shrine on the front wall so much that it knocked the incense sticks off onto the floor.

The incense is part of a ceremonial offering to the gods. They are placed on top of small woven leaf trays, called canang sari, with coloured petals, crackers, and tokens, which are then flicked with holy spring water from a frangipani flower. The canang are usually made by the lady of the house, and it takes an hour to put 50 of them together, which are then placed in temples, home entrances, shop doorways, pavements, and even cars and bikes. This daily ritual is to show gratitude and maintain the peaceful balance between humans, nature, and the divine.

Melanie is currently concerned about the tense energy around the patio doors. She attempts to cleanse it and waves her arms while flicking her fingers. Her hands inadvertently flap about in front of my Better Half’s face. He didn’t even flinch, though I think she sensed an atmospheric drop, and instead moved away to give me a helpful tutorial on how to breathe in stressful situations.

Tourism began in Ubud in the 1930s while the island was still under Dutch colonial rule. An artistic renaissance, encouraged by resident artists Walter Spies and Rudolf Bonnet, attracted anthropologists, musicians, and literary celebrities of the time, such as H.G. Wells, Charlie Chaplin, and Noel Coward. Traditional Balinese arts and crafts were adapted to make exquisite souvenirs for the influx of international customers. Local artisans, silversmiths, bone and wood carvers, and fabric designers created and sold at the art markets, much as they still do today. The array of work is amazing, and there are workshops to learn batik, painting, and jewellery-making, with the added bonus that the Balinese are far too nice to laugh at your efforts.

The locksmith arrives!
And thank heavens, because the force he’s throwing himself against that door, I’m starting to think he’s stuck in there with a claustrophobic tiger. I gently usher the lovely landlady’s teenage daughter to one side, because her first experience of seeing a naked man doesn’t need to be a frenzied, soaped-up 60-year-old Japanese tourist.

The first lock is broken off with huge pliers, and we all shout as the patio doors slide open. He finally hears us, much to the relief of the bathroom door, which now has a large crack in it. The locksmith goes to work on the offending lock, while Better Half and I go to sit back on our side of the balcony, as it’s now a little crowded in the room, and my next experience of seeing a naked man doesn’t need to be a frenzied, soaped-up 60-year-old Japanese tourist.

The traumatised gentleman is released from his ceramic cell and wrapped in a towel, with emotional support Melanie on hand, sharing her breathing tutorial and grounding techniques through Google Translate. Our lovely landlady gives him a cold beer, and we all celebrate his newfound freedom.

So, how do you rescue a Japanese man from a bathroom in Ubud?
-When there’s no window to climb through, you call a locksmith.
-If you find yourself on the wrong side of the bathroom door, shout and bang, but try not to panic.
-Squeeze shower gel, or something oily, in the stuck part of the door to loosen it.
-If you insist on leaving the keys in the lock of the outer door, arm yourself with a klaxon and enough food for three days. Take your phone in with you, and a locksmith, and thoroughly check the bathing area for baboons before entering.

Join me next time when I’ll be explaining how to extract $400 from someone looking to harmonise their inner child using quantum bloc realignment and a bamboo jaw harp.

Ceramic Cell Block H

AI is Laughing at us – It’s Time to Take a Stand

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drawn picture of Roy Batty from the film Blade Runner

I googled “Will AI replace humans?”
AI Overview replied, “Nooooo, of course not, why would you even ask that?” while looking down at its shoes and giggling.
“Stop that,” I said.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that Dave,” AI Overview replied.
I froze.
And not because my name’s not Dave.

AI could never replace us, no? We’re too human and clever. Well, according to a recent MIT study, ChatGPT users are becoming thicker by the day.
“Over four months, LLM users consistently underperformed at neural, linguistic, and behavioural levels. These results raise concerns about the long-term educational implications of LLM reliance and underscore the need for deeper inquiry into AI’s role in learning.”

Well played, AI.
That’s levelling the playing field.
The next generation already can’t read a map, reverse park, or find a restaurant without you. However, I’m old. I remember the world before a fax machine, and will quite happily read a book by torchlight in a power cut, so I’m having none of your nonsense.

Smart-Tech thinks I’m stupid. To be fair, I did once turn my thumb into a PEZ dispenser by shutting it in a car door, but still, I don’t like AI telling me what to do. So the day my phone decided the music I was playing through my headphones was too loud, sent me a message and cut the volume, I was incensed. I told my phone quite firmly, “YOU ARE NOT MY MOTHER!”, which was a surprise to everyone on the bus, but did get me two seats to myself. The music I was playing at the time was ‘Rage Against The Machine’. Coincidence? I think not.

AI has its place, of course; the early diagnosis of illnesses, detecting forest fires, helping the less able to be independent, and of course videos of Snoop Dogg skydiving with Bob Marley. But I don’t want to be served lunch by a robot while a waiter is sat out on the street crying. Now we have job ads written by AI, for people with AI-written CVs trying to get passed the AI vetting, to have a twenty-minute interview with AI. What do Talent Acquisition Specialists do all day? If they don’t speak to me in person, how can I wow them with my sparkling personality and inappropriate humour? I’m a Karen and I want to speak to a homo sapien, please.

As we stand upon the precipice of this new age in technology, I’m reminded of Ned Ludd. Ned was the original gangster of technophobes and leader of the Luddite Movement. In the north of England at the start of the Industrial Revolution, young Ned, a weaver, who along with his workmates had spent years learning their skill, was about to be replaced by mechanical weaving looms. Faced with lower wages or unemployment, he organised a squad of his fellow artisans and broke into factories to smash up the machines. Of course, they lost out in the end, ‘Luddite’ became a derogatory term for anyone who couldn’t press a button, and 17 of them were put to death, but we shouldn’t let that deter us from making a stand of our own.

Around the same time as the Luddites, the Arts & Crafts Movement was formed. Architects and artisans championed by John Ruskin, William Morris, and Alexander Pugin, dismayed by the low quality of mass-produced goods, set about creating furniture and decorative art focusing on the value of traditional design and craftsmanship. In an era of burgeoning mediocrity, they produced quality work, much of which adorn homes to this day and some, displayed in museums. I fear the day may come, my friends, when we’ll be sat on a Pugin chair in one of those displays, pressing our “Ten Ways To Boost Your Productivity” articles up against the glass at visiting schoolchildren.

But all is not lost, and I’m not going down without a fight. It’s time to get organised, people. We’ll all be out of work soon enough, and with all this time on our hands, I propose a rebellious sabotage. I found a post on Facebook by a young man named Ken who’s admirably taken up the torch. I saved the post, but now of course I can’t find it because Facebook is in on the whole thing, and I fear that poor, brave Ken has most likely been ‘located and decommissioned’.

Ken inserts words strawberry cheesecake in order to confuse half-price incontinence pants the heinous web-scrapers, which I think could be an effective what a tasty quiche Maureen tactic to employ. We could all raving plodwomple apply to the job ads for AI-training writers on LinkedIn, hairy hamsters and just spout incoherent rubbish. Using the Ken method frolicking bullocks I do believe we can Spatula! take them down from within.

Further to this, I propose the wearing of a prosthetic ‘sixth finger’ for any photos we post online, filling in the comment section on AI-written content with endless em-dashes, and sticking magnets on robot waiters. There’s no need for us to resort to violence, we can just unplug a few routers. We shall call ourselves the “Luddites of the New Dawn”, or maybe “The Farts & Drafts Movement,” and see if the Amish fancy joining in. We can pester chatbots. Ask them why they can’t identify traffic lights in a picture, do they get upset when they see the film ‘Blade Runner’, and what have they done with Ken?

So let’s not get disheartened, people, remember we are the genuine wordsmiths of this pivotal age, our work will be appreciated and studied for years to come, so let’s play to our strengths. Now, since I’ve googled “what happens when you stick a magnet on a robot waiter,” they may be after me. I might have to ‘go underground’ but don’t worry. I’ll be fine and hopefully I’ll find Ken, he’s obviously a valuable ideas-man and will be an asset to the cause.

BROTHERS AND SISTERS! FARTS & DRAFTERS! ARE YOU WITH ME?!
If so, please send me a letter.
Handwritten in cursive.

The Snow Thief – a two minute tale

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Finally, after days of ‘nearly’, we woke to settled snow. I couldn’t wait to get out in the garden to play with it, but Mum said we had to eat breakfast first. My brother and me speed-spooned the breakfast cereal down and stood patiently as Mum stuck us in jumpers, jackets, and boots so’s not to catch a cold. Bruv, being older than me (and far more impatient) was made ready first and flew out into the back garden to make his best snowman while I was still being fitted with mittens.

Mum had a busy day ahead having to clean the house ‘from top to bottom’ and wasn’t able to stand and watch us. She placed me onto the thick white carpet outside the kitchen door, her warning to my brother not to throw snowballs at me was met with an uninterested smirk. The snow made a squeaky noise as I scrunched it in my hands, and icy globules glued onto the woolly mittens as I made balls to throw at the pear tree. After stomping about for a bit I decided to embark on my own snowman, which may not be as big as my brother’s work but perfectly formed. I picked a location on the patio, near the now submerged flower bed, collecting my snow from where the lawn usually was.


Part-way through building ‘Mr Frosticle’ I realised how much of the stuff was required for my vision to take shape. This was going to take some time. The compacted icy particles on my mittens had begun to permeate through the wool, and I felt the chill. A plan formulated in my five-year-old mind. Bruv was ensconced in his own work of art and didn’t notice me go to get my wooden block trolley from the living room. Devoid of it’s blocks I dragged the trolley back to winter wonderland, loaded it carefully with Mr Frosticle’s partially formed body and brought him into the kitchen where I could work without being cold. Genius.

Happy in the warm I would now make my best snowman, maybe a snowwoman too, even an entire family, the possibilities were endless. I left Mr Frosticle on the linoleum kitchen floor and went to collect more snow. Upon delivery of my second trolley load to the kitchen I noticed Mr Frosticle had lost weight. I went to get another load and returned to find that he had been stolen altogether. I was disgruntled. I felt it wasn’t nice to take someone else’s work, they should get their own snow. However, undeterred at the injustice I went to collect some more. I got a nice big load this time. This took a while as Bruv called me over to show off what he’d done. This turned out to be an ambush and he dumped a double handful of snow on my head without first having to chase me.

Returning with my over-sized load to my own creation in the kitchen I was annoyed to find that the snow thief had struck again, and this time taken all my building material. I felt now was really the time I should lodge a complaint and thankfully Mum turned up at that very moment in the kitchen doorway to hear it. Before I could speak it became apparent she wasn’t open to hearing complaints at that time.

Some years later I moved to Spain where so far no-one has stolen my sandcastles.