Day One

Well, the interview went pretty good, thanks for asking. It was kind of strange sitting in an empty studio with the host in London, and two other interviewees in San Fransisco and Brighton but I think I coped quite well, despite starting off like a footballer talking about 'the challenge'. It's on in half an hour, just watch I'll have been edited out completely or something! Anyway the good news is that I've been and gone and met and breached my word count target for the day. The text for Day One follows, be kind, and remember I haven't really edited it so there will be mistakes, just hope that they're not gaping ones. Oh and sorry about the language, mother. Oh nearly forgot, like all proper books I've got some quotes, the two song lyrics are from the songs which inspired the plot, but don't get too hung up on that. Keris reckons that they don't count towards the word total, so reluctantly I've not included them:

Good luck is often with the man who doesn’t include it in his plans – Anon

I’m very lucky. The only time I was ever up shit creek, I just happened to have a paddle with me. – George Carlin

And when there's pain, he never minds it
When it's lost, he always finds it
Nobody really knows just why
He just must be a lucky guy
I wish I was that lucky guy

Todd Rundgren – ‘Lucky Guy’

’cause they’re waiting for me.They’re looking for me.Ev’ry single night they’re driving me insane.Those men inside my brain.

Cheap Trick – ‘Dream Police’

Geek, Specky-four-eyes, double-glazing face, four-eyes, four-eyed fuck, four-eyed fuck-face, Spotty Muldoon, Paddy-pisses-in-his-pants, Smelly Kelly, horse, gorging George, gorgeous George (I knew they were taking the piss with that one). Just a selection of the noms-de-plume I have endured since early childhood. And that was before my parents would let me go to school. Ho ho. No, of course all these nicknames were bestowed on me by my peers, a few of whom I even called friends in an attempt to be like “the others”. Eventually, I decided that “the others” were a set of bastards who weren’t worth bothering with and decided to stick with just the two friends. Saves on money at Christmas and birthdays anyway. Let’s have it right, I am what would, under any normal criteria applied by society, be called a nerd.
Slightly above-average IQ? Check. Unfashionable haircut? Check. Sometime spectacles-wearer? Check. Rather more than passing interest in sci-fi and fantasy novels which are part of a trilogy? Check. No discernable interest in fashion? Check. Retreats into an imaginary world and spends more time than strictly necessary worrying about intangible forces of evil and arcane defence mechanisms? Er, well, let’s not get into that one just yet. This isn’t Harry fucking Potter.
Let’s deal with the name first; George Graham Kelly. Given to me by my da, an Irish émigré for whom his beloved Arsenal winning the league and cup double and the birth of his only son happened to coincide within hours of each other. For anyone without a Rothmans (the football yearbook, rather than the fag) to hand my names are apparently the scorers of Arsenal’s goals in the Cup Final. Ah, but Arsenal only scored two goals, the more pedantic amongst you might contest. Well, strictly speaking, yes. The first goal was (allegedly) disputed by both George Graham and Eddie Kelly, but my da reasoned that, as his surname was Kelly, if he put the second goal scorer, Charlie George, first, then gave me the middle name for his favourite player, George Graham, then all bases were covered.
This story formed the basis of many a performance at family gatherings when I was forced to recount the entire cup-winning Arsenal team including unused substitutes, then re-enact Charlie George’s goal celebration where he flops on his back, arms raised in weary salute. This scarred my early childhood until I was old enough to work out that I could get the names wrong and exasperate my da enough so he would stop asking. I’ve hated football ever since. And I’m not that keen on my name either.
Not that Da hung around long after I stopped caring about his Arsenal. As far as I know he stopped caring about Arsenal not long after as well. At least he didn’t feel the need to knock out a tedious memoir about the angst of supporting Arsenal and make a fortune out of it in the process. Not that Da wasn’t capable of writing a book, far from it, he certainly didn’t conform to the stereotype of the ‘tick Paddy’ over on the ferry to tarmac your drive in the middle of the night or drink Guinness till he puked then mount a collection for the cause to the strains of the Wolftones on the jukebox. Da was an intelligent fella who would rather discuss the day’s news or last night’s match over a coffee after his shift. Da was a fireman, probably still is somewhere, but as my mother would never tire of saying ‘he never put out the fire in my heart.’ Even though he pissed off for God knows where fifteen years ago. She still talks about him as if he’d popped down the shops for a loaf. I think it’s fair to say I was a bit of a disappointment to him. He had high hopes for me following him into ‘the job’, arranging visits to the depot after-hours where his mates would pretend not to be swearing, misogynistic arseholes for the hours I was there in an attempt to impress me. I even put out a few fires myself, albeit in an oil drum in a controlled environment, but I never got that excited about sliding down the pole or wearing a shiny helmet or riding a big red beast through the town at a hundred miles an hour or any number of other single entendre distractions which Da’s boys seemed to find endlessly amusing.
The funny thing is that I still kind of miss him even now. He was always a presence, even though he was a pain in the arse throughout most of my adolescence. And he could be incredibly generous, like the time he took myself and my mates to Scotland and we spent two weeks travelling all over and never had to find a penny to pay anywhere. Actually, looking back it was funny that he seemed to know all the hoteliers personally and seemed slightly furtive when he paid for meals and never seemed to hand over any cash at any point but what the hell. Shugsy (that’s my one male mate, I’ll come to him in a minute) idolised Da and was more upset than me when he left, even proposing that we go and find him for up to a year afterward.
Mum only lives with me on the weekends now. She was diagnosed with MS about five years ago but has only started deteriorating physically the last couple of years. She lives in a home during the week and comes back to the house Friday night till Monday. Once we’d sorted out the financial mess that Da had left behind, she got the house signed over to me, and then signed herself into the home at Lytham St Annes. Originally she decided that she would stay there full time but I insisted and in the end I think she was grateful to come home part-time. It works out pretty well with my jobs and besides Shugsy and Marlene (my only female friend, I’ll come to her in a bit as well) live here with me and they help out. Anyone looking in would think it’s a bit of a strange set-up but it seems perfectly normal to me, it just kind of happened. Anyway I’d already lost one parent, I didn’t fancy losing another, Oscar Wilde would have a field day. If he wasn’t dead.
Mum still likes to be independent and she hasn’t let the fact that she’s in a wheelchair 90% of the time put her off doing what she wants. In that respect she puts me to shame. I’m quite keen to make like a sloth when I’m not working but she virtually kicks me and Shugsy out of the house to go down the pub so she can have one of her talks with Marlene, who she sees as the daughter she never had. I think that Mum still thinks that me and Marlene might get it together one day, but we’ve been friends too long and in that respect Mum has kind of got her wish, she does seem more like a sister to me. I had the kitchen re-fitted when Mum was diagnosed so all the counter tops are low enough for her to reach and she can get in and out of all the doors whilst still in her chair. Mum and Marlene handle the cooking which is just as well as I’m useless with food, kind of ironic given that one of my jobs is in the food industry and Shugsy’s sole contribution is to lug the shopping in and consume it as fast as it’s put in front of him. Mum virtually lives downstairs anyway whilst me and Shugsy take the upstairs and Marlene has the attic room, which has been converted into a loft. I think it appeals to her artistic tendencies anyway, she pretends she’s in Manhattan or somewhere, even if she is looking out over the Lancashire moors.
Marlene probably dislikes her name more than I detest mine. Most people assume that she’s named after the braying blousy wife of Del Boy’s mate in Only Fools and Horses and do oh-so-amusing impression, i.e. “Maaaarleeeene” which makes me want to wrap their heads in a carrier bag and pull the handles till they go purple. So would you if you had introduced her to someone and heard it for the gazillionth time. Anyway, if they stopped to think for a moment they would realise that Marlene is thirty-two and predates John Sullivan’s creation’s first appearance on telly by at least ten years. No, she is named after a song on her Dad’s all time musical hero, Todd Rundgren’s third album “Something/Anything”. Which is kind of sweet, given that the words go “Marlene, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” and sings about how his eyes will always see hers. I think that was the first album I ever heard, in Marlene’s bedroom, and we still listen to it every once in a while, even though she cries every time her song comes on. Marlene is still close to her Dad, even though he lives in California, and talks to him nearly every week and e-mails him at least once a day. It’s a damn sight better reason to name someone anyway. Even though she’s still not keen on the name at least she’ll always have the real reason behind it in her head as I hover behind someone doing their best Boycie down the pub with a Morrison’s bag in my hand. Marlene sometimes jokes that we might as well get married because no-one else would want us and we put any prospective partners off anyway because we’re so close. I usually say that no-one would want me but she could have any bloke she wanted. Occasionally, if she’s having a sense of humour failure or she’s had too much cider she gets a bit intense and starts telling me how I should stop talking like that and she grasps my hand and starts touching my face which freaks me out a bit, especially if Shugsy’s with us. It only embarrasses the big dope, but at least it means he usually shambles off to get a round in. She does worry me sometimes with her intense chats, but mostly she’s a sweet-natured girl (yeah I know I should call her a woman, but I still think of us as teenagers, so deal with it) and she’d do anything for you. I do feel incredibly protective of her but I usually leave it to Shugsy to defend her honour if the need arises, given that he’s six foot four and walks like he’s got a coathanger still in his coat, and I look like Jarvis Cocker’s weedy younger brother, only with worse hair.

Word count: 1808
% over target: 8.46%
Words to go: 48,192
Word of the day: Arcane