Lenny, although he could clearly see out, was confident that nobody could see in, due to the bias of lighting and persevered with the trying on of the chosen garment. The garment had been chosen for him and although unsure, Lenny had gracefully accepted. He reached down and angling each foot into the over priced and not 'altogether him' pair of blue cords, slowly edged them up and over his calves. They greeted his knee with relative ease and Lenny understanding this to be the half way point, took a moment to compose himself. He looked out checking for any prying eyes and content he was not being watched, gathered the belt line of the trouser and took a deep breath. Lenny knew the second half of the journey would prove difficult, he had always avoided such drain pipe configurations as these and closing his eyes pulled up hard. The seat of the cords leap up and over his thighs with ease but as the narrowing leg of the trouser cruised up the marbled ivory, considerable friction hindered its progress. Lenny, head angled to the heavens and eyes firmly shut, pulled harder letting out a small squeal as the cords tweaked hairs and gorged flesh to their resting place. Hastily he fastened the riveted buttons and leant against the wall his eyes still closed.

Lenny took a moment masked in the innocence offered by his eyelids, imagining how the cords should look. He thought about the wonderful things that awaited him in these new trousers. He marvelled in the idea of the blue cords being the key to his future and wearing them, how dynamically he would carve his way to success. Lenny then took a peek, it wasn't a pleasant sight. His legs bulged in odd places and the trousers pinched and tweaked in others.The lines of the cord formed weird contours over his legs, similar to the mapping of a variable terrain such as the peak district. They were in short a monstrosity. Lenny ran his thumbs around the bagging waist and confirming that he had the right size, felt his chin begin to quiver. Lenny bit his lip in an attempt to stifle any leaking emotion. Things were going well with Kate, the beautiful girl waiting on the shop floor, but Lenny knew the sight of him in these things had even the power to part conjoined twins. He hopelessly paced on the spot, there was no emergency exit in this white veneered two-by-two ply wood closet, no hatch to escape through. A tear broke and like a dog let loose, ran down his cheek joyfully mocking his predicament. Lenny hadn't the mettle just to admit they didn't fit and sankey doodle out of the shop gifting them back to the tiller. Lenny knew he was committed to parading the blue cords and instead silently wept pawing the wall.

Lenny stood straight trying to shake the big girls blouse that had bubbled up inside him. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to ring out the last tear and struggled to get a hold of himself. He liked Kate a lot and couldn't face jeopardising the relationship with an ill choice of trouser. He looked down again at the tight cords randomly angling their way to his feet. He was screwed, not even his mother would be prepared for the sight of him in these leggings. Lenny sniffled and mopped at his running nose. It wasn't fair, he was not prepared to apologise for the fact his parents weren't smack heads and that he hadn't been malnourished as a child. Nor would he apologise for having once picked up a rugby ball or having squatted on the odd occasion in a public toilet. Lenny had muscles and bones in his legs and he wasn't about to disown them for the want of being fashionable. He looked down at the piping trousers. How on earth do these fit men? Had things changed so dramatically that with evolution his physique had grown over weight? Lenny again felt his chin begin to give way. He was not over weight, he was of an average size! Possessed with an inner despair, a curious cowardliness, an unwillingness to accept that his average legs were too fat for the current trend, Lenny clambered up on the courtesy chair. He reached up and battled open the slender window. There maybe no fire escape or secret hatch but he would find a way out. He wasn't going to be caught. He wasn't too fat.

Unfortunately if Lenny had managed a moment's composure, he would have noticed that not only was the window alarmed, but also there was no chance he would fit through it. Arms pinned to his side and body wedged from the gut down, Lenny found himself stuck fast in the slight window with his head hanging out over a small side street. As the blood rushed to his brain an inner calm fell upon him and he found himself politely smiling at passers by, as the alarm sang it chorus behind him. The odd bleat from Kate also made its way through the window, but this didn't disturb Lenny's new found peace, he knew he had blown any chance with her. Resigned Lenny was just grateful to be a whole wall physically removed from the horrid ill fitting blue cords.

The cafe was brimming, Lucy at first glided past, glancing through the large windows. She had never been to this cafe before and wanted to gain an understanding of its clientele before she breached its walls wearing her experimental saucy top. As she had suspected, it was a pretentious little affair and coasting to a stop two doors down, she eyed her reflection in the shop window in order to confirm that her attire was fitting. She was a pretty young girl, and although her hips were distinctly child baring making her body slightly pear shaped, most would consider her slim. Lucy turned and content that her flirty white number was suitably offset by her baggy jeans, plucked up the courage and made for the cafe. She entered with a chime and several eyes greeted her. Lucy guessed the chiming door was an effort of authenticity, but was not grateful of the attention it aroused. The cafe, as her drive by had confirmed, was a studious little number, a place where people seemingly drank coffee only to show off the text they were attempting to devour. It had been her date’s choice, a date frankly she had no interest in, nevertheless a subject she knew would serve as a prime candidate to test out a theory. The Prat suddenly erected himself at the back of the room. He stood up from the much desired two man couch and smiled with a half-raised waving arm. Lucy could only guess, having acquired such a prestigious seat, he had been there for some time. Thoughtful but too calculated. The nerd clearly wanted to look cool and in the bundle sit in close quarters so as to engage her full attention and with a little luck a knee grazing or two. All of which Lucy, who had had many a hopeless date, knew was the platform for a very intense and suffocating environment. Unusually this pleased her, as it all helped in setting the perfect stage to test the preachings of this hopeful article and consequentially the naughty white vest.

Lucy greeted the Prat with a single kiss to the cheek then, as ushered, took the seat on the couch next to the already plonked idiot. The Prat had dropped to the couch almost as soon as she had pulled her head from his cheek, his excitement uncontainable. Lucy rather more delicately took her place, pushing forward what chest she had and due to the attention from the door, her pricked teats. Prat eyed them and was not all that subtle about it. Lucy, not used to the attention, darted a glance herself, as her eyes settled she realised that her top was not the fullest of whites and was actually a little transparent in this light. She turned away from Prat as she felt a slight embarrassment ruddy her pale cheeks. She was not comfortable that the shadowing of her nipples could be seen through her vest and struggling to compose herself, took a prolonged moment leant over the arm of the couch.

She brushed down a cushion that she had pulled from her side as means of distraction and once she felt the red drain from her face, she turned back to the Prat.

‘It’s just chocolate I think.’ Lucy gestured to the cushion then smiled up at Prat’s keen face.

The Prat nervously tapped at his choice bible on the coffee table and nodded in agreement with Lucy. Agreement with something but not all together sure what. The Prat had failed to notice that Lucy had gone astray for the past three minutes, he hadn’t noticed her teetering over the far side of the settee grooming a cushion. He had been far too involved with himself, his demeanour and the conversation he proposed to strike. Lucy could see his brain firing up and examined his nervous hand fiddling with the book on the coffee table. The author of the book leapt out from between his fingers and Lucy was surprised, ‘Wilbur Smith’ was not what she expected to see smeared across the front cover. She was imaging it would be something pretentious, a catalyst for a prolonged deliberation on the prose of some literary genius. Wilbur Smith certainly did not fit that criteria, at best he was only a conversation piece with ones Father, once talk of the weather had dried up. The Prat, noticing Lucy’s keen eye on his book turned it away from her, he knew Wilbur was no girly read. Lucy looked again into Prat’s large face and felt a twinge of pity. She imagined that the Prat was just the result of a domineering Father, whose sole purpose in life was to regurgitate inherited views. Lucy imagined that if she was to experience the full delights of the Prat, it was the father that she should date, not the bit that dribbled out and merged with a lesser soul. Lucy sat and listened to the Prat fumble and mumble his way through a stream of hand-me-down topics. As was her usual practice when internet dating, she fired objective and belittling obstructions to all that Prat offered, she knew this to be her common practise and was unapologetic about it. Although she chose to date in this fashion and believed it to be a productive effort in finding a suitor, she still believed her man would materialise in an organic fashion. She imagined her man would perhaps fall into her arms from an idyllic bordering shrub, untainted by life. Prat was still talking and although Lucy was bored, she kept him primed with the odd laugh and flirtatious eye. He was perfect, a perfect minion to test the theory.

The third coffee consumed and, unfortunately but necessary for her experiment, numbers exchanged, Lucy suggested the Prat walk her to the bus. She had routed a stop that meant a short cut down a sheltered alleyway, here she paused. She wanted to say his name but was torn between Matthew and Michael, George also rung a bell. Knowing that if she called him Prat the moment would be lost, Lucy just hung back and readied a seductive stance against the brick wall. The Prat plodded on four more strides before he realised she was no longer clung to the fat Wilbur Smith trapped under his arm. Eventually he stopped and turned to seek her out, Lucy now empowered by the privacy the alleyway offered, pushed forward her chest and circular shadings. The Prat nearly dropped Wilbur as his eyes darted and feet motioned, in all fairness, everywhere. As he approached he showed a little know how and raised his hands stroking her hair away from her face. Lucy responded to the gentle touch by lifting her jaw but with a thud the moment was lost as Wilbur slipped its grip and dropped to the floor. Lucy cursed the sod but made good of the situation, she edged the book towards her and stepped up tall on the block of words. Wilbur’s weight brought her someway up to Prats height and she leant in and kissed him. The Prat keenly kissed back and then kissed some more. Lucy underwhelmed by the plunger action, found herself more concerned that the Prats lung capacity considerably outweighed hers. Lucy worried that she might suffocate whilst stuck to his face, squeaked her face away and took a large breath.

‘God!’ She disguised her need for air with a exasperated cry of joy, fanning Prats ego.

The Prat was excited by her response and nibbled on her neck. Lucy enjoyed this but needed to keep the experiment on track, so she pulled away from his salivating mouth and unlocked his arms from the back of her head. Knowingly Lucy had given him the green card to wander, she had instructed his hands to search out what they may. Lucy went for another dive into the airless cavern of Prats mouth, hopeful that the article held some truth. Were small breasts attractive and not something to smuggle away? If one paraded them in the correct manner, were very comparable to the larger bosom? The Prat now had his tongue some way into her mouth and wriggled it in a fashion a dentist searched for a cavity. Lucy could detect his hands were hovering somewhere around her mid section and that he was still a little weary to engage them. She let him inspect her dentures some more and to encourage him, let out a little squeak of pleasure. The hands started to amble. Lucy tensed slightly. Would he miss out first base and simply go for glory? Would the Prat in this very alley, confirm her disappointment that a small chest can never truly serve as a stopping point to the final destination?

‘Oooo arrrgh!’ he didn’t, he grabbed them! He tweaked and toyed with them. In fact he didn’t really know what the hell he was doing with them, but they had certainly captured his full attention. It was amazing, Lucy was liberated. The Prat was crap, clueless but Lucy had breasts and breasts men desired.

Scotsie was clearly unhappy with her over bearing insular owner, otherwise why the eye? Mark believed that the girl clearly didn’t understand Scotsie and merely used her as a play thing, perhaps to plonk Barbie and Ken on top of as though a donkey at a beach. He went on to imagine the girl force feeding the dog over a little tea set and shoe horning her into a toy pram. Mark was outraged, Scotsie was only used as a form of amusement for this unworldly, unloving child and he wanted to free Scotsie from this torrid existence. He was going to elope with Scotsie and show her the world, make a fresh start for both of them.

Mark kicked the ball over to Rufus. The park was filling out and Mark knew that Scotsie would soon be ceremoniously walked through by her possessor, the petulant, abusive little girl. Rufus took more time on the ball than Mark had anticipated, he was ungainly trying to flip the ball onto the back of his neck. Mark urged him to pass the ball back, as time was not on his side. Rufus was not responding to Mark’s direction, which was infuriating; he had only been asked as cover, I mean nobody asks Rufus out anymore, at least not since Toby had cast rumours of his involvement with Derek’s mother.

Mark’s eyes suddenly honed in on the elegant strutting Scotsie, from behind a bothering Pit Bull some distance away. He took stock of the distance and with a quick estimate of expected time of arrival, knew he needed the ball back. Rufus was showing no sign of yielding the ball and with time against him he set out to acquire it himself.

Mark jogged over to Rufus and lunged with his leading leg for the ball. Rufus took up the challenge and counter acted, bucking Mark’s advances and turning his back to shield the ball. Mark glanced at the advancing Scotsie and then despairingly tried to turn the awkward Rufus. Rufus using Mark’s momentum to his advantage, skewered on the spot and as Mark plummeted to the floor, scampered off with the ball. Mark hit the floor hard, this was not going at all to plan, but he was a winner, he was resourceful, he had what it takes.

Mark took a large intake of breath, eyed Scotsie’s advance then got to his feet, threw down his arms, grunted and paced up to Rufus. Rufus toyed over the ball miming a shimmy, Mark at first responded with a jovial twist of his shoulder then feigning a lunge, stood back and struck Rufus on his ear with his favoured left. There’s one for Derek he thought, before plucking up the ball and cantering in the direction of Scotsie.

His timing was perfect, he slowed his canter once in range, assessed the wind and with one swift movement drop kicked the ball straight at the young girl. The ball struck her firm on the face lifting her off her feet and as she began her descent, blood was generously airborne from her nose. The young girl’s mother screamed, unable to place what had just happened. She attended her blood soaked daughter, not noticing that Scotsie had lost her rein and was scampering away. Mark did not falter, although he had not been prepared for such gushings, he kept a level head and was in hot pursuit of his love.

Scotsie ran midway into the mass of green and losing her bearings halted. Mark hot on her heels slowed to a slow advance, ‘Hello Girl!’ Scotsie looked up at Mark, there was no fondness in her eye, no love. Mark crouched and peered deeper into his Scotsie’s little grey face, a white poodle barked some metres away. Mark looked up and as he did he was sure the poodles tale wagged. The blunted cartilage protruding from the beautiful white pearly curls most defiantly wagged! Mark found himself motioning towards the poodle. Poodle, Poodle noodle, he would call her Noodle.

The blob plonked under my scalp chose to highlight Combs and Toothpicks from my recent outings in Vietnam. This is by no means a futile attempt to undermine the splendours of this third world country, just annoyingly what my foolish matter held onto.

The complimentary comb was the first oddity singed to my database and this was perhaps more of a comment on my own ignorance then an observation of Vietnam. I was aware of complimentary slippers, gels and toothbrushes, but my matter had failed to ever before notice the complimentary comb. Yet with every hotel I frequented in Vietnam, the complimentary comb persistently lay alongside the other bathroom delights.

More concerned with getting the air conditioner onto full cooling, I ever increasingly grew frustrated with this homage to the comb. The very idea of dragging a comb through my sweaty locks, when struggling to suppress a forty five degree wall of heat, was ludicrous. I could only imagine that the comb was sacred in Vietnam and that the prospect of leaving home without having groomed one’s head was a sin.

On countless occasions, once moderate body temperature was resumed, teeth cleaned, shower cap laughed at and complimentary comb left very much undisturbed, my imaginings of a groom crazed nation were quashed. My visions of impeccably combed partings and immaculately furrowed Fonze-like quiffs, populating the streets of Hanoi were shattered. I was disappointed, the hair on view was very much everyday and although I am sure groomed, not notably. The Comb therefore, despite my grey matter’s mongering, was and is indeed just a part of ‘The Complimentary Bathroom Set’ and not as fantasised a Vietnamese fetish.

The country’s fetish without a doubt is growth, not grooming, and seemingly growth as a nation, not just as a strong hold of pilfering entrepreneurs. The looking glass of a taxi window is not the greatest vantage to form an opinion on a country, nor is a sightseeing Junk boat, but it is a pleasure to edge your way through a country and see so much productivity. I cannot comment on the void between a farmer and a tycoon, but the very fact rice fields carpet the landscape to the foot of each village, town and city speaks volumes.

Vietnam is interested in feeding itself and when increasingly other countries look to gamble and import their food, as though stocks and shares, this surely puts them in a good position to slowly climb the world league table. After all, with a full belly the Vietnamese can take their time, pick any remnants from their teeth and merrily look to serve the drones of tourists baying at the gates.

So pick their teeth they do, endorsed by the militantly sat receptacle of toothpicks accompanying every dining table. These seemingly compulsory toothpicks served as the final fruit that planted itself in my quagmire. Considerably more celebrated then the mere acknowledgement of the complimentary comb, the toothpick for me was representative, not just an encouraged and enjoyable pastime whilst awaiting a bill; it encapsulated Vietnamese hospitality. The presence of toothpicks on any table top shows
a willingness to go that extra mile.

It might be slightly regrettable if one dislodges a filling or witnesses another’s findings, but as a dispensable table top accompaniment, its presence is ingratiating. The toothpick illustrates the Vietnamese appetite to please, flatter and welcome. Understanding tourism as a valuable commodity the Vietnamese are clearly making hospitality one of their specialities.

Four Complimentary Combs and a Compulsory Toothpick or two later Vietnam sits proudly as a great country, at least from under an air conditioner in a tourist’s bubble.

Station Magazine releases its third issue and committed to print some
of my foolish Rumblings, stationmag.co.uk

As the hide of an animal could not escape the grasps of fashion
(unable to mount even the most pitiful sprint from fashion’s jaws), film was well and truly enveloped from its birth. As Louis Lumière released what is to
be believed the first fictional film, L’Arroseur Arrosé, Marcellin Auzolle
illustrated the first film poster to promote it and subsequently film
became a fashionable thing.

Whilst fashion designers were salvaging road kill to adorn ladies shoulders, slapstick idiocies lit up audience’s faces and the world wanted to laugh. Film had instantly become the fashionable media, an engine to influence, persuade and brainwash, not a product of fashion but excitingly a promoter of fashion. Ten foot spectacles were projected and, whilst chubby fingers searched orifices beneath a blanket of popcorn, souls were inspired. What a wonderful and amazing thing! Arm in arm, film and fashion had achieved the ability to dictate what people wore, thought and fantasised over. All because a man squirted another in the face with a hosepipe and people laughed
(the crux of L’Arroseur Arrosé)!

Unfortunately now we seem to laugh less and have grown sceptical of film. Film now bears the scars of fashion rather than showcasing it. As an
audience we have become reluctant to dress like Marilyn Monroe or to take John Wayne’s moral advice. As a result film has become unfashionable. Steve McQueen still is undoubtedly cool but Tom Cruise is deemed a scary short Scientologist; it has become a trend to criticise films and their performers. Audiences no longer fondle one another under popped corn whilst their minds are titillated: instead they sit cross-legged, nibbling dried apricots, wanting more. If this be the fashion, the new manner in which films are to be
viewed, then film has died, and for all the 3D in the world it is the
audience that needs the resurgence.

It needs again to become fashionable to allow oneself to delve into
a fantasy, a story and not sit back blunt to the flickering screen awaiting
a post screening latte and critique. It needs to become fashionable to be engrossed and utterly moved by a film, to cry as an alien with a glowing finger returns home and acceptable to draw pictures on the pavement and hope to fall into them. If 3D can enlighten this excitement then good luck to it, but pop up books never rallied a novelist into new found pastures, so to expect 3D to suddenly change the bearing of a film on today’s cynical audience is bewildering. Guaranteed the spectacle will be more impressive in 3D, but for enjoyment, for a pure experience, we must put down our felafel fajitas and make it again fashionable to be engrossed. Make a Friday night of dressing like Marilyn Monroe, shoot at Indians and if it pleases you, paint yourself blue, put some thick rimmed glasses on and hang around on a floating rock.

Since breathing and life’s experiences having taken their hold on me,
I have only managed to poorly adorn myself in blue and remain entirely unoriginal. As this original, blue, seconds old character, marginally cleverer than a plant, practically blind with no means to communicate other than wail, piss and shit, I was brilliant! Unfortunately now I am less so and hide behind
a blanket of words. When able, I attempt to chain these words together into stories and pictures; Films. Mainly unable to turn these words into anything, not even speech, like an unfashionable jumper I sit in a draw and wait
for my turn. Hoping that a moth will not eat me before I get my chance.

How similar the life of words, that stumble into stories and fight to
become films, are to a brightly coloured, confusingly patterned jumper.
As fashion dictates the destiny of that lurid jumper, you once chanced
as a good look, stories remain strapped to souls until they are
fortunate enough to be released…

It stank in here and I needed fresh air, these putrid little balls below
me were to blame, and frankly I wouldn’t wish them upon even a turtle-neck.
I knew that my next opportunity to break this stinking dark containment
would come soon. I smuggled myself close to a popular, rather slinky
polyester V-neck. Knowing that with the right hasty withdrawal
its static would lift me too.

My opportunity arose. I could feel hands probing my inmates above;
finely the slinky V-neck was grasped. I perked up my bright woollen threads
to aid the static’s hold on me. Bingo! I was pulled from the deep draw alongside the V-neck, my plan had worked! I then fell to the floor as the static faltered and the V-neck was whisked away.

The fresh air made my sleeves curl with joy. I lay there proud, but still tarnished from the stinking pit in which I had been held for so long. Its smell rising from me forming an ozone layer that disbarred me from this new found land. Everything else around me smelt sweet or sour and had a definite sense of belonging. I was very different, I was rather odd, unworn and, but for my age, new. I lay for many hours, my fusty stench slowly fading and my colours zinging in the natural light cast from the window.

I felt happy but incomplete. As my colour withdrew with the dying light,
I could feel the presence of a creature above. I had not witnessed such
a spectacle before. This thing bobbed and danced in the air. I had never realised how rooted I was, I felt almost anchored to the floorboards in comparison. The creature was so elegant and for some reason it appeared
to be transfixed on me. I couldn’t move and my colours were not looking
at their best due to the low light, yet there was undeniably
a connection between us.

I wanted to edge towards the creature but unable to, fortunately as my stench lessened, the creature moved towards me. As the last whiff of the little balls expired from my body I couldn’t believe my fortune, the creature dropped onto my chest. I beamed inside. The creature fluttered and tickled at my threads. I was in heaven. A tickle, a nibble. Wow! My Lord! Yes! Yes! NO! NOOO! I was breached. OUCH! I was breached! The little shit had bitten me. One wash and my threads would unbind themselves into little more than
a ball of wool. I was finished. SHIT! I was never to be worn,
never to experience, my destiny was cat fodder!

The creature flew off having fulfilled its needs.