The Jabberwocky Of Julius Jones

“I’m alright”

“Oh”

“I mean, I thought I’d just phone and say…..”

“right……”

You didn’t know. You were doing that late night, late morning thing. You hadn’t seen the news. The mobile was in my locker full of missed calls and answer phone messages. It’s three years since that day. Three years and half a life time. The day that war came a little too close. About a mile or so actually, and another tube line.

XXXXX

Talking of anniversaries as we weren’t the beginning of the month was 4 years of this blagging malarky. Or is that blogging? Hard to tell.

This is the story what I wrote. It’s the story of a couple of weeks on the front line.

1 - Doing the coke

I haven’t touched the coke for a year and a half, maybe two. I’m clean. This feeling of purity goes relatively unnoticed till the previous Thursday on the forecourt of the local Apocalypse Tesco. It’s quite a hot day (for our little island anyway) and the truck driver that’s been lamenting his long hours with the till staff (they really needed enlightening - you call 14 hours long?) trots back to his truck with the sticky black liquid in the red and white covered bottle nestled under his arm. And my taste buds go into attack - yes, it may be perfectly chilled on a warm day, but all that tar-like sugary junk? Yuck! Time moves on. Eleven years ago I would finish work for the afternoon, pick up a 3 litre bottle at the village store and sink it before starting back in the evening - perfect appetite eradicator all that caffeine. No need to eat in the evening, then miss breakfast and start all over again. These days of course it’s red bull that’s taking the head lines. By the time the red bull revolution had started - I’d had the crash (there’s only so much you can not eat till your body says no) so I thought not starting RB was the best way to give up.

D has never seen the point in not eating - ‘why would you want to punish yourself?’ Well that’s the point isn’t it - subconsciously you need to, and you feel a sense of righteousness when you do, and the hunger pains make you feel ‘strong’ in some perverse way - that you can do that and survive? Or that you’ve got the power of control - ‘I’ll show you’ - which isn’t so different, I suppose, to young kids who leave vegetables pushed to the side of their plate. It’s odd - it only seems to make sense when you’re in that mindset. And when you need to do it, which I really don't now.

Another relapse occurred in ’02 - pushing myself to the edge, physically, mentally - it‘s a common theme. That time I took action - I didn’t want to give in, there must be a way out. It was summer rather than winter this time around so that helped too - too much to miss. I wrote a food diary. Every thing I ate from when I woke to when I crashed. It didn’t take up much paper. I brought some instant porridge oats, some tinned chicken soup (I can always tell it’s bad when I’m craving the chicken soup), some cambazola. Changed the coke for tea. Nice combination. It worked. I was back. Of sorts.

It wasn’t till the 2nd mugging, this time with a gun…….

…..that B came the rescue and I moved out of the war zone that is SE London. Then the reformation could start proper. All the issues you have can be traced back to something. I began tracing them back. Dealing with them. Or accepting them at least. The following January I made it my new years resolution to stop doing the coke. That year I only succumbed once - a can on the tube home from the proms on a hot London day. I had one bottle last year - in the sun outside the biennale, with st Marks in the background. It was awful. The coke that is.

The truck driver goes back to his truck and his bottle and I go back to mine. Water. Sparkling. Can‘t give up the bubbles just yet.

2 - Ham burgler

His gaze flicks left, flicks right, round. He’s moving around, restless. Anyone would think he’s nervous. But I think this is just a type - that’s what happens when you want to make lots of money. The risks involved make you twitchy. Almost nervous looking.

“What do you think?” he asks, looking for a split second directly at me, then switching to look at the customers arriving to his right.

“Great. Everything’s perfect. All fresh tasting - everything tastes like it’s just been cut.” A bacon cheeseburger. But they make their own burgers - it‘s perfectly charred on the outside and cook inside - chop all the beef tomatoes, red onion and lettuce every morning, make their own tomato relish. A revolution among burger places - the start of a franchise machine that‘ll be sold off when it‘s established. P is for profit. It’s only later when I realise what it’s really like, the burger - it’s as good as something I could do myself. It’s a long time since I went anywhere that I could say that. Not that that really matters - nothing’s been too dire, and I don‘t think like that - I don't - if someone offers you haven‘t done yourself that has to be a bonus day, but… well you know.

It seems like everyone wants a slice of me at the moment. A few weeks before it was the dairy guy who wants to take my desserts nationwide. Hmm, quality, mass production. Sorry can not compute. The free food on this occasion was a ploy to discuss his new proposal. He - Mr. Twitchy was the brand man for Virgin. So he knows branding. The place I’m in is record of that fact. It screams it. Now he wants to start a sub brand of his bistro brand. And make it my company. Take the restaurant experience to people’s own homes. It sounds good. It’s what I’m doing already. But doing but do it more, and charging more for it, as there’s a brand to back it up, and customers pay more for a brand, and they stay loyal - film shots of my economics lessons play on my internal screen. I know these things. He’s got to play harder.

He talks of Country life magazine, big articles, Ascot picnics, Wimbledon packages, and being able to promote it in their existing places. Almost sound good. And then -

“Of course because it was linked to the main core brand I’d want 51%”

I stop eating.

“50%” he corrects himself.

I take a sip of water.

“I bring to the table the branding, the investment [he mentions 50k at some point], the back-up....” he says

“.....and I have the infrastructure, the systems that work…..” I follow on. And with the other company that has the slick, efficient, nice looking waiting staff, it does seem like the perfect combination.

I leave later, somehow, the previous week’s full on 7/11 extreme work still taking it’s toll, at that point with a go for it attitude.

It’s not till the next morning and the 50% sinks home. 10% commission to regular clients, 50% to them doesn’t really add up. And D’s words from a couple of weeks back ’and who’ll be doing all the work?’ And I think of the artisan chocolatier, and her small scale, independent, no mass production, best quality attitude - she wouldn’t think much of this. And nor do I. Come on - it’s about branding. And I hate that. That’s what the last two years have shown me isn’t it - that brands suck. It’s where the wrong guy gets rich, and the people who care go broke - just look at supermarkets and their producers. It’s the small scale producers who really care about what they do - and that’s what it’s about. It’s not about money. I’ve just created this life which I really like - why would I want to give it up for someone else to be in control - yes it might be called mine, but all those annoying accountants, and him in the background asserting the rules?

A narrow escape.

So I’m leaving it. It makes it easier for him if I say yes - otherwise he has to start from scratch. Oh well. Hard cheese. We might know each other’s hands now after talking - but I know they’re not starting till at least Autumn, and without me that could be even later. I wonder if they’ll find anyone else who’s up for it. They probably want to find someone who’s working for someone else already - once you start on your own you can’t give it up. That gives me a few months to push on. It gives me a head start. Which is almost as good as a head stand, but not quite.

On top of this there’s the small fact that they owe me £1,200. I add it up that morning. Not a bean in the 2 months since they started, despite the reminders. It becomes clear how they do business. Well they can f*** off. I send them a letter saying I’m not taking them anything else till they pay me. It p***es me off for at least 3 days. Especially with the VAT bill going through this week coming. Something you don’t want to do - as I’m reminded by a grovelling phone call from my veg supplier (after they messed up something a couple of weeks ago) - is p*** off your suppliers.

And at the end of the day I’m not in this to make it easy for anyone..... but myself. You’re in this alone.

3 - You’re in this alone.

The dessert goes out. I attempt to sigh, but it becomes 3 sighs, and that feeling comes. The adrenalin crash. And I have to curb it quick. Still a lot to do. This is the Friday, the last of 6 days there cooking 3 meals a day - cooking, setting tables, washing up, washing and ironing tablecloths, uniform - even I had underestimated how much work it is for 10 people. The previous Sunday I’d gone from the kitchen in a tent in a field at the wedding for 120, to my kitchen at home, to this kitchen by the sea in Cornwall all in 8 hours, working then driving through the night to get there to do breakfast.

I’d spent the week turning this kitchen in to mine and now there was stuff everywhere. Every cupboard full of jars, packets, bits and bobs, all the equipment - proccessor, mixer, ice cream machine, pots, pans, trays, crockery littlering the work tops, boxes of stuff all over the utility, stuff in the washing machine, in the tumble drier, and that was without the washing up. Now it was time to pack up and out. It began to look like the 7th January after you’ve taken down all the Christmas decorations.

The kitchen was basement level, down a nice steep flight of stone steps. A long way to drag heavy stuff up when your energy levels are dwindling by the second.

In my life I’ve worked hard. Nothing was quite like that week. 368 covers in a week between me and A it’s a record - beating the 244 in one weekend I did with mum last year. I maxed out. Only this time there were no blue flashing lights. Driving licence in tact. I stopped twice to power-sleep on the way down.

4 hours later, 22:30 I’m packed up and walk in the door of the apartment (nice balcony overlooking the sea incidentally). Adrenalin crash. How I get out of the place, down in to the village to use the payphone to phone the orders in (because of the cliff there was no mobile reception anywhere) I have no idea, and am still not sure I quite did it, although the stuff did turn up.

04:30. Dawn. I become awake. My eyes open at least. The limbs say no.

04.50 Tea. Too tired to think of eating. Seen too much food that week. I pack up the stuff around the apartment. I open the doors of the van, and find it’s on such a steep slope, probably 60 degrees at least (the whole village is a hill really) that things start falling out all over the drive - foil, bananas, milk, a handful of lemons, a box of smelly tea towels - all the messy bits. I reverse down to the level almost clipping the side wall. I’m sure this sounds good to the neighbours. The tyre’s quite down now. I’ve been looking at it all week, and I resolve to do something about it on Monday when I’m back.

I’m sure I leave the apartment far too clean - it looks like I’d never been there, but I know what it’s like - that Saturday clean up feeling.

05:30 I take the wrong road out of the village and am heading to Torpoint, but that’s OK, no point turning around, I can just go back that way. I look for the road map to check, but that’s when I realise it’s still with my brother back at home - I’d chucked it at him when he went off the week before, so I had to hope for the best. I was sure it would be OK. A half hour later I get to Torpoint. That’s when I find that there isn’t actually a bridge here. It’s only a ferry, and as it’s only 6am it’s not open - that line across the water I saw on the map must have been a dashed line - ferry crossing. I’d missed that bit. So I have to spend more time going back on myself then picking up the main road. That all takes time and time is critical. 2 events that night 27 & 16, and lots of last minute things to do - unpacking then making tarte tatin, roulades, ballottines of duck, the stuff only I could do, then repacking.

It’s just after 8 when it happens. The whole van shakes and it goes loud, and it feels like I’m driving on nails. I’m on the inside lane, just going coming up to the slip road with cars coming in from the left, and the van’s veering left. I cut the speed, and run out of steam on the hard shoulder. Heart’s going. I get out. The left front tyre’s in shreds and smoking - ah the smell of burning rubber. Great. Now what. I haven’t got time for this. The RAC. I pick up the mobile - they can deal with it. Mobile’s dead.

Flashback - the night before, late…. he flips the mobile open, and it’s dead. Only 15 hours after it went on charge. All that roaming to catch a signal it could never find. The recharger lead is in the van - he’ll get it after he pours a drink…….

S***. Now what. I look up the side of the hard shoulder - any idea how far it is to the next emergency call box? Who knows? Could be miles. And it probably wouldn’t be working when I got there. But I’ve done that before - when the Morris Minor conked out on the way back from Rick Stein’s (everything has to have a special ending). Luckily that time it conked out just a few metres from an emergency box. In that case it was the petrol pump again - a bit beyond my scope. This was just a tyre. How hard could that be? It’s 11 or 12 years since the last time I did one, and that was the minor too. I grab the handbook - I remember there’s a jack and spanner behind the drivers seat - not that I’d ever need them, or so I thought. There is a spare tyre (you should really check these things - but there’s only so much time), and I jack the van (after driving forwards so the jack’s not on the bit of the road where there’s a step between the new tarmac and the older lower level, then backwards away from the drain cover). Now I’m like one of those people you see on the side of the motorway with their stuff all over the verge.

I fix the tyre on and look at the other side - it’s dangerously low too. Happy days. It should get back to base though, so I can sort it out then - there’s another 2 hours + driving in the evening and I don’t fancy doing this in the dark. I drive on to the service station to wash my hands, black with the ingrained tyre dirt with a laugh - you have to laugh otherwise it gets to you.

Whenever you’re at a peak moment - when you’ve worked your hardest to pull something off, there’s always something s*** to push you even further. And it’s these times that tell you one thing - you’re in this alone.

4 - What he thinks when he thinks about things (i)

I’m sure there must be something easier to do.....

5 - Ham burglar part 2

Two days after the meeting with Mr. Fidget, and a day after I decide the computer says no, I get an email from one of most regular clients (the one who kick started me on this track), and they’ve brought another 2 houses - one rather large. So that means loads more for me to do, and I tell them about this week-long new idea, and that’s a goer. This thing makes me realise I like them. They have respect for what I do. They know what quality is, and they also don’t have a problem with paying for it. One of the other clients hasbrought another house too - it’s a good time if you’ve got the readies, so I can expand on my own thanks very much. And I'm sure there's a book to write.....

6 - What he thinks when he thinks about things (ii)

...... it'd be no fun though.

I like stories with happy endings.

1

What a cop out. I didn’t think that at the time, at the time it seemed like the natural outcome. It was only after, as I was ‘resting’ my eyes. It just seemed that if you really wanted her to suffer you wouldn’t have killed her off, you would have made her live, with the knowledge of what had happened In The Father’s Den. If she had lived, there would have been a much richer story to tell. That would be pain, and pain makes good material. But there you have the eternal problem - where is the story, at what point? By killing her off, it ends the natural story from the point at which they started it. If you had made her live, the story could have gone on, but would have been too long (and then you get into the current fashion for too-long films, ones that outstay their welcome and that wouldn‘t do), and anyway if you started it later on you wouldn’t have known the background….. So I can see why they did it.

On the other hand when they saved the main man in Stranger Than Fiction (which was strange if for nothing else that it was in English, after so many French, Swedish and Korean films) that seemed a bit too sickly sweet, but of course it was seriously stylized and American, and saving him was the point. Even that had a middle change of track - when he realized his tragic outcome……

2

There’s a point, maybe in the middle, maybe three quarters through, but it’s there - a <click>. The point where you know something’s happened, everything’s changed, we’ve changed tracks, we’re heading for a tragic ending. Maybe that’s called ‘closure’.

The beginning is almost like a presentation of facts, not the classic Hollywood pap, which is plot-action-structure and very formulaic, no, I’m thinking about the foreign/ indy type.

In El Balo there’s that moment of the journey into the hills, a magic moment, then the world comes crashing down, the beating, and we’ve changed tracks, we’re heading suddenly for a tragedy.

In Do The Right Thing, Spike Lee leaves that change till right to the last 20 minutes - the underlying racial angst was there all along, but it‘s only in the final 20 minutes when it comes to a head, that you accept that it will blow up.

In Strayed it’s not till the soldiers arrive that the change happens. Up to then it’s small episodes which tell you a little bit more about each character - their past, their ‘rules’, their life experience and the way they use that to deal with the current situation.

In Benny’s Video it was the moment when he lets his parents into his world via the video of the killing. Or maybe it’s the hair cut. You’re watching that hair-cut scene, and it’s as if the external change is also indicative of a big internal change.

In 7th Continent it was the money stuffed down the toilet - that hurt, and the fish tank attacked with an axe - those were the points you were going “NO! What are you doing?” It was also the moment where you realised there was no going back. - they were set on a terminal course.

In Death in The Garden it was the arrival of the hit man into the story. With the voice ‘grave’. From the moment he said what he was, you kind of knew which way you were heading.

Of course what it is, is that in the beginning half you’re getting to know the character. Then once you know them , think as they do, feel as they do, till you become them, then the rug can be pulled from beneath your feet and you can be plunged on the path to tragedy because you care about the outcome.

It also probably has something to do with the 5 act or 7 act script, and how each of those acts works similar to a symphony with its different tempos - often starting and ending with and allegro with a scherzo & andante in the middle. Mmm. Structure. Horrible word.

There’s an exception to every rule. In The Unbearable Lightness Of Being (which feels wrong from the start because they are in Prague yet everything is in English - English would be a common language with her character being Russian, but that’s not the point) the tragic ending there just happens, there’s no great lead up, it just feels like they needed an ending, so decided to end it there. I think that film is a good example of being overlong - editing is about knowing what to leave out - less is more.

Then there’s the films where you can imagine they had filmed 3 or 4 different endings and been forced to put it to ’focus groups’, or the studios who had picked the one ending that doesn’t fit and makes everything that went before pointless, and the overall effort pap.

Of course you can read these things in books, but it never seems real till you’ve worked it out for yourself. Annoying huh?

1

Have you pinged recently?

A ping moment, not to be confused with a pong moment (you smelly belly), is when you say something in all seriousness and then Ping! The moment you’ve said it, maybe, in the worse cases, even before you’ve finished the last word, you realise what you’ve said is actually ridiculous, or funny, or ridiculously funny.

A month or so ago on the Saturday night I was driving to the usual venue when the news came on the radio - it was when the Archbishop of Canterbury thing was kicking off, and I listened and said out loud - as you do “You just can’t say things like that” didn’t he know the media rules - you can’t speak race or religion. Ping! If he can’t speak on religion who can?

2

The glass that I’m handed contains the best wine I have yet tasted in my short history of wine drinking. Something from a Rothschild estate. That explains it. Hate to think how much it would cost, but a salesman will call.

We’re in the upper room of their restaurant. It’s no last supper, supper was cancelled, just meetings. The wine salesman’s out of the way, then me, then another guy. He seems to be manager of their other place. The new one.

Suddenly the mood’s changed, the shoulders go back, the swear words are out, the timbre of their voices has changed. Everything’s ‘yeah mate’. I suddenly realise where I am. I’m in a rugby club, I’m down the pub, I’m at a computer games competition. I’m at the Alpha Male club. Look, look the creatures are attacking.

I edge back nearer the door. Is it time to escape yet? Someone save me please.

3

The good thing about the place where you grew up is that it stays the same.

Everything else changes - the world around you, the people around you, the animals around you, your issues, aspirations all that stuff. But the place where you grew up? It looks the same now as 30 years ago. Even the same people live in the same houses. Maybe not the full contingent - husbands pass, children move out….. then move back... then move down the road. Some of the people you grew up with still live there, second or third generation, maybe more.

But then something cracks. Oh. That’s not supposed to happen. What are you doing! Stop! Something very bad is happening. As I pass the landmark Jaguar factory, there’s only a partial front façade left, vast mounds of rubble lie all over the old car park, walls open all sides like a lego house you’ve nicked the bricks from to make something bigger and better, and the last remaining windows dark dark enough even for Mrs. Danvers.

It's these big things which are a sign of the small things. Or is that the other way round?

4

They eat breakfast quick so they can get a couple of games in before he goes to the office. He comes home for lunch so they can get another in, then another few as soon as he gets home, and then more after dinner. The new card game, as all the other previous ones rule their lives.

‘It’s an addiction’ I say ‘better than being addicted to drink or drugs - they just get their highs from games.’ Probably it’s more the scoring points against each other than anything else, always trying to be the one that wins.

‘But when that’s all you do……’ you say. It’s the duty of care thing again and ignoring H as if she no longer existed, the way they won‘t even talk about it, do anything to avoid it.

'Everyone has their own way of surviving the way I see it' I say, 'and they just have to find it, and anyway, it’s not the easiest thing for most people to get their heads round.'

And after some more talking you say ‘what would you rather a father who plays games all the time, or a father who’s a transsexual?’

Ping! I laugh. ’Nice choice!…..’              and then ’you just work with what you’ve got really’.

That's how it is.

5

‘I’ve got to tell you something’ he said to you ‘it’s about [insert name here]. C saw two women coming out of the house the other day as she walked by. When one of them saw her, she rushed back in.’

No the husband didn’t have a girlfriend and a wife in the same house - it was just him ‘dressed’.

I think half of you wants to keep it a deep secret because that’s how you’ve survived all your life, the other is yearning to get caught, so at last people can know - so you tempt fate by going outside the house like that…..

Oh. ‘2 in a street’ I say ‘not bad huh?’. Of course by the end of the week the whole village knew. And when he goes to the pub as a she he gets done over. Roughed up. Nasty.

As I said earlier, the place where you grew up always stays the same…….