Author: jim clayton

Pinocchio underwater

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

the fugitive rock-tied puppet boy appears
donkey tail and donkey ears
dragging his sorry wooden ass across the sands
forty fathoms down from pleasure island

faaaaathheeeeeer
deeper, further

because even though he lost his strings
Gepetto’s still there in everything

he remembers lampy
going cold donkey
in the pool room
kicking out the mirror
the braying shiver
of his shadow
against the wall
the nightmare before the fall
workshop to island, cliff to sea
the last wooden leg of his journey

faaaaathheeeeeer
deeper, further

and the spatted, furious cricket struggles
to keep his hat in all the bubbles
why he’s there he couldn’t say
except the fairy said he’d get a badge some day

faaaaathheeeeeer
deeper, further

but the scandalised fish only snap their jaws
and catastrophizing crabs all clack their claws
as the snooty, flutey clams withdraw
because despite all the innocent cartoon snores

they know
how these things go

they know
monstro

dad came back (again)

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

I woke from dreams that were dark and troubled / the glass of water on the bedside table bubbled / the ceiling buckled / there was a roaring of resonant cursing & swearing / the sound of the spacetime continuum tearing / then dad dropped through in a ghastly heap / and struggled back up on his bony feet

Alright Jim? he said with fake insouciance
sorry to be such a ghostly nuisance
but these poems about me are highly dubious

Sorry Dad I said. Well, I do my best
I’m grateful for the feelings you’ve expressed
I was only exploring ideas of inheritance
I can leave you out if that’s your preference

He adjusted his shroud and scratched his pate
his ribs and hips in a terrible state
but twenty years’ buried and you never look great

Wait, he said. I don’t want to sound mean
I just don’t get this whole poetry scene
in fact any kinda writing I’ve never been keen

That’s true, I said, and reading between the lines
you hated fiction but trusted The Times
you always thought literature a bit suspicious
and only read gardening books we got you at Christmas

Come on, though, Jim, he said, I did you a favour
when I took those poems you wrote as a teenager
and got them typed up by a colleague or whatever

Yes! I said. I remember! It’s all coming back
I’d written a collection about insects and that
‘miniature dinosaurs of a macabre imagination’
or some such bullshit gothic creation

Dad suddenly looked a little bit guilty
he said (unironically) please don’t kill me
but I did it to impress a temp called Julie

I don’t mind, I said, I was thrilled all the same
to have something finished and bound in my name
I’ve been chasing that particular dream ever since
it’s just the publishers I’ve got to convince

Anyway, said Dad, rising to go
I just thought I’d drop by and let you know
you should give all those ghost dad poems the elbow

I’m not promising anything, Dad, I said
as he hovered prophetically over the bed
Fathers and sons are fertile topics
and ghosts are fun, so screw the optics

Chapter 28: The Walking Stanley app

~ jim clayton ~ 1 Comment

A line of flags – Mr Grimshaw – Idea for an App – The horses are up to something – Stanley as Julie – What we talk about when we talk about short stories – more gold scored – a bucket o’suds

It’s Sunday morning and everything is quiet. I’m standing in the middle of the road with Stanley. He’s squatting to do yet another poo, but this time all that comes out is a skein of grass. He waddles forwards like that, tries again. The grass is stuck. There’s nothing else to be done but get another poo bag out of my pocket, and wearing it like a surgical glove, grab the end of the grass and pull. It slides out in a horrifying glob. And more of it. And more.
‘Jesus Christ, Stanley!’
And more.
I feel like one of those magicians pulling a never-ending line of flags from my sleeve. Or someone else’s sleeve, in this case.
It’s one of those very public moments that seems to shine a cruel spotlight on where you are with your life, to date. You had dreams? Movie star? Rock god? Professional Wrestler? No. You’re obviously and exactly the kind of guy who finds himself standing in the middle of the street on a Sunday morning, pulling shitty grass from a dog’s arse.
Stanley is grateful, though. Once the lawn has been removed from his rectum, he walks with a jaunty flounce.
And my question to him is: at what cost, that jaunty flounce, Stanley? At what devastating, emotional cost?

We pass by the allotments. Mr Grimshaw is standing talking to one of the other gardeners. I’m relieved about that. If you ever get caught talking to Mr Grimshaw, you can be grimly sure to be there an hour. It’s like being pinned to the spot by a granite frown. There’s no subject Mr Grimshaw doesn’t have an opinion about. He’s more Old Testament than Moses. And I’d have to admit, Mr Grimshaw would look fabulous in robes. He’s certainly got the forehead for it. And the forearms. I can imagine him on top of a mountain, telling God EXACTLY what he OUGHT to be doing. As it is, I can hear him talking to the gardener about boilers. I wave as I go past. Mr Grimshaw frowns at me; the gardener sends up a distress flare. That’s the only thing that puts me off having an allotment. That and all the work.

Not for the first time do I think that I ought to design a phone app called Walking Stanley. The area has so many hazards – and I don’t just mean the hundreds of other dogs. For example, to get to the allotments you have to go through Sally Alley. We call it Sally Alley because Sally lives in one of the flats that overlook it. We’re pretty sure she keeps a close watch – or uses some kind of electronic tripwire – because more often than not she intercepts you at the end of the path. And the thing is, Sally is perfectly nice. It’s just that her depression is an irresistible force of nature, like quicksand, or black holes. Her makeup has the same emotional punch as a clown, her eyebrows plucked, her eyelashes shellacked into a permanent sparkle startle. And a simple ‘how are you’ is like lifting the lid on a trunk of howling despair. She knows I work in community health, which is worse. I get every extenuating detail, every prescription med change, every sample submitted. I just pray she didn’t see me manually evacuating Stanley’s bowels just then because I shudder to think what she might want from me next. So in my app game Walking Stanley, it’d be game over if Sally successfully intercepts you, a handful of gold coins if you manage to escape. Same with Mr Grimshaw. Same with the horses. But to provide the lift, you’d score gold coins when Stanley came back for a treat, or lifted his leg on some ragwort, or you stopped to take a picture of Stanley looking cute, which – to be fair – is all the time. If only I knew how to code. AutoClose.

We make it safely to the first field with plenty of gold coins in our pockets. I must admit, the Hole in the Hedge horses are behaving very strangely. In fact, I’d go as far as to say suspiciously. They’re just standing around, staring, in exactly the kind of overly self-conscious position you’d adopt if someone said to you just act naturally. And so evenly, too, that if you were somehow to drop a grid on the whole field, you’d find that each horse occupied exactly two squares, with a four square margin between each one. And they don’t move at all. It’s quite weird. But whatever it is that’s making them weird, I decide to brave it out and go through anyway. And using the imaginary grid, it’s oddly easy to plot a way through. They slowly turn their heads as we pass. Too slowly. And I’m pretty sure they’re frowning.

Into the next field and everything’s clear. I let Stanley off. He runs around so happily, throwing his legs out, his paws, too, it’s like Julie Andrews spinning and singing on the mountain. Stanley should audition for The Sound of Music. His singing’s ropey but he’s got the moves.

The long walk round the field is uneventful, which I’m relieved about. Stanley bounds ahead through the long grass, sniffing and sneezing and chewing and hacking like he does. A crow heaves itself languidly into the air and settles to watch us pass from an oak. I have plenty of time to think about things, but I can’t say I have any great insights. I think about short stories, whether I should try writing some, whether I can remember any. There’s one by Raymond Carver, about a drunk guy selling all his furniture outside in the street, with it all set up like it would be indoors. And a young couple comes by, and he ends up dancing with the woman. It’s strange what sticks with you, and what doesn’t. There’s another short story by Irwin Shaw – I think – about a footballer who gets a concussion, ends up hearing other people’s thoughts, and although at first it helps him win by intercepting passes, it starts to drive him mad because he can’t bear to know the truth of what people think of him, so he asks the doctor to set things back to how they were. Or something.

Into the first field again and the horses are the same but completely different. We pass between them quickly and quietly, and exit through the kissing gate with our pockets clinking with gold.

When we get back home I run a bucket of suds to clean Stanley’s arse. He loves it.
Maybe I should start with a short story about THAT.

hovercrafts & game shows

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

One of those headlong, breathless mornings, where I’m furiously trying to fit too many visits into too few hours, with the hopeless intention of being back in time to relieve Mandy on the desk at one. Mandy only came in because she heard we were short. ‘One day they’ll put up a statue of you in the marketplace,’ I tell her, almost spilling the tea I’ve made as an extemporary thank you. ‘What – so the pigeons can shit on me?’ she says. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

It’s the kind of morning where I’m overly conscious of my heart. I feel it swinging on a piece of frayed string, side to side, side to side, the joke pocketwatch you might hang inside the ribcage of a medical skeleton. All my timings might work if everything clicks – here then here then here via there – tick tick tick. Back by one. Yeah, right.

And of course, not one thing goes to plan.

The first assessment turns out to be much worse than the breezy drive-by the GP promised in the referral. I’m met at the door by a carer so stressed you can see it trembling through her like a tractor on a pinking idle. She has her mask under her chin like it’s stopping her mouth falling open into a scream; even worse than that, she’s carrying a knife.
‘Can you pull your mask down, too?’ she says, gesturing with the knife. ‘My hearing’s not what it was.’
I tell her I’ll speak up, then, because I can’t really take the mask off. It’s more for the patient than my benefit.
‘She’s jabbed, though,’ says the carer, like she did it personally, with the blade. ‘Twice.’
Even so, I tell her, she can still get pretty sick with Covid. Especially given how frail she is. I say I’m sorry but I just can’t do it.’ This doesn’t go down well. I follow the carer into the kitchen. She rushes through a handover whilst she dices her fingers with the cucumber. ‘Can you at least help me change her?’ she says.
‘Of course!’
‘She’s stuck on the sofa.’

All in all I’m at the house for two hours, late for my next call.

But it’s fine. It’s okay. This next one should definitely be quick. I’ve been asked to drop in to an elderly patient just to check his obs, see how he is, weigh him and check his pressure areas, so we can discharge from our service. It’s a formality. I can make up time there.

I let myself into his flat with the keys from the keysafe. A Welsh dresser narrows the hallway and I have to turn sideways to get through. There’s a ribbed-glass door just ahead so fiercely illuminated it’s like stepping onto the deck of a spaceship orbiting the sun – except, a spaceship with a threadbare carpet and faecal footprints tracking from the soiled cot bed in the corner to the captain’s chair by the window. Before I go any further I put some shoe covers on. Check my fob watch. The air is thick and noisome.

‘Hello Mr Carpenter,’ I say, going over to him, lightly waking him up by resting a gloved hand lightly on his shoulder.
‘Wha-at?’ he says, with a start, wide-eyed at the rustling, white-gowned alien looming over him.

At first glance he seems immaculate. Like James T Kirk started modelling in his dotage for a geriatric gentlemen’s outfitters, smartly put together in a sharp check jacket, pink stripe shirt, belted trousers and some impressively elaborate leather boots that zip up right and left from the toe to the bend of the ankle. I can see a glob of faeces on the heel of his left shoe, and a slide mark emerging from the hem of his trousers.
‘My name’s Jim. I’m a nursing assistant. From the hospital. Come to see how you are!’
He bats the air, then linking his hands on his lap, rests his head back again.

He’s obviously been incontinent, but before I do anything else I run a set of obs to see if he’s acutely unwell or not. Everything seems fine, though, and his vagueness is probably due to his advanced dementia. I help him stand up, loosen his trousers, and peer into the horror below. His mobility is pretty poor, and I know I’m not going to be able to wash him on my own – especially given the tiny bathroom with no aids of any kind. I sit him down again whilst I ring his care company. He’s not due another call until the evening, they say – and no, they don’t have anyone they can send out to help me. ‘He needs more care,’ I say. ‘We’re in discussions about that,’ they say. So I phone the office. Mandy says the only person available to come out is Tim, a new carer still on induction. ‘It’ll be the Jim and Tim show!’ she says. I tell her I’m almost certainly going to be late back. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I’ll just stay on a bit longer.’ I tell her the statue will be made of gold, with diamonds for eyes. ‘Oh yeah?’ she says. ‘Just make it in concrete and throw me the diamonds.’

Whilst I’m waiting I clean Mr Carpenter’s hands, then go into the little galley kitchen to make him a cup of tea. There are sandwiches laid out for him on the side – not that he’d have any idea they were there. When I give them to him he eats them hungrily, taking big toothless bites, craning forward at the neck like an ancient tortoise with a lettuce leaf. Whilst he’s tucking in I strip his bed down, clean it up and put on fresh linen. Use antiseptic wipes to get the worst of the mess from the carpet.

Tim arrives. Between us we help Mr Carpenter up, strip him down, walk him to the bathroom, clean him off. Tim is great, chatting to Mr Carpenter and teasing out little scraps of information. Apparently Mr Carpenter was a civil engineer. ‘How amazing!’ says Tim. ‘My brother’s an engineer. He makes hovercrafts.’
‘I’ve been on a hovercraft,’ I say.
‘Oh really?’ says Tim.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘To the Isle of Wight.’
The Isle of Wight suddenly seems like a very strange name. The Isle of Wight? I really went there? On a hovercraft?

Meanwhile, Tim is saying how his brother was always interested in bridges.

We dress Mr Carpenter in a new set of clothes – sans jacket, unfortunately, which also has to be added to the small mountain of soiled clothes and bed things we leave for the carers to deal with later. Then we help him back to the armchair which we’ve cleaned and covered in a beach towel, and settle him in. He eats the other half of his sandwich whilst Tim pours some orange juice and puts the glass beside him. Mr Carpenter smiles and holds up the remaining crust from his sandwich – working the upright part of it like a hinge.
‘Come on Down!’ he says. ‘Come on Down!’
‘The Price is Right! Bruce Forsyth!’ I say.
Mr Carpenter stares at me, then drops the crust back on the plate.
‘Finished?’ says Tim. ‘Good!’ then takes the plate away.

Island of Terror

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Island of Terror, 1966. Dir. Terence Fisher. Watched on YouTube so you don’t have to.

0.45 Opens with an island quayside scene so cute you expect to see rabbits and dormice unloading the boats. Except they’re smoking pipes. And wearing duffle coats.

0.58 ‘Alright. Let’s have it on the truck’ says the gruffest rabbit. But he doesn’t mean sex, apparently – he means a crate labelled Phillips Laboratories, Chemical Equipment, Handle with Care.

1:05 I love the acting in these old films. There’s a guy with a clipboard – he carefully sucks the end of his pencil, slowly taps the pencil on the clipboard, then says ‘Is that all they need?’ You can say what you like about the Island of Terror, but the admin is thorough.

1.27 Actually, I have to say, so far it’s only an island of terror if you’re scared of duffle coats. Not sure where this island is – hard to tell from their accents. One of them sounds Welsh, the constable Northern Irish. The monster’s probably a cockney.

1.58 I mean – SO many guys in duffle coats, looking cold, moving VERY slowly. It doesn’t make me want to go and live on an island. Or buy a duffle coat.

2.41 Cut to: the lab! Dials and knobs and beakers and bubbling noises. What are they cooking in there? Crystal meth?

3.10 ‘The cell cultures are prepared. We’re ready to begin.’ says a white coat. About time. Three minutes in and all we’ve seen are duffle coats.

3.24 I’m guessing they cast the chief scientist because his eyebrows go up in the middle. It’s so easy for him to look sincere.

3.34 One of the lab techs mentions ‘…the vapour applicator’ I love that! I totally want a vapour applicator. Although maybe he just means the kettle.

3.50 Turns out they’re working on a cure for cancer. What they really need is a cure for duffle coats.

4.05 The screen goes red! We get the opening credits! Wow – I can’t believe this was all just the warm up.

4.15 ‘Island of TERROR’ blares the title. Big emphasis on terror. That’s why I don’t work in film. I’d have been tempted to emphasise ISLAND.

4.51 Favourite name from the credits: John St John Earl (the art director). If I say it over and over it sounds like a car I had once that never used to start.

5.44 A guy in a duffle coat is walking in the fog with a lamp looking worried. (The guy’s looking worried, not the lamp. It’s Hammer Horror, not Disney).

6.03 There’s a horrible noise coming from somewhere. That cave? He goes in to look. You hear screams, the light wobbles about. Sound effect like me eating cornflakes. Horrific.

6.50 Cut to the constable sitting at his desk drinking beer. You’d drink a lot of beer on the Island of Terror. Someone knocks on the door. Mrs Bellows comes in with her head in a scarf and her hand in a handbag (which sounds more terrifying than it is). Her husband is three hours late and she’s worried. ‘I’m sure he’s alright’ says the constable. Well I’m pretty sure he’s not, judging by the cornflakes sound effect and all the screaming.

8.00 The constable goes off to look for Mr Bellows. Finds his body lying in the cave. Looks disgusted. Prods it with his truncheon. The duffle coat is about the only thing left. Urgh. Mind you, if I was a monster and I ate someone, I’d probably leave the duffle coat, too. Even if I wasn’t a monster I’d leave the duffle coat. What am I – Paddington?

10.05 In the posh drawing room of Dr Lander, who’s practicing his fly fishing, never mind the antiques. The constable knocks on the door. When Dr Lander opens the door he almost has the constable’s eye out with his pipe. He’s like some strange Medic/Clown hybrid.

10.50 ‘I’ve just seen Ian Bellows and his body’s like jelly.’
‘Jelly?’ says Dr Lander.
‘Aye! It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.’ (Although it IS like jelly, which he HAS seen).

10.59 ‘…there was no face…just a horrible mush…with the eyes sitting in it….’
(Sounds like something I might serve up at a dinner party).
The constable takes him to the cave to check out the mush.

11.50 Dr Lander pokes the body of Mr Bellows with a stick. He says he doesn’t think the body has any bones. I’m hoping Dr Lander isn’t the Coroner, or if he is, he writes his reports in crayon.

13.00 No – he IS the coroner. Back at the mortuary he confirms that this IS the body of Mr Bellows. He recognises the appendectomy scar (and the duffle coat). He tells the constable he needs to get the help of the eminent Dr Stanley – which I’m guessing is Peter Cushing, because that sounds like the sort of part he might want to play.

13.58 Dr Landers meets Dr Stanley in his lecture hall (Dr Stanley’s lecture hall, not Dr Landers-es). I have to say Peter Cushing has the best voice ever. It’s like a glass of cold blood. With a biscuit. Absolutely top class. Now. What can I do for YOU?

14.50 I mean, the way Peter Cushing says LIBRARY. LYE-BREH-REH. Every letter articulated. Beautiful. My time is completely vindicated. LYE-BREH-REH. Mmmm.

15.02 They both go to see an eminent bone expert. We see him at home pouring a couple of drinks, a sleazy sax playing in the background. The shadow of a woman getting dressed just visible through an open bedroom door. This is the kind of life an eminent bone expert would lead, I suppose. Maybe golf – with a femur for a Pitching Wedge (and you can bet I Googled THAT)

15.13 She comes through, wearing his shirt. ‘How’s the dress?’ he says. ‘Oh, the spot’s out but it’ll take some time to dry,’ she says, sitting down. He sniffs her feet. Apparently they met when she wrote off a Maserati and broke her leg. He was the bone doctor and they fell in love. There’s some sexy banter, then they kiss – in that awful, mouth closed, head rocking from side to side way that they learned one afternoon at RADA.

17.40 Dr Landers, Dr Stanley and the eminent bone doctor Dr West talk about the strange case of the man with no bones. ‘No bones?’ ‘No bones.’ ‘Not a trace?’ ‘Not a thing.’ etc etc. Dr West has never heard of this before. At least he’s spared the constable’s description of the ‘horrible mush with eyes sitting in it. ‘With eyes sitting in it?’ ‘Eyes.’ ‘In the mush?’ ‘In the mush’ etc etc.

18.20 Dr West’s girlfriend offers them her dad’s helicopter if she can come to the island to see the body, too. ‘Are you a good screamer?’ says Dr Stanley. I’m kidding – but I bet she is. ‘Jolly good. I can show you my LYE-BREH-REH,’ says Dr Stanley. I’m kidding – I just wanted to hear him say library again.

19.02 For reasons I don’t understand, the helicopter can drop them there but can’t pick them up again for a while. Maybe it’s rush hour or something. ‘This means we won’t have any contact with the mainland,’ says Dr Landers, impressively.

19.50 Off they go in the helicopter. This scene takes a full five minutes. Maybe there weren’t many helicopters in 1966. Wow! I mean – look at those rotors… The orchestra gets pretty worked up, too. A xylophone plays loudly – which I suppose is reminiscent of a helicopter. Kinda choppy.

20.35 The constable is waiting for them on top of a craggy outcrop. He lights a bonfire then stands well back – just as well if a helicopter is going to be flying over a bonfire. We get an extended close-up of him looking at the night sky admiring the helicopter as it xylophones in.

21.00 Lots of hellos and what not. We get to hear about Dr Phillips, the reclusive professor hiding away on the island, working in cancer research. ‘Before we do anything, let’s go and look at that body,’ says Dr West, who’s really only here for the bones.

22.10 Cut to: Dr Lander’s autopsy room. He pulls a sheet back from Mr Bellows. We see his face for the first time. Looks like me after I’ve eaten too much risotto.

23.00 They talk about the results of their examination. The body is covered in tiny holes. Maybe something sucked the bones out through them? (I’m guessing they got their medical degrees online). They need to go to Dr Phillips’ lab for more tests, because he’s in research and enjoys more funding.

24.50 Dr Phillips’ house ‘looks like Wuthering Heights,’ says Dr Stanley. He probably read the book in his LYE-BREH-REH.

25.40 They ring the bell but no one answers. Dr Stanley takes a torch to find a way in. He forces a window and climbs in. Creeps around. Almost trips over the boneless body of Dr Phillips in the library. Lets the other chaps in. They creep around trying to find the laboratory. It takes them ages. It’s worse than the helicopter.

28.40 Actually, the lab’s in the crypt behind a door marked KEEP OUT : RADIATION. They go in.

28.50 ‘Isotopes!’ says Dr Stanley, looking inside. Maybe that’s a sciency swear word, I don’t know.

29.10 All the lab technicians are lying boneless on the floor. Typical lab technicians. I mean – the pay’s terrible, it’s repetitive work, they get creative with the isotopes…

29.13 Peter Cushing tips his hat back, which is Peter Cushing for ‘Fuck Me this is Awful’.

29.22 ‘Good news – they found a cure for cancer. Bad news – it sucks your bones out.’ (This is why I can’t ever be a script writer).

30.07 They look in the computer – sorry, filing cabinet – for clues.

30.10 Cut to: a worried looking villager walking down a creepy looking road (mind you, all the roads on Terror Island look creepy. It’s probably in the brochures and everything).

30.40 He finds a horse – or a cow? I don’t know, I’m not a vet – with all its bones sucked out. Runs to find the constable. Tells him he found one of his horses dead (Ahhhhh).

32.09 The constable rides over to Dr Phillips’ place to tell Dr Landers about the boneless horse. He lets himself in. Finds the bodies. Explores the rest of the house. Goes down into the crypt. Into the lab. Hear’s a noise coming from a room marked ‘Test Animals’. Opens the door. Gets a tentacle round his throat and his hat falls off.

35.00 Dr Landers goes round to the constable’s house. Rings the bell. Nothing. Gets back in his car. Drives down to the harbour where some guys in duffle coats are aimlessly painting the hull of an upturned boat (it’s the little details that make the film so authentic). The farmer is there. The farmer tells him about his boneless horse. Dr Landers jumps back in his car again. The farmer has the best quote of the film: ‘There’s some peculiar goings on going on on this island’. Try it for yourself. You can’t help but sound mysterious.

37.00 Everyone seems to be going to see everyone else about the peculiar goings on going on on the island. With their hands in their duffle coat pockets. The head of the island walks to his landrover with another guy at about the same pace the doctors walked out to the helicopter. But this time without xylophones.

37.20 Dr West is busy smoking a fag and explaining how Dr Phillips probably found a cure for cancer. Which is just as well. Toni, Dr West’s girlfriend, (I should edit that in earlier but I’m running out of time) – Toni says she doesn’t want to be left alone when they go off to look at the boneless horse. If the monster appears they’ll need a good screamer.

38.33 Toni watches from the car as the three doctors stand around the boneless horse prodding it with a stick. She hears a horrible noise. There’s a thud on the car roof. Something hideous and globular slides down the back window and when she realises it’s not Dr West she screams. The doctors come running but when they get there, it’s gone. ‘What did it look like?’ ‘I don’t know! I don’t know! It was greyish!’ Hmm. They get back in the car to drive to the village for help – but the next thing you know, they’re pulling up outside Wuthering Heights again.

41.00 They see the constable’s bike outside. Down in the crypt they find him lying on the floor, boneless (not that much different to when he was alive, to be honest). A tentacle sneaks out round the door and flaunts itself in their faces. Then the rest of the creature trundles round the corner. It looks like shit on wheels. A motorised pile of shit with a tentacle on the front. They turn to run, but there’s another pile of motorised shit in front of them, waving. Toni looks particularly distressed – having seen something similar back in Dr West’s flat.

41.55 Dr Lander grabs an axe that’s on the wall behind him. Whacks the motorised pile of shit (MPS for short). But the MPS grabs him by the tentacle – which is worse than it sounds – and sucks his bones out. Then it splits and a whole load of spaghetti comes out. Sorry to be so scientific about it. I can only describe what I see. One of these days I’ll write a paper on it and put it in the LYE-BREH-REH.

43.38 Dr Stanley manages to sneak past the shitty pile of spaghetti. Toni is too scared to follow, of course. But Dr West shouts at her and that seems to work. They escape up the stairs.

44.23 The car won’t start. So Dr West opens the bonnet to check the screenwash or something. Meanwhile another MPS is sneaking up on them across the lawn. ‘Hurry!’ says Dr Stanley. ‘I’m trying!’ says Dr West. ‘….I think that’s got it!’ he says, slamming the bonnet on his fingers (I wish). They speed off.

45.10 Back in a house somewhere. Toni is resting in bed. Dr West mixes some powder into some water, for menstrual cramps or screaming, I’m not sure.

48.00 Cut to: the docks. Two villagers meet with another villager. He’s only there because he wants ‘his guts’ (I think – no idea – must be an island thing). Tells them about all the doctors who came in last night on the plane – although it was clearly a helicopter, so … erm .. what about his guts? The villagers look suspicious and hurry away to find the doctors.

48.19 Nineteen seconds later and they’re walking in the door whilst the doctors are reading through Dr Phillips’ notes. Dr West explains about the MPSes, how they’re killing everyone and threatening the island. How they were the results of Dr Phillips’ anti-cancer experiments. ‘I’ll need ten good men in half an hour in the meeting hall’ he says. ‘Right,’ says the chief villager, or mayor, or whatever you want to call him. The one in the hat, anyway. ‘I’ll better go and tell the constable,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. You’re too late. He’s dead,’ says Dr Stanley. ‘And Ian Bellows.’ Awks.

50.50 Everyone meets at the meeting hall for the … erm … meeting. Dr Stanley explains that Dr Phillips created a silicate monster that eats bone. Everyone looks at the village dog, for some reason. They make a plan to find as many guns and bombs as they can. Also to deny the MPSes food by hiding the cattle. The guys all go off and Toni is left to organise the kitchen and stop everyone from panicking (although she needed a powder earlier on, so….)

55.20 All the guys including the doctors go out with shotguns and bombs as it’s now MPS open season. The doctors shoot an MPS right in the tentacle, but it’s no good. Dr Stanley goes over with a geiger counter – which looks suspiciously like a lunch box – and almost gets filleted by an MPS that sneaks up on him. Dr West throws some petrol bombs. The MPSes seem to actually like the flames. At least it means they don’t have to wear a duffle coat. The farmer who lost his horse says he’ll get up closer. One of MPSes is up a tree and drops on his head. He ends up like his horse – a non-runner. ‘Come on – let’s try the dynamite!’ says Dr West. I wish he was my doctor. Although if he’s wary prescribing antibiotics, he’ll be even slower handing over dynamite.

1.00 A villager runs up. It’s his big moment. He gives a big, breathless speech about how one of the MPSes is dead after eating Dr Phillips’ dog. You know – the one that had all that radiation poisoning? He drags the speech out as long as he can, but it has to end sometime and they all run off to look, with him tagging on behind wondering when he’ll get another acting job (which is never, I’m guessing, on the strength of the radioactive dog speech).

1.01 Dr Stanley prods the MPS with a stick (I could be a doctor; I can prod stuff). Yes. It’s dead. They load the dog and the MPS on the truck and take them back to the clinic.

1.03 They examine the MPS. Decide that the only thing that can kill it is Strontium 90. If they can poison the cattle with Strontium 90 then let the MPSes eat the cattle – well, it’s not the vegetarian option but it’s some kinda hope. Dr Stanley and Dr West drive out to Dr Phillips’ place to get the Strontium 90. Jeez – there’s a lot of driving on Terror Island.

1.04 Back down in the crypt. The lights flicker. They go into the lab and put on some protective clothing. It takes them ages. Even longer than putting on a helicopter. The tension is undetectable.

1.05 They end up looking like inflated condoms. I bet they gave their agents hell.

1.06. Seriously? Now they’re putting on enormous gloves. Very slowly.

1.07 All to open a cupboard marked ISOTOPES. Mind you – I’m the same when I go to the fridge to check if the hummus is still in date.

1.08 Dr Stanley has the isotope gun in a briefcase and goes back up the crypt stairs. Dr West goes back – he’s forgotten the gloves (yeah, right). Dr Stanley is so busy locking the briefcase in the boot he doesn’t notice an MPS. It grabs his hand. He shouts for Dr West who comes running back up and cuts Dr Stanley’s hand off with an axe – which is possibly a psychotic response to the recent glove trauma. Then takes one of the gloves, shrugs and tosses it over his shoulder (just kidding – it’s horrific – poor Dr Stanley – how’s he going to fondle the books in his LYE-BREH-REH?)

1.10 Back at the clinic, Toni bandages his stump and gives him a paracetamol. ‘Thank you nurse’ he says.

1.11 Dr West goes all James Herriott. Drives over to the cows. Puts on some enormous gloves. I thought he was supposed to inject the Strontium 90, not shove it up their arses.

1.12 Back at the hall they hang lights around the hall like they’re going to have a ceilidh or something. The Island of Terror (and Community Dancing).

1.16 There’s a romantic scene between Toni and Dr West (just after he’s attended to Dr Stumpley’s stamp – I mean – Dr Stanley’s stump). He almost proposes – but Toni says Ssh and puts her fingers on his lips. All of them. ‘David? Be careful,’ she says. ‘I love you.’ They kiss (worse than being slapped in the mush by a tentacle). He doesn’t say he loves her back, though. She can totally do better. (Shame all those lab technicians got completely boned so early on).

1.18 The MPSes attack and eat the cows. Dr West, the Mayor and a guy in a duffle coat watch through binoculars. ‘It’s a nightmare,’ says the Mayor. Which is true. It’s night, he’s the mayor. Just sayin’. They hurry back into the hall.

1.19 The MPSes surround the hall. The lights go out. The villagers panic, light scented candles. But I’m guessing if Strontium 90 won’t do it, a Bay & Rosemary candle doesn’t stand much chance. Ironically, the sound cuts in & out on me at this point, so I panic along with the villagers. It looks like the mayor points the gun at the villagers and says nobody move, but I could be wrong. Tentacles smash windows. A villager gets deboned where he stands. Then an MPS drops down through the roof and debones another one. They all run out into the corridor. ‘Steady as you go’ says a marshall, the sound cutting back in. He sounds surprisingly calm, but that’s probably why he got the gig. They all retreat into the clinic and put clinical furniture up against the doors. It’s all looking hopeless. Dr West gets a needle ready to euthanize Toni (honestly? she REALLY could do better). But then the tentacles start to go flaccid. ‘Careful’ says the mayor. Dr West throws the doors open. ‘We’ve done it!’ he says. ‘They’re dead!’

1.24 The helicopter comes to pick them up. I know! A helicopter! ‘Have you searched the island thoroughly?’ says Dr West. ‘Yes. We killed them all. I’m certain of that,’ says the mayor. ‘If it had happened anywhere else, I don’t think we would’ve been able to destroy them,’ says Dr West, hugging Toni, who looks about as boneless as anyone at this point, TBH.

1.25 Cut to: A Japanese lab. A racist’s impression of a Japanese scientist knocks on a lab door, gets no reply. Opens the door. Cornflakes sound effect. Screams.

The End.

And that’s it!
So what’ve I learned?

  1. Motorised shit with a tentacle is surprisingly effective, except when it comes to duffle coats
  2. Helicopters sound like xylophones
  3. Never give a bone doctor an axe
  4. Everybody should hear Peter Cushing say LYE-BREH-REH at least once
  5. No. Seriously. LYE-BREH-REH. Mmmm…

what I think happened to the chilli, possibly

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I sent you a linocut of a chilli
as a swap for that really
cool cat you drew playing the banjo
I posted a photo
of it online
but as time
passed
it was increasingly awkward to ask
whether you’d finally got mine
and you liked the design
or you didn’t
but you thought it was proficient
and funny enough
to satisfy the trade and all that stuff

I’m sure there’s a simple explanation
for the lack of any kinda communication

I mean – America
is about a
million miles or so
for a half-arsed linocut chilli to go
and lots can happen to it en route
like the letter flies out the boot
of the cargo plane when it stops
and the mailsack drops
and the wind snatches this particular item
and scatters it round the local environ
where it snags in the fence at the airport perimeter
and gets picked up by a plane spotting visitor
who hopes there’ll be some money inside
and excitedly slides
a finger along the top
and when he finds there’s not
curses his continuing bad luck
and chucks
my chilli
in the general direction of New York city
sneers, says cocksuckers
then carries on surveying the planes with his binoculars

mum’s handyman

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

mum’s handyman stopped to lean on his mower
and watch as I pulled up to park the motor

two dark and perfect semi circles of sweat
hung like cartoon breasts on his nike vest

I’m not in the way am I, I said
he narrowed his eyes and shook his head

nice day for it I said, nice n’hot
he blew out his cheeks and said no it’s not

watched me as closely as a serial killer
as I got out my knock-off Colin the Caterpillar

some white and red flowers, five pound the pair
from the closest Morrisons to mum’s house there

I’m her son I said, so how’s it going?
I thought as much he said and carried on mowing

professor pat pending

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

we’re caught in a traffic jam north of the bridge
we can’t budge
my feet are aching riding the clutch
the rush
hour traffic
tragically and almost completely static
god I wish this car was an automatic
or something even more fantastic
where I could fold in the wheels and sprout wings
and flap away over everything
shouting later losers as I clear the estuary
instead of stuck here till sometime next February

here to help

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It’s a cliche that dogs look like their owners. But whilst I wouldn’t say it was true, even someone as cynical as me would have to admit that Ralph the Shih Tzu is a dead spit for his owner, Robert. They have the same overhanging mullet, the same bug-eyes, the same extravagantly friendly, panting smile – to the extent that if I picked up this squeaky banana toy and threw it across the room, I’m not sure which one of them would get there first.

‘So what happens now?’ says Robert, sitting on the edge of his chair, whilst Ralph plumps himself down at my feet so I can scraggle his ears.

Robert’s mum is entering the final stages of her illness. The district nurses are organising the End of Life nursing care, and they’ve referred to us for additional care support and any extra equipment that might need providing at short notice.

I explain exactly what it is we can offer, how the system works, what’s going to happen next. Robert writes notes on the front page of the folder I’ve given him. There’s a lot to process – mostly how the teams come together, who does what and so on. It’s taken me a few years to figure it out, so I’m not surprised Robert struggles to understand. I try to simplify it to the basics – what time the carers will come in, what they’ll do.

‘I’m grateful for anything,’ says Robert. Ralph swipes at my leg with a paw. I scraggle his ears some more. His back leg begins to twitch.

‘He’s lovely,’ I say.
‘I rescued him,’ says Robert.
‘From the pound?’
‘From the neighbours next door but one. I think the kids wanted a dog, but then went off the idea. Poor thing. He never got a walk. They used to go out all the time and leave him behind a baby gate in the kitchen. I went round one day to help them with their fridge, and I felt sorry for him. So I said do you want me to take him for a stretch round the block? And they said if you like. So I did, and it became a regular thing. We just kind of clicked. He came and stayed with me for a week when they went on holiday. I didn’t hear from them when they got back, and when I went round and said what about Ralph then? And they said you may as well keep him. So I did.’
‘He landed on his paws.’
‘I think so. We both did. Didn’t we, Ralph? Eh?’
Ralph gives him a glance, then puts a paw out, taps my leg, and bows his head ready.