FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Not Doing Too Well ( Epi 12)

A lot had happened in the space of that week. From the perspective of six months later, Duncan and Gavin felt as though this had taken place in a strange alternative universe, unexpectedly gone supernova. During this period of hyper intense activity, the blancmange like face and physique of the Controller of Rectitude - McAlister, had become quite unpleasant and far too familiar. He pushed so hard, and unrelentingly  Driving everyone right to the edge, then over of what they felt they were capable of. Working them overtime, day and night to make Retinal Hemorrhage invisible to future investigation. Unlike paper trails, digital footprints are never completely erased. So expert techheads arrived, who expended a seemingly disproportionate amounts of time and ingenuity simply making them, at least, significantly fainter traces. Covered over by so many contrived trips, glitches and fences, to be very difficult to get at, let alone to unpick or decipher. 

All this effort was successful. For when the police finally arrived at the Seven Dials premises, there was only the barren shell left. Plus some casually, but carefully placed bits of misdirecting information scrunched up on the floor. McAlister hoped any detectives, police or forensic, would eventually draw a line under their pursuit at some point. When further digging would become just not worth doing. Fortunately, they also had insurance in the form of a female police officer,a former devotee, on the inside. Giving them the heads up on how things were. No major alarm bells had yet been rung. The trail the police were pursuing appeared to be running cold. Because it was the false one, laid to effectively divert their focus away whilst 'believers' went to ground, and institutions of the Material Arts Community made themselves 'no longer there.'

Duncan and Gavin's understanding of what had provoked the need for this sort of action, slowly pieced together fragments of information. Retinal Hemorrhage had launched a bold new wallpaper and fabric range in the early autumn. One of their 'employees', so they were told, had sabotaged the print run of a fabric design called Malevolent Punch.  They'd introduced a strange fungal based poisonous compound into the surface finish. A substance activated by human sweat and prolonged handling. A few months later lengths of this fabric were sold to a Haberdashers in the Home Counties. These were made into curtains for one of their customers. That customer and their own delivery driver were now both dead. There was one unexpectedly tricky phone call, that they'd bluffed their way out of, by affecting to be clueless and camp. How McAlister had known about all of this over a complete week before it became common knowledge, was what baffled them. Gavin suspected they were not being told the whole truth.

By the time the national newspapers got hold of the story, Gavin and Duncan had already gone to ground. Retreating to the familiar 1980's municipal housing of the Mulberry Estate. The choice of Duncan's flat was 'hiding in plain sight', so they joked. Since the rapid diaspora of Gavin's community it was the obvious place to go, at least in the short term. Duncan had had to relax his attachment to minimalist interiors.  Asceticism through poverty, Gavin called it. Because Gavin, by contrast, was a man big on having lots of stuff, not just books,music and paintings, but furniture. Big bulky bits of furniture too. The bookshelves alone filled all the available wall space of the small lounge, which now felt intimately cosy rather than its previous anorexic starkness. Duncan teasing him about' never being knowingly renunciate'

The increased amount of furniture was only the first confronting issue. The other was living cheek by jowl 24/7. Much as they enjoyed each others company, they'd grown accustomed to plenty of time apart. The flat afforded neither of them sufficient personal space. So there were days when a testiness previously unknown in their relationship surfaced. It maybe that this was somewhat deflective in origin. Neither of them having fully grasped why the movement they'd belonged to needed to guard its anonymity so fiercely. Enough to erase itself completely from view in the UK. What was it they had to hide? Gavin, as the more experienced practitioner, had an inkling the explanation would be somewhere in the past, way before his involvement. But knew nothing more than some scurrilous hearsay, which he'd so far been unable to verify.

Duncan had easily found another job, one he instantly took a dislike to, in a local hardware store. Gavin called upon old work colleagues for a favour, who recommended him for a well paid managerial position in a design company in Barnet. This was a long daily journey by tube. Travelling diagonally across London was always the pits. Every day heading towards or away from the interminably long rattle track, that is the Northern Line. On the plus side it did give him chill out time. Away from Duncan's freaking out every time he heard a distant police siren. Neither of them were able to be completely at ease. Abandoned to sink or swim by the movement, the final contact they'd had was shaking McAllister's sweaty palm at the end of the last days work in Seven Dials.

Living a self isolating life together, did gradually bring them closer. Once they'd talked through the areas of irritation, and formed intentions on how thing could be improved. Each became more reliant upon the other. Expert at reading the signs for when one of them was 'not doing too well'. Because 'not doing too well' outside of maintaining the necessary practicalities of life, was now a constant personal battle. Forming a sort of background noise to their current lifestyle. At one remove from both the movement and the society they lived in. In constant fear of the authorities tracing them. Apart from going to work they rarely went out together in the evening. 

So several months on after the event, they had begun talking, in a tentative exploratory way, about what they were going to do next. Yes, they would stick together. What was it they both wanted to do with that togetherness? If they had a choice, what would they prefer to do? It clearly would not do either of them any good, longer term, staying in Duncan's pokey council flat. Besides he was not supposed to have lodgers, boyfriend or not. So at some point they'd have to get out of it, and preferably leave London altogether. To do this they'd need to assiduously save money.

One autumn evening, Gavin sat quietly reading in his beloved high back armchair. Duncan, cooking an overly elaborate Ottolengi recipe for dinner,was surrounded by ingredients, steam, sauce pans and perilously balanced plates. Then there was a polite and gentle sounding knock on the front door. Duncan's ears pricked up instantly in recognition. He knew exactly who he'd find on the other side of that door should he chose to open it.

End of Part One of Donkey's Almanac.

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Tiny Moment of Zeal (Epi 11)

Whenever anyone starts a new sport, a hobby, a job, or in this case becomes involved with a religion, there's a period of unbridled enthusiasm. The possibilities seemingly endless. Its all you ever want to do. High spirited idealism triumphing over the grittier, trickier, clunkier aspects of oneself and the actual situations you live and work in. Positive emotions, imaginatively fired up with passionate devotional fervour divert awareness away from such pesky negatives. Talents and potential that have lain dormant and unexplored for so long, well, lets just say they are eagerly overestimated. 

Suddenly its possible, in ones mind at least, for you to become whoever you want to be, you just have to want it enough. Commit yourself to an ardent disciplined pursuit of your ideal, purer, more perfect self. Who wouldn't want to free themselves of impediments given the opportunity and means? The power of most political and religious ideologies is leveraged by such a vision, of potency unchained. Its amazing what these can make anyone do, of their own free will.

And so it was with Duncan. Similar to reformed smokers, the most damning and vitrolic critic of religon, once they become one of the faithful and intimately caught up in it, turn into the equivalent of a hard line Jesuit enforcer. Duncan, so reserved, weak of will and lacking in confidence, had moved rapidly from being a man with a wary, sceptical, if not defensive viewpoint, into being a wildly open minded embracing enthusiast. Now he wanted, to not just read everything, but to try out everything, disciplining himself with a fervent inflexibility to every conceivable spiritual practice. Because everything beamed so brightly from this new dawn, any discernible Jungian shadow side was whitened out in the glare from it. He learned to meditate, completed beginners then intermediate courses, did weekend study and training retreats in central London. Hoovering up whatever Material Arts Movements teachings and practice's that Gavin thought it appropriate to offer him.

His approach to work and fellow practitioner's shifted too.  He'd been hyper critical of most of the 'believers' before joining their ranks himself. Largely because of their perceived laziness and incompetence in the practical sphere. Who would have guessed it, that these self same failings extended into their spiritual practice too? Now he was one of them he felt it his duty towards his fellow brothers, to pick them up on the minutest behavioural infringement. This wasn't helped by a pamphlet written by (Runga Bunga La Di Da ) called The Crucible of Friendship.  Where it was suggested using the 'hot poker of feedback' so that it 'stoked the embers of self-awareness'. Duncan glossed over the qualification that this type of feedback was only beneficial in 'long standing and mutually respectful friendships'. He just vented his righteous sword of a mouth at anyone

It wasn't long before he was considered by most at Retinal Hemorrhage, to be an almighty self righteous prick. Gavin, initially turned a blind eye to this previously uncharacteristic behaviour. He recognised what was going on, he'd had similar moments of zeal, where he'd pulled people up for the smallest deviation or infraction of good practice. This he knew would pass. He just had to give the naive idealism sufficient time to become tarnished a little. For reality to hit the fanatic in his lover. 

It wasn't until he too was in receipt of being 'stoked' by Duncan, that he very patiently sat him down, and tokd him in even unemotional tones to never to do that to him ever again. That how he was acting at work was not just unhelpful, but cruel and counter productive, not to mention exhibiting a complete lack of compassionate understanding. Duncan sucked in his face, then left in a resentful huff at being so kindly, but thoroughly pulled up. Gavin smirked, Duncan would get over it, the pout said it all.

As it turned out this wasn't to be the end of it. The very next day Gavin was presented with a delegation of stroppy 'believers', who had a more radical idea for how Gavin should deal with his boyfriend. Accusing Gavin of protecting his lover from the consequences of his actions. Duncan must leave or they would. This put him in an impossible position, any action he took either compromised his relationship or his effectiveness in running the business. Duncan's approach and execution of his work, taken on its own, was exemplary and beyond criticism. The problem was his intolerant zeal, which could always be tempered down, not his competence in doing his job well. He would not 'move on' his lover, let alone sack him. The situation they were putting him he felt was invidious. 

Gavin was experiencing first hand, one of the many reasons outlined by ( Runga Bunga La Di Da)  in his writings, why internal relationships within the movement were to be so actively discouraged. Primarily, sexual relationships sabotaged clear thinking and action. That this principle was broken at some point by nearly everyone, did not alter that fact. However, this took little or no account of a universal truth about personal relationships - that it was in the nature of human loins, not the undoubted correctness of religious ideals, that they would always forcefully thrust themselves into the motivational driving seat. Gavin was going to have to call someone else in to sort the situation out, and mediate with his staff. Too emotionally invested himself, he no longer could do this. So who would that person be ?

Passing the buck upwards, he sent an e.mail to the UK Headquarters for the movement. Few people knew exactly who ran it, where it was, or what its purpose was, or how ir was funded. Gavin certainly didn't know. There were names, but mostly without faces, but with reputations. His eye brows raised when he learnt who they were sending, - the current Controller of Rectitude, Peter McAlister, popularly nicknamed The Persuader. Judging by his reputation in the movement, he seemed an entirely heavy handed and disproportionate response.

He arrived at Retinal Hemorrhage on the dot of 9am, the very next day. 

Anyone who might have been expecting The Controller of Rectitude to be a tall serenely imposing man with seet kindly eyes, would have been surprised by his size. He was diminutive and sweaty, with sleepless bruised looking swags under his eyes, punched into a wide face that matched his rotund pudgy body. He resembled the sort of disheveled looking bouncer you saw in seedy nightclubs. Dressed in an ill fitting suit,tobacco stained shirt collar, obligatory garish tie at half mast, and seriously scuffed black brogues. Piercingly intelligent, one look from his black eyes drove deep into any soul, whose psychological armour would crumple, unable to withstand them.

In the execution of his job, he felt there was no desire or virtue in him in being the kindly spiritual practitioner of the Material Arts Movement. His religious duties, did not require him to be likable or pleasant, but critical and coercive. He was definitely more of a dark arts man, the bloated bruiser, a gangster with no redeemable, mother loving softer side. The first words spoken tpo him weren't the furious castigation Gavin was expecting. Out of his heavy lipped mouth came a voice, whose timbre and tendency to reverberate its vowel sounds, indicated that a long long time ago he may have been from Glasgow. It was gruff, squeaky and yet matter of fact.

'You might reasonably be expecting me here today to sort out this moderate little crisis you and your boyfriend have summoned into being. However, there is a far greater, far more grave, far more urgent matter I'm here to deal with. I'll not explain this in precise detail right now. You'll just have to take my word for it. Because there are things we need to action, and action straight away. You are going to help me organise and carry this out, my boys.

What we have to do is close Retinal Hemorrhage down. Clear out machinery, computers, furniture, initially to the garage warehouse in Finsbury Park. To sell these off at a later date, once the coming storm of interest has passed. Destroy any paper documentation, transfer money, pay off  creditors, all employed staff, close all bank accounts. We must leave no active trace here that might lead the authorities too swiftly to individuals, communities or institutions of the movement either here, in Europe or worldwide.

Close that gaping mouth Gavin. Get cracking man! All this needs to happen pronto - ideally fuckin yesterday.'

NEXT EPISODE 
Duncan's Not Doing Too Well ( Episode 12 /12)
The final episode of Part One of Donkey's Almanac 
will be posted on Friday 25th November

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Selected Teachings of (Runga Bunga La Di Da ) (Epi 10)

It had started raining heavily whilst walking from the nearest bus stop to his flat on the estate. These familiar streets were being refreshed as shiny and blue black as patent leather. Duncan arrived home excited, but drenched, with the book and the extracts written down on random scraps of paper, crammed in both jacket pockets. These appeared to be on the edge of returning back to pulp.

The notes he'd made were either of statements he liked or those he felt vaguely uneasy with and wanted to ask Gavin to further unpack. Once home he salvaged by re-writing what he could. In the middle of this, it dawned on him that the things he was feeling uncomfortable about were what he really was most challenged by.  For, after all, what did he really think? What did he actually know was true? All his thoughts and roughly formed ideals, suddenly felt like the second, third or fourth hand borrowings they often were. So he found himself humbled, prodded and reinvigorated by what he had been reading. Was any of this true, or did he just wish it to be true? Did he need this to be true? Was a feeling for it being true, enough? And even if it was true, what then? 

The book itself was short and pithy. Packed with neat aphoristic paragraphs and sentences, grouped under three chapter headings - The Function of Religion - The Function of the Imagination - The Function of Lifestyle. He couldn't remember whereabouts his notes came from, so these headings enabled him to place them into rough categories,.

The Function of Religion

'Religions have some sort of self transformation at their heart. Broken down into four stages. 

1) The Self Awakens To The Reality Of What The Human State Is. 

2) The Imagination Envisaging Another State Of Being  

3) A Feeling Of Allure Towards That State Arising

4) The State Of The Greater Awakening Arrives'

'Religions contain elements of what is true. But we need to be discerning, we cannot take one truth to mean it all is.'

'The mundane world wants you to stay mundane. Discovering how to release yourself from being stifled by your own mediocrity, is the primary task.'

'Take from any religion whatever is imaginatively or practically helpful. Don't waste time trying to make your magpie borrowings theologically consistent or conform to one specific doctrinal orthodoxy. There is no point in faking coherence where there is none. Follow whatever makes intuitive sense to you.'  

'Be in pursuit of your own personal myth, not anyone else's.'

'Its a mistake to follow unquestioningly anyone, including myself. Don't unthinkingly take my word for it, I am just as flawed as you are '

The Function of Imagination and the Arts

'The world we inhabit and our sense of self are beautifully constructed fictions. Our aim through practice is to carefully unpick and deconstruct these. And then, through our imaginations re-build ourselves into 100% who we truly are.'

'All our efforts and strivings move us incrementally towards being capable of living within truth'

'Fortunately the imagination can be turned to our advantage. We can re-imagine ourselves beyond our perceived limitations. We stand a better chance of becoming complete human beings and living that out, once our acquired conditioning has been erased'

'Question every assumption or common sense way of seeing. Let nothing be hidden under habits, false logic, flawed ideals or pure fantasy.'

The Greater Awakening is when we fully awaken to our true selves, and to our interconnectedness with the entire universe.'

'Contacting the realm of the spirit transforms our imagined separation between all realms of existence - of life, death and after life - past, present or future. Discovering that the spirit of consciousness is a continuity that exists beyond one specific individual life, beyond one specific mind, beyond any specific time frame- its a counter cultural experience.'

''Never underestimate the role of beauty, creativity and the arts as visionary engines for transformation. Imagination responds to The Feeling Of Allure, which is itself The Greater Awakening drawing nearer.'

The Function of Lifestyle

'The way men relate to women and women relate to men in modern life. is bedeviled by a mutually crippling dependence. In order to awaken ourselves, there are times when it might be better for each gender to have nothing to do with the other.'

'Men and women can learn from each other. But do not overlook the need for time out, for time alone, for time spent with people whose gender experience and outlook is similar to ones own.'

'It is perfectly healthy for people to live and work in places composed of just men or just women. Its where the rough can be smoothed, the naive be matured, where example, support and encouragement by your gender peers builds self confidence, trust and openness.'

'Situations can simply stop being useful, we can become stale in them, to cease growing. Any context if lived or worked in for too long can become your greatest enemy. This includes marriages to a specific religion, a person or a career '

'Abandon things you feel have become obstacles or limitations or you have formed an unhealthy dependency on. Its the only sensible thing to do.'

'Spiritually speaking its better to be voluntarily celibate, anything else will be an involuntary compromise '

Reading them provoked a mixture of feelings. Experiencing the tug of war between interest and resistance. Also, there was anger and remorse over how much of his life he had already wasted, and on what? Yet there was a huge sense of uplift and excitement too, as if someone had just offered him a helping hand after falling over. This was followed by waves of uncertainty, a reactive hesitancy and trembling over what the next step, if there was to be a next step, might be. Each time it came back to Gavin. Gavin would help. Gavin would have the answers. Gavin would placate his nervous uncertainty. 

What had been missing from his life so far had been any sense of its overall purpose and direction. Who he was or what he wanted to become, were largely unvoiced, and thus far, unanswered questions. He'd seen no way out, let alone forward, from a life of constantly lowering expectations. Now his potential was all here, served up on a plate and ready to be gorged on. He was left wanting to know more about whatever the movement had to offer. On the cusp, most probably, of taking a significant step in his life.

He texted Gavin to 'come over,,need to talk'. Hoping he'd be prepared to unpack more than an overnight bag.

NEXT EPISODE
Duncan's Moment of Zeal ( Episode 11/12 )
will be posted Friday 11th November

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Evident Curiosity ( Epi 9)

You can't work for a business full of 'believers' and be in a relationship with its General Manager, without becoming intrigued about what their beliefs actually are. Fond admiration of Gavin, his good natured unflappable attention to others needs, had now reached the stage of a full blown love affair. Each besotted with the other. Gavin never wanted to proselytise to anyone, least of all his lovers. He realised Duncan's evident curiosity would one day get the better of him. Dreading the day that moment would arrive. Which one day of course, it did. 

'Gavin, if I wanted to find out more about your movement, where would I start? I can't find much detail on the internet. You got a book you could lend me? Something basic. You know me, something I could easily get my head around'

Gavin took a deep breath, looked him in the eyes - what might he be ready for? Riffling through his bookshelves he emerged with a very thin book, hardly a hundred pages in length - 'An Introduction to The Material Arts Movement' by (Runga Bunga La Di Da ) There on the cover the uncomfortable photo of that stern face, staring out at you like a disciplinarian headmaster with a kinky hidden secret life. Duncan was never sure how to interpret that face. Gavin placed the book, with a deliberately throw away casualness, into his lap. Touching affectionately the back of Duncan's head. He looked at him examining the book, then turned away biting his bottom lip.  This moment could be pivotal in their relationship. With the possibility he might have to get used to being without a partner in life, yet again.

'Try that to start with. If you want to learn more there are beginner's groups.'

Duncan turned over the book and read the blurb on the back. It was, as he expected reverential guff. 

'A brief explanation of the foundational beliefs of The Material Arts Movement, from this highly revered spiritual teacher. Written in the direct uncompromising fashion ( Runga Bunga La Di Da ) is so renowned for. Making accessible these teachings, derived from revered and time tested religious sources. Skillfully blending these into a cohesive whole, refreshingly contemporary, clear and beautifully expressed. Its accessible, yet challenging material, filtered through his perceptive analysis of our modern world, its problems, hangups and dilemmas'  

A synopsis of the life of (Runga Bunga La Do Da) prefaced the book. Much being made of his humble origins in Maidstone and the revelations and inspirations that made him decide to forge his own spiritual path for himself. 'Drawing from traditional religions, but free of becoming their unthinking slave' as he put it. And yet, thought Duncan, here he is a founder of his own movement, inconsistently deviating from his own first principle.

Approaching any religious movement for the first time, there is always the unspoken question -' Is this some sort of cult? Though its rare that anyone fully defines that latter term. Holding their cynicism in higher regard, than any truths that might be being laid out before them. Everything required testing in a bath of freezing cold water first. Duncan was no different, he felt his scepticism rising up to meet everything. 

Yet, here he was, in love with Gavin, and there was this one thing which he knew was so important to him, that he knew nothing about. Maybe this was what made St Gavin tick. Gavin was truly a lovely man, maybe The Material Arts Movement would be truly lovely too. He wanted to be fair, he wanted to like it, perhaps a little too much. He wanted to appreciate what he read. Take off that protective cloak of cynicism and professed indifference, and just read without prejudice, without rosy or harshly tinted glasses? Well, at least he could give that a try.

Gavin had gone out of the room into the kitchen. Nervousness had made him go there, ostensibly to make a pot of green tea. Really it was because watching his boyfriend read that book, was a form of torture. Similar to loaning a friend a favourite novel, CD or video. You want them so much to see it as you do, to join you in the loving of it, to bring them closer to you through it. He was also aware this was an unpredictable game he was in the middle of, with an equally unpredictable outcome. It could end up with the 'love object' wondering who on earth this person was who could like this sort of arrant nonsense. He'd no idea what Duncan's response to such 'spiritual stuff' would be.

Gavin returned to the room with a tray loaded up with a pot of green tea, cups, saucers and biscuits, Duncan was studiously curled up in the armchair with a pencil taking down notes on scraps of paper. Was that a good sign? Had anyone done that before? 

'How's it going? You getting on with it ? '

' I'm fine. Its well outside my usual reading and subject matter. Its wacky but interesting. I'm just reading the paragraph about the 'primacy of the individual in choosing his own allegiances.'

' Yes, some of my favourite aphorisms come from this book'

Gavin recited aloud from memory

'Your life is the vehicle for every insight and transformation possible.' 

'Your imagination is several steps ahead of you at all times, honour it, cultivate it, breath it in, live it.'  

'Art and creative self expression, is not a self indulgent luxury, but a vital intermediary in bringing what is internal and as yet unformed and giving it, not only form, but also the permission to be lived'.

Duncan noticed how much Gavin's face lit up. His whole body and mind   reinvigorated the moment he started speaking the words out loud. It obviously meant so much to him. Duncan felt his responsibility not to respond carelessly, not be too flippant or camply dismissive in any off the cuff comments he might be tempted to make. None of those reactions felt applicable as yet anyway. It crossed his mind that maybe he should read the book at home, on his own. Literally in his own time and space. Or would that just prolong Gavin's evident agony? So he asked him straight:-

'Gav, would you prefer it if I read this back at my flat? You seem a bit tense. My doing it here whilst you wait appears to be weirding you out. How about I take a break, have a cup of green tea, eat a biscuit or two, then go home?'

'Not sure if that'll help"

'It matters to you, that I appreciate this book. Well, already I can see something of why that might be. Yes, it feels a bit odd, but then a lot of stuff does at first, until you get tuned into it'

'Its just...its just.... I don't want to lose you because of it'

He stood up and moved towards Gavin and embraced him in a large reassuring hug. 

'I see. You think I'm going to get so freaked out I'll do a runner on you. I'm a grown up. Though some might say otherwise. I may or may not end up loving this book, or your movement. I don't know that yet. I love you, you big lump. Have some confidence in that.'

Though Gavin said he was OK with Duncan going home, he wasn't really. He was aware from extensive experience with beginners, that everything could be going quite hunky dory, someone could be really really enthusiastic, then they'd just disappear, not come back again. You'd never know why. But in retrospect there had been tell tale signs early on. They'd read something, take a phrase out of context, and it would trigger a seismic knee jerk response. If there was no one close by at such a time to explain or talk it through with them, people just spun out, never to return. Once it dawns in them what changes a spiritual life implicitly is asking of you, some folk felt that and baled.  Retention - always a bit of a problem.

So as he kissed Duncan in the porch of the community, and saw him walk away down the street, he couldn't stop painting this scene into his imagination as being the last he'd ever see of him. Sitting on the steps, covering his mouth lest anyone else in the community heard the melodrama going on in his mind spill out.

Beyond the particular strains of this particular moment, there were practices of the Material Arts Movement, that were a hard sell. Should Duncan come through reading this book relatively unscathed, such aspects of the movement and its origins, if trodden on too soon, might blow him completely out of the water. Alone in his room that night, given the contentious nature of some of them, he wondered quite why even he stayed involved.

NEXT EPISODE
Duncan's Selected Teachings of (Runga Bunga La Di Da )
( Episode 10 / 12 )
Will be posted next Friday 4th November 2022

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Romancing (Epi 8)

The men's commune was situated inside a vast four floored Edwardian terraced house. Located in a tree lined street on the very edges of Finsbury Park, leaning in towards the Crouch End approaches. It even had a brass name plate, stating in cursive script that it was The Antinous Community ( MAM) The contrast couldn't have been more different to the eighties shambles that was the Mulberry Park Estate where Duncan lived. The restrained elegance of its exterior, the stained glass door, fan light and bay windows, its checker board tiled entrance porch. All deceived you about what further aesthetic beauties you might find within. 

Once entered you were confronted by a confusion of bicycles propped up in ranks in a dimly lit stairwell lobby. A hazard of epic proportions should there ever be a fire. A veritable layered forest of coats hung off the walls, as though skins had been flailed, and shoes littered the floor like smelly rats, on and off racks. A post shelf, piled with junk mail, plus the accumulated mail for people who'd lived here many bygone eras ago. All of which no one thought to throw away, return to sender, or recycle.

Dinner with Gavin had now become a regular booking. Usually whatever day Gavin was cooking for the commune. He was an excellent cook, able to rustle up a more than passable curry. To which everyone in the community enthusiastically attended. There were apparently some commune members whose cooked meals were best avoided. The worst one consisting of over cooked rice, boiled potatoes, topped with pasta in a thin insipid baked bean sauce. The boys usually arranging en mass to be out on those nights. Staying at a boyfriends flat. Sneaking out to buy takeaway. But most assembled like members of a dissenting sect in the greasy spoon cafe just over the hill in Hornsey Rise.

Duncan's general impression of the commune was how grubby and uncared for it was. Which considering what a mess his own flat was in currently, was somewhat hypocritical of him. But he saw that as a temporary aberration which he currently was in the process, at least in his imaginative intentions, of removing. One day soon it would be an immaculate and cool place to live in once more. 

Cleaning in the community, according to Gavin, had always been a perpetual problem. Initially everyone had put their name down to clean specific areas. Left to their own volition when to do this. It didn't matter when, just so long as it was done once a week. But a young man's sense for how to clean, or even if something needed cleaning at all, varies quite widely.  Most had never touched even a duster before joining the commune. Their upbringing failed to instruct their gay male progeny in the arcane art of noticing where and when dirt was accumulating, and taking responsibility to clean it. At present they cleaned the house collectively on a Wednesday, befor they had a regular meeting as a commune. Everyone could then at least see it was being done, however ineffectively half arsed.

Over these dinners and hanging our together afterwards, it became clear how well they got on. Gavin had a charm to him, a sharply observed wit. He'd read quite widely, judging by the references he made and the packed bookcases in his room. Though nine years older than Duncan, this did not matter. He was just a lovely kind natured guy, very considerate and attentive. Becoming a bit of a mentor, that Duncan felt he could model himself on. They tended not to talk in any detail about what his beliefs or religious practice's were. He just referred casually to (Runga Bunga La Di Da ) or his current Rosicrucian or Theosophical reading. Duncan, at this point, didn't think it the right time to enquire what this meant in detail. Looking it up on Google later, he wasn't much wiser. Basically, it was all the best bits world religions held in common, rammed together in a mash up, with some sort of associated occult undertow.

In principle, no sex was meant to take place in the commune. But in reality, if you put a whole bunch of gay men in a house together, there were always relationships going on between commune members. Ones that were diplomatically turned a blind eye to. Gavin, however, felt it an important principle to respect. So signs of affection between them, were only when they went out. A discreet hug or squeeze of the hand in the park, a parting kiss in the community porch. It was all quite quaintly chaste and gentle in nature. This was not what Duncan was used to. The rush to get raunchy, followed by the desire never to see them ever again afterwards, once you discovered they were a racist, misogynist, Tory voting bastard, with halitosis. Would he ever fully get over Zak?

Gavin's room in the commune had beautiful period furniture, soft warm coloured walls, and felt like a haven of order and refinement. Surrounded by an other wise chaotic commune. Built, so it seemed, out of cobbled together third hand IKEA units, with several layers of chipped emulsion paintwork. Some might have call this a patina of age, but its real resemblance was to distressed scruffy mechano. Conscious of Gavin's taste and sophistication, Duncan was reluctant to invite him back to his flat. At least, not until he'd tidied, cleaned and purged it of the detritus formed during his long period of depressive slump and inactivity. The burgeoning relationship with Gavin gave him all the incentive he needed to finally sort it out.

When he and it was ready, there was a knock on his flat door and there stood a beaming Gavin with a bunch of slightly wind battered tulips. Both tittering like bashful teensagers as he stepped in, Gavin closed the door behind him and gave Duncan the deepest groping, kiss and embrace. Throwing the flowers on a side table he asked,

'So where's the bedroom?'

Duncan edged him towards it, in a stumbling straddling walk, whilst still in an embraced kiss. Closing the door behind him with a practiced flick of the foot.

NEXT EPISODE  
Duncan's Evident Curiosity ( Episode 9 / 12 )
Will be posted next Friday 28th October 2022

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan"s Weird Work Dynamic ( Epi 7)

Within the first few days it became obvious what Duncan's main talent and contribution would be. He proved to be fabulous on Reception, fielding calls, charming people, delivery men, smoothing the general operation of the office. Anything in the area of customer service that he took control of, suddenly started to spark with energy. Though he'd only ever worked in offices on a casual basis, Duncan was as surprised as everyone else was by how much he knew. He became quite rightly pleased with himself. He wasn't the complete loser after all. But then it was also plain to Duncan, that pretty much everyone else in the office, bar himself and the ever resourceful Gavin, were clueless and a complete waste of space. Simple effective competence had instantly made him look masterful. 

And the office staff were not just all guys, but all gay guys. There was not one woman on the premises. How did they manage to pull that one off? The only woman he saw was the weekly visitation of Maureen from the Accounts Team in the Suffolk women's commune. Collecting paperwork, bringing paperwork, wages etc. Spending an hour with Gavin in his office, before going out to a cafe with him for a more informal social chat. Duncan could see it provided Gavin with an opportunity to offload all his frustrations into her more receptive ear? Always returning minus the frown on his forehead. Maureen, statuesque in loose flowing caftan like dresses, presented herself well, combined with an extremely composed, calming presence. Why was it, mused Duncan, that all the men in this 'movement' ( Gavin excepted) were naive and frankly inept, whereas all the women he'd seen so far; Avril; Maureen were just so intensely who they were, comfortable in their skin, admirably effective and had the look of being solidly dependable?

The real question was, where had all these gay guys, dressed in versions of the same style of cheap sports clothing, come from? As the weeks passed,why became clear. Retinal Hemorrhage had moved here from  rather cramped and improvised circumstances in a large garage/warehouse in Finsbury Park. Bringing with it, its entirely gay male workforce. The garage business belonged to the gay men's commune set up with money from the UK Headquarters of the MAM  (Material Arts Movement)  The business originally evolved out of an idea a few former commune members had had. All of the twinks, the winsome young men who now drifted around the office or slackly slumped in their chairs so ineffectually, were the current batch of idealistic young recruits. For whom their livelihood provided a sort of spiritual cutting edge. Founded upon laziness, thought Duncan.

In this new enlarged business, there was an uneven mix between what could be couched' believers' from the commune, and 'employees'. Neither side understanding quite where the other was coming from. So there was an inherent friction. The 'believers' learnt their role on the job, and if they weren't that good at filing say, would be tried out on mail order, phones or dispatch. If they proved completely useless at anything they were never sacked, just hidden away somewhere where they could do the least damage. Perhaps a 'gofa' waiting on a request to go fetch something. But mostly they would be found constantly hoovering the office,or sweeping the floors of the print workshop in a derisory semi- depressed manner. The 'employees' were brought in because they already had the requisite practical skills, and were paid the going rate. The 'believers' paid on a 'needs' basis, were constantly short of money and wheedling for more.

The 'employees' consequently resented the 'believers' because they felt they were left to do all the real work. Which was true. The 'believers' could suddenly disappear only to be found either having a snooze in a cupboard somewhere, or be seen meditating, doing yoga or tai chi whilst supposed to be manning Reception, data entry or filing. With no one there to show them how office jobs should be done, out of sheer boredom they'd frequently start inventing a system all their own. 

Overtime with many such unnecessary reinventions of the wheel, the office record keeping systems, for example, evolved into this twisted unmanageable beast of a thing. The original inventors long gone, no one understood anymore why things were done in this particular way. Any new arrival initially forced to carry on executing tasks in the same manner. Even if they knew this was a totally rubbish way of doing things. Once they'd been there a month or so, if they hadn't already left, they'd start making misguided 'improvements' of their own. Should an 'employee' or a 'believer' arrive with the necessary skills, such as with Duncan, then some semblance of an effective organisation might start to appear. 

Duncan's arrival came then as a blessed relief for Gavin, who had been banging his head against this particular form of brick wall for two years. Finally he had someone who knew what he was doing, and was good at it. He could relax more, because he didn't have to diplomatically micro manage him, like he often had to with many of the 'believers'.  Having moved to the Seven Dials premises, it was also possible to introduce the computer based office package he'd been hassling for. This was intended to kick start a revolution in how the business operated, which it did. A complete review of all systems, paper or digital, began. Duncan became a major part of this. As was to be expected, it threw all the other 'believers' into a hissy fit of insecurity and resistance. The old over complicated systems was, nonetheless, overturned, existing staff being retrained, or relocated to 'garden duty'.

What made this weird workforce dynamic worse was two fold.  First, most of the 'employees' were taken on to work in the print room. They had skills in the mechanics of printing and were down in the cellar workshop. Whereas most of the 'believers' worked in the office up above them. An Us and Them culture rapidly developed around this physical demarcation.

Second, the 'believers' sexual orientation or gender bias, was anywhere along the spectrum from bisexual, to gay, to non binary, to trans. Whereas the 'employees' downstairs' were generally rock solid straight blokes and heterosexual as they come. They found 'the guys' upstairs either intrinsically threatening or truly baffling, sometimes both. In public, homophobic or transphobic language would be actively self censored. Only bursting to the surface when one of the 'poofters upstairs' had goofed up really really badly.

In the midst of all this, the seemingly still small point was Gavin, the General Manager. Yes, he was gay, but unlike the other 'believers' he had a wealth of experience in the job he was now doing. Though he tore his hair out when alone in his office. He had developed an effective way of bridging the culture gap with the guys in the workshop. Engaging in male banter and joking, flattering and charming them into liking him, and hence more willing to do what he requested of them. They were much more tolerant and appreciative of anyone who they found trustworthy and actually knew their job. His being gay didn't seem to matter one jot then. They couldn't bare an ineffectual man, who made there job harder. If they were also effeminate this simply rubbed salt in the wound. Competence, not prejudice, being the primary ruling distinction here.

Duncan lightheartedly referred to him as Saint Gavin to his face. Which he would smile wryly at. Gavin, when under pressure, sometimes assumed an impassive expression, which made him hard to read. Whether he was at all as interested in Duncan, as Duncan was in Gavin, had not yet been determined. Until one lunchtime Gavin asked Duncan if he'd like to come to the gay men's commune for dinner one evening. Dinner with Gavin and get a peek at what a men's commune was like. He couldn't wait. This Saturday? Yes please.

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Romancing ( Episode 7 / 12 )
will be posted Friday 21st October 2022

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Building Site Visit (Epi 6)

Avril was waiting for Duncan, per their arrangement, outside of Leicester Square Tube Station at 10am. Today she was spectacular in a black collarless baggy blouse, velvet hot pants with bib, worn over leggings, massive Brothel Creepers, topped off with an oversized raven feather in a Tyrolean hat. As yet, he'd not seen her wearing the same clothes twice. How on earth could she afford all this bizzare collection of new clothes? What did she do for a living? Where does she find them, let alone store them? Where does she live? All these unanswered questions flipped idly across his mind, as she walked towards him.

He on the other hand had nothing special to wear, not pre-crumpled. Nothing that he hadn't worn pretty much every time he'd ever met her. Note to self, go to the bloody launderette, lazy toe rag. He suddenly felt very dull, predictable and under dressed. Enamoured by her individualism, he was suddenly aware of how tightly drawn his own dress conventions could be. He never thought of it as conforming to a male uniform, until someone else showed him you could step outside of the rules with your reputation intact. Or was this just an easier thing for a Drag Queen to do? or was it perhaps only Avril?

As they silently crossed Tottenham Court Road, Duncan felt self conscious. Never fluent in small talk, he thought he'd try being complementary.

'I always love the way you dress Avril, its really...... unique.'

This proved to be entirely the wrong thing to say.

'I don't do it to please you, or for any one! Its one of (Runga Bunga La Di Da's) teachings - we must be prepared to be uncompromising in order to discover what our true self is. Unpolluted by the expectations of conventional society, our families and other people. Whether male or female, all integrity and agency is lost if our actions are enslaved to the gaze of desire. I dress, as I do, in order to express myself imaginatively and to bring pleasure to me, through being 100% totally authentic.'

Duncan wasn't sure he bought into any of that. It sounded like a paragraph read straight from a text book. What he saw was Avril's playfulness, there was nothing aloof or free from being enslaved to the male gaze there. She twiddled and played with it constantly. But then, as a gay man, he was familiar with straight women indulging in outrageously flirting with him. Feelung completely safe to do so, without fear of any unwanted consequence. Though even in that perhaps he was as prone to misinterpreting what the purpose of that flirting was for, how consciously it was being done, as any straight man.

'Have you ever truly been yourself Duncan? Not trying to please anyone, not seeking appreciation, not trying to get someone to love you, to stay with you.'

That he didn't really understand what she was asking for, meant the answer was 'No, Never'. Instead he said:-

'Err, I don't know, maybe once or twice, hard to say.'

'Mmm, thought so. That says nothing. No example given, no lived experience to recount. You can't be vague all the time Duncan. Either you have or haven't. There's no shame in this. The first thing I was encouraged to do when I first joined our movement, was just to be honest. Saying it exactly as it is, begins with Yes or No.'

'I  don't know what the fuck you want me to say' He blurted out defensively.

'The thing is, I'm not wanting you to say anything. Look I hardly know you Duncan. But you appear to have spent your life so far in hiding. Running scared of being yourself. Relax. Let yourself go. Enjoy life. Working here.....if you decide to do this, could be the best thing you ever do.'

All he could think of was Grannie Beryl. How he'd so much wanted to please her, but always always failed. Never could get it right. All that chasing her approval only to get slapped in the face again. Grannie Beryl frightened him. Avril frightened him. The world outside generally frightened him. He was afraid, just afraid constantly. So afraid of getting it wrong he'd decided being anonymous, doing nothing of note was the safest strategy. 

Avril stopped walking and pointed across the road

'There we are, that's the new business property. Bit of a building site still. We need to find Gavin, he's the one that's running the workschedule, and going to show us around'

Lots of young guys, his age and younger, in I'll fitting building fatigues, tool belts, safety gear etc. So much sweaty manhood in physical activity, and all so close as to be almost touched. Suddenly his interest and loins were peaked. Till Avril broke into his fantasy revery.

'Duncan!..... Stop leering......This way'

Marching off through a door and down a flight of stairs to cellar level, to damp, plaster dust and indeterminate fusty smells.  It was a much bigger space than he imagined, it went back someway. Pavement level windows high up on one wall. Opposite a newly knocked through back wall, and a truly enormous extension with skylights. Large glass sliding doors opening out onto a small walled wilderness garden at the back. Substantial amounts of money was obviously being invested in this property 

Gavin was there. Probably mid to late thirties, stocky build, bushy beard. A bit of a handsome bear, cuddly looking, Duncan thought. Softly spoken, a slight lilt of originally being from up north.

'Hi Avril. You, I take it, are Duncan. Pleased to meet you. Though it doesn't look like it yet this is going to be our printing workshop. So much of this refit is just about getting more light into spaces. Its central London, densely built, always in the shadow of other buildings. Every floor has the same problems as down here. The lack of natural light. A bit of an essential requirement for a design and print company. '

Avril chipped in.

'The company has been very successful on a smaller scale. Designing ranges for sale and commissioned work. This, actually, represents quite a big step up.'

'Let's go up a level' 

Gavin gestured to the ceiling. The rooms above were likewise opened out, with bigger windows installed at the back. The sash windows at the front had to stay, because its frontage fell within a conservation area. As long as the street front looked the same, the planning department seemed flexible, within reason, about what you did behind it, inside, out the back, or underground.

'This will be the reception, sales, general office and despatch area. The floors above were originally pencilled in for the men's community to live in. But it quickly became apparent that would leave the business with inadequate storage space for paperwork, materials, stock and finished jobs. The design department and accounts is now run remotely from the women's commune in Suffolk.'

Duncan's ears pricked up in curiousity, a men's and women's commune? Did that mean somewhere there was a men's commune too?

As if she sensed his interest, one she didn't want to go into right now, Avril quickly moved Gavin on, by asking how many he envisaged would work here.

' Oh I guess around twenty plus, A lot of where we need to expand is in people to do the sales and admin. That I think is where you might come in handy Duncan. If you are up for it. Once I put down my Project Manager role, I'll be the General Manager here.'

Duncan feigned a non committal sort of shrug. Though inside he felt a rising level of excitement, quietly appreciating the calm unruffled demeanour of Gavin. Thanking him as they left, he asked

'When might this all be ready to go?'

'Structural work, windows etc, is due to complete the end of this week. Everything will speed up once we can start refitting the interiors. If all goes to plan, without any unexpected delays which we will be lucky to avoid. It might be completed four to six weeks.'

Duncan thought to himself:-

'Oh, I think we might manage that, that's very doable'

Avril glared at him with a penetrating intensity, trying to read what his lack of facial expression indicated. Was he going to go for this or not?

'Imagine Duncan, if you were in on this project from the very beginning. Wouldn't that be fun.'

To which he muttered

'Indeed......indeed.'

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's New Workplace ( Episode 7 /12 )
Will be posted on Friday 14th October 2022

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Private Conversation ( Epi 5)

The meeting was hurriedly organised by Avril, who'd become Ritchie's informal PA whilst in the UK. He was due to fly back to Grenoble tomorrow morning. So if he was going to meet with Duncan it would have to be today. After the public car crash that the Night of Clairvoyance at the masonic hall had become, there had to be some sort of follow up. Having a private meeting one to one with Duncan was Malcom's idea, the very least he could do. He was genuinely concerned about the guy and his mental state. His own reputation as a medium, was a secondary concern he reassured himself. As he careful hair sprayed a wayward bit of his fringe back into place.

True, the movement to which he belonged, the MAC, tried not to do anything that would attract undue attention to itself. Knowing adverse publicity or a negative view of the movement. would be virtually impossible to correct or escape once it was acquired. They organised and kept themselves well under the radar. Malcolm didn't want to couch the purpose of his meeting with Duncan as 'damage limitation'  though that was what the powers that be told him it was. Check him out. Is he likely to be a problem? If possible, try to get him on board. That was his brief, however uncomfortable he felt with it

Probably best not to meet at the masonic hall then, given the associations it now had. The lounge of The Swan Hotel where Malcolm was staying was thought relatively neutral ground by Avril. Pleasantly anodyne with plenty of concealing alcoves suitable for a private conversation. They weren't to know Duncan had once served tables there. The maître de had become a bit too interested in him, touching him up over the entrée. He'd not taken kindly to being told to f.... off and had subsequently made his life a misery. So let's just say his chosen vocation as a waiter was to be a brief one. It was a shame because he was good at it, and enjoyed working there. The tips were great.

So Duncan knew where to go as he entered through the inelegant revolving door. The maître de from his day had been dismissed for improper conduct with a Filipino sous chef. So no one was still working here that would be embarrassing to casually bump into. Except, he was meeting Malcolm Ritchie face to face. The whole Dermot O'Leary lookalike fetish had been somewhat dampened by the experience of his clairvoyance. Once fully remembered, he was left emotionally raw. His moods swung all over the show. Prone to fits of anger, then crying. Was he depressed? Yes, he was depressed, there was no avoiding that. Did he want to meet Ritchie, yes and no. Avril had talked him into it, reassuring him it might bring him some sort of 'closure'.

As he entered the hotel lobby he turned right into the lounge area. At first he couldn't see anyone. Then spotted a recognisable standing figure talking to someone behind a screen. That was Avril, and being Avril she was far from inconspicuous, in a short brocade cape, jodhpurs and horse whip, with an elaborate gauze fascinator, what looked like a cockatoo half in flight perched upon it. All in her signature black. Enough to make any drag queen weep with envy. Duncan found himself intregued by Avril, the more he saw of her. The bizzare, yet confident dress sense, thoroughly executed, the sheer organisational chutzpah of her being. The only thing that made him wary was a feeling, that perhaps this was all being put on for his benefit. To make him feel more at home, amongst like minded beings.

'Hello Duncan, lovely to see you again, glad you could make it. We were just saying how awkward this must feel for you. Come, come, let me introduce Malcolm to you.' 

She gestured behind the screen.

Malcolm Ritchie, fit, with immaculately parted blonde hair, lounged in a high backed armchair, in a continental cut charcoal grey suit that probably was ridiculously expensive. Duncan had forgotten just how smitten he'd been by him, until he shook his hand, and it all returned in a massive wave of lust.

'Hi, Pleased to meet you'

'Well, please sit down, sit down, make yourself comfortable Duncan. Avril has filled me in a bit on your current circumstances, just to save time. I hope you don't mind about that'

Duncan didn't remember really telling her anything. But then there was the neatly organised paperwork in his flat. Someone, he now presumed it to have been Avril, had taken a good look through all of that whilst he was out cold. The unpaid bills, his dismissal notice, the rent arrears and council notifications. That was all there. It wouldn't have taken anyone long to compile a pretty clear dossier of his current predicament. Plus there had been Grannie Beryl's vitriolic appraisal of it from beyond the grave. Yes, his life had currently reached a teeny weeny bit of a crisis point.

'First, I want to apologise to you, again, for what happened the other evening. I was not at all prepared for that. I misread your Grannie's real intent'

'Everyone always did. She'd come across in public as so sweet, butter wouldn't melt. But could be roused into being truly horrible in private.'

'I felt her strength of character. Yes, a force to be reckoned with. Overbearing, you could say.'

Duncan's head dropped, not sure he wanted to go there again so soon. Grannie Beryl was terminally unforgiving of the failings of men. Any man who fell short, would receive her withering appraisal of them, at some point. But in truth, she had also fished Duncan out of many a self inflicted financial crisis. It was probably no coincidence that since she died, and the safety net she'd provided gone, his life had quickly taken a downward turn. Like many matriarchs before her, though domineering and potentially cruel, it was in the perverted order of being kind. The Grannie Beryl's of this world had to take tight control over managing the money. In order to keep everything on an even keel. Whilst their men went out and drowned their bathetic existential sorrows in the pub. Or like his own Father, in the canal .

As if he were reading what was going through his mind, Malcolm chipped into the silence that had opened up. 

'Did you love your Dad Duncan?

'Yes, though my memories of him are quite general. I was quite young when he died. My Mum had cancer, and Dad couldn't handle seeing the woman he loved slowly shrivel away week on week. The day she died was when he threw himself in the canal'

'Though he didn't die that time. did he'

Duncan frowned, gob smacked, how does he know that? His Dad had tried several times ineffectively to take his life, much to Grannie Beryl's ire. She'd throw this back at Duncan repeatedly, about how much like him he was. 

'Couldn't even slit his wrists properly' she'd say,
then erupt into an uproarious cackle, one burnished by a sixty a day cigarette habit.

'No, he didn't, how did you know that.'

'Well, let me just say, I have an ability Duncan to read people, psychically speaking. I know your Father eventually took his life, because I sense him near me right now. Via a gas oven, someone is telling me. Your Grannie was furious with him because you could so easily have died with him. You were playing outside, apparently'

'Yes, Grannie found him. Madly opened the doors and windows and searched the house trying to locate me. I turn up to find her kicking my Father's dead body hard, screaming 'You useless fuckin bastard' over and over.'

Duncan's voice broke, the emotions broke and then there were tears.

Malcolm decided maybe this was the time to change the subject. Move the conversation on.

'Duncan, I wanted to apologise. But also to make a suggestion to you.  I understand you're out of a job at present. Now, I must emphasise, you don't have to give an answer to what I'm about to propose right away. You can think about it, there is no hurry. We have a business that is about to expand into premises in Seven Dials in Central London. They need to enlarge their staff. Training would be provided, so don't worry about not having the skills. Though I'm sure you'd have some transferable ones to bring. Some one is yelling at me that you worked in this hotel.'

'Yes, I was a waiter here, for a little under six months. I've done office work mainly, worked in a call centre, cleaning jobs. That sort of thing.'

Malcolm stared directly, almost hypnotically into his eyes. Duncan felt himself being soothed of all his upset. Any reservations, just melting away.

'So, would you be interested in going along just to see if you like the vibe of the place? Its run as a collective, so everyone who works there gets paid according to their need. Have a chat with Avril about arranging a day and time. If you would like to contact me in future, Avril has my details, we can always Zoom or Skype, if I'm not in the UK.'

'What sort of business is it?'

' Its a bespoke and original print and fabric company, called Retinal Hemorrhage. Its funky cutting edge stuff they do. Not really to my taste, I have to say. Really modern though, quite intentionally provoking. Just pop by, no commitment, take a look.'

Again he felt a pacifying wave flowing out of Malcolm Ritchie. Duncan hadn't ever felt this relaxed without the help of drugs. It was as though he no longer had a problem in the world. More than happy to say:-

'Yes, let's do that.'

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Site Visit (Episode 6 / 12 )
Will be posted on Friday 7th October

FRIDAY SERIAL- Duncan's Remembrance of Things Past ( Epi 4 )

Duncan decided not to respond to requests for contact. At least, not until he'd remembered what had gone on last night. Putting a block on their mobile numbers. Not answering any number he didn't recognise. He knew how to avoid being contacted, he'd had practice with the council housing department. In this alone he was an expert. 

So the day after the night before Duncan lounged about at home. For some well needed rest and recollection. Once he started the process of piecing things together it all got very nerdy, very quickly.  He divided a piece of paper into four quarters. One quarter for before the visit, one for during the visit, one for the missing bits in the visit and one for after the visit. Into each section facts and half conscious imagery were not just written, but colour coded. Red, was what he knew had occurred. Blue, what reasonably could be presumed. Black, what his wildest imaginings feared had gone on. Green, for out of context vague feelings. 

He didn't know where that methodology had come from, nor whether it would work. His memories and feelings were just all jumbled up, disjointed in time and sequence. Getting things down on paper had always helped before in clarifying things, putting all the associated imagery and snippets of information in some sort of perspective. The colour coding arose simply because he had a cheap four colour biro, nicked from the stationery cupboard at his former work.  The quartered paper rapidly filled up. So he started again, transferring the details to individual pages for each section. The earlier in the evening the more the red and blue. Once you approached the missing memory time period the greener it got and their were lots and lots of black Biro with exclamation and question marks circling around the page edges. 

However elaborately conceived, this seemed to help calm him. There were endless revisions as connections came to light.  Duncan found himself getting quickly tired and frustrated, so took regular breaks. Resting his head on the back of the armchair to half dose off for a while. Yet it was whilst in one of these inbetween states, not fully asleep, not quite awake, that he remembered precisely what had happened. Lost hours returning in one instantaneous transmission. He sat bolt upright in the chair, eyes wide, heart pumping, in a highly excited state, yet quaking in fear. Once he'd got it all down on paper he just cried, on and on and on.

*************

Every one had been waiting for the evening to start. The less experienced clairvoyant stepping up first. She was incredibly sweet natured, but infuriatingly vague, asking generalised, leading questions whenever she lost the thread. Duncan had begun to switch off. He noticed his temples were throbbing and his eyes felt noticeably heavier, as if he were coming down with flu. The woman finished, sat down looking as relieved and disappointed, as everyone else was. The chair of the evening stood up, politely thanked her. Recognising that the energy in the room had now fallen flat, she moved the evening rapidly on to introducing Malcolm Ritchie. He stood up, walked centre stage and spoke.

'Just for a moment could we all bow our heads. Put ourselves in a state of gratitude for what the world of spirit has brought, and will brings to us tonight. We thank Gisella Hausmann for the gift of her mediumship, open your hearts and minds, make yourself ready. Be receptive for whatever may emerge in this next period of time in communion with the spirit realm.'

Ritchie stood motionless, head bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped together humbly in front of him, for quite a few minutes. Then he slowly raised his head and spoke gently  -

'I have an old lady here from spirit. Quite small in stature, big and fiery in personality though. Gosh, she is a little hard to handle. A bit over eager, pushy you could say. Be patient, be patient please.' 

Malcolm Ritchie nervously giggled. 

'This one is stroppy. Swears like a trooper. Oh, too rude madam, temper your language or I'll sever the link. Who do you want to speak to?..... Oh, I need to come to a young man, hiding himself away somewhere near the back, by the left aisle she says. Are you Duncan? Is that you sir?' 

Gesturing in his general direction. He remembered feeling as if a spot light had now fallen down upon him, everyone else smiling at his good fortune, and turning to face him. He nervously raised his hand. 

'Could someone get a microphone to Duncan please? 

Hello, Duncan, can you take this lady? She tells me you know who this is. Its your Grannie, Beryl, Grannie Beryl. She's really enthusiastic to communicate with you. Her nickname for you was Donkey. she tells me, as in Don Quixote. I take it that's some family joke. Can you receive any of this? Speak to me please, it helps strengthen the connection.'

Uttering a feeble sounding 'Yes' in reply.

Duncan hated his Grannie Beryl big time. Hated the nickname, that had taken decades of playground taunting before being able to escape. Grannie Beryl was a tyrant, a sadistic bully who loved nothing more than to embarrass him in public. A game she apparently still relished playing, even from the afterlife. It had been a blessed relief to him when she'd died three years ago, and no longer interfering his life. Getting a message from her, from the dead, was not a pleasant prospect. Actually it was devastating, genuinely frightening.

'She really wants to tell you something Duncan. I have to give it to you verbatim, so she says. I  apologise in advance ladies and gents for any...colourful language.' 

Ritchie's voice subtly altered pitch, more aggressive, harsher and crotchety.

 'Fuckin get your life sorted out Donkey. Don't be so pathetic, that is typical of you. Namby pamby moaning pansy that you are. Your life is a bloody mess boy. Lost your job, can't pay the rent, don't want a girlfriend, but can't even keep a boyfriend because you're such a useless little cunt. A waste of fuckin space.

Malcolm Ritchie snapped himself out of this briefly, struggling to exclaim 

Sorry, sorry, if I'd known she was going to be like this I'd have not gone this far'

But Grannie Beryl obviously had more she wanted to say. Ritchie got a frightened look on his face, as if he was unable to stop something else coming through.

'If I was still alive I'd cuff you round the head and sort you out, like I always had to. You are pathetic, nothing but a perverted bum bandit, a totally shameless sodomite. Nowhere near resembling a real man. I can tell you, even your Mother is deeply ashamed of you.'

Ritchie broke out 

'Woah!.....stop! let go !  I deeply apologise Duncan. That.... was unforgivable.'

He dropped his head, looking a little shamefaced at having so publicly lost control. Once he'd begun channelling her he'd become powerless to censor anything coming through him. This had never happened before. But it was too late now, the damage had been done.

As this merciless tirade from Grannie Beryl had gone on Duncan's head had felt as though it was about to explode. Grannie Beryl had been left to bring him up. after his Mum died of cancer when he was eight. As these reproving words tumbled out, there was a corresponding upwelling of emotion coming up from so deep. He began to sweat feverishly and whimpered into the microphone

'Shut her up, please, shut her up, shut her up, shut her up, shut her up'

It was as if the reality of his entire life blew up in his face right there and then. Out of the emotional depths came an anger, real repressed explosive anger, that erupted and was now loudly given a voice 

'You hated me, made my childhood a misery you fascist cow. You beat me every day when I was little. You enjoyed it. Why would I want to talk to you? I never want to hear from you ever again. Not another word from you, about my Mother  or what you think about my sexuality, my life. Your dead, stay dead, I don't want any of your toxic opinions thrown at me again. You are a rotting corpse and I am glad about that. Just fuck off back to the hell from whence you came. I hate you! I hate you! Go away. GO... AWAY!

At which point he'd stood up, stepped into the aisle, feeling overwhelmed with nausea and dizziness. He knew he was about to puke and needed to get out of the building pronto. But before he could, he fell spinning to the floor, spectacularly spraying vomit over the audience and hit the ground hard, blacking out cold. 

*************

After the mixed relief of fully remembering what had happened, he'd fallen asleep. Startled awake half an hour later by a light knocking on his door. This wasn't the folk from the council's housing department, their knocks were harder, more assertive. Still, he cautiously opened his front door. There was Avril, dressed top to toe in black leather knickerbockers, Elizabethan style doublet and ruff. A bike helmet, shaped like an ant head, pertly tucked under her arm 

'Hello Duncan, I hope you don't mind. I just thought I'd pop round to check how you were doing' 

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Private Conversation ( Episode 5 / 12 )
Will be posted on Friday 30th September

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Temporary Amnesia ( Epi 3 )

He awoke- immediately panicked - what the hell ? Realising he was safely at home, he calmed down. Naked, in his own bed, in his own scuzzy flat. What happened last night? Duncan rustled noisily around in his mind trying to unearth any recollection that would explain everything. God, his head was thick, was he hung over? Struggling to focus on recalling anything. This was way worse than any hangover he'd ever experienced. No recollection at all of how he'd even got home. There was going to the Night of Clairvoyance, that he remembered. The boys on the door. The stalls, that odd woman Avril. The room packed with people waiting for the clairvoyance to begin. After that it was all rapidly engulfed by a fog of unknowing. Nothing until waking up just now

Coffee, he needed coffee. The flat felt distinctly chilly. What time was this anyway? Grabbing a thin cotton dressing gown, once white now beige, because he never washed it. Shrugged it on, headed for the kitchen. Peering bleary eyed at a clock. Was that 5am, Christ!  He was never knowingly intimate with this time in the morning. His door keys and mobile slung on the kitchen table. The jacket he'd worn last night folded over the back of a chair, a booklet rolled up in its pocket. He pulled it out. A programme of future events at the masonic hall. Someone had underlined and asterisked a couple of them. An evening of healing and a social gathering, no, a fundraiser slash recruitment for a project they were launching. No idea about any of that. Maybe it'll come back. Give it time. Meanwhile, make yourself some bloody coffee!

Kettle filled, switched on, a mug, teaspoon of instant, slop of milk. Standing fidgety and impatient, Duncan already felt really really wired. Well, much more intensely than he was familiar with. Once the coffee was made he sat down and tried, unsuccessfully, to put the memory loss to one side for even one moment. The kitchen looked pretty much as usual. The grossly familiar sea of unwashed plates and pans. Butter left out and long ago gone to ghee and back again. That sense of order and control over his life, it would return one day, wouldn't it? 

He plunged his hands into the jacket pockets for anything else that might be a clue. Jog those temporarily addled brain cells. Wallet, Bits of small change, work ID (now defunct), sweet wrappers, two business cards. One for a print company, another card for booking life counselling and clairvoyance with - oh yeah - Malcolm Ritchie. Remember him. Good looking. Not everything lost then. Written on the card's reverse - 'Phone me! Luv A xxx' That felt too creepily over familiar. Caffeine, is a wonder drug, but he needed a bit more clarity right here and now.

What had he said he'd do? His imagination momentarily ran off on a story line in his head, about being forever stalked by these people and never being able to shake them off. God, what had he done, what had he done? A wave of mini panic overtook him, whilst sweating and aimlessly pacing about. What did he normally do when this sort of thing happened? Eat, yeah, let's eat. So he searched the fridge, the cupboards, nothing more than a rather floppy pack of ryvitas, no jam, and the rancid butter. If he wanted a fry up he'd have to go the end of the block to Bargain Ben's. As he stumbled whilst dressing himself, he couldn't help but notice that his clothes, rather than scattered randomly across the floor, were carefully folded on the bed. Something he'd never do sober or drunk. Then as he walked towards the door to leave, his eye was drawn to the side table. Envelopes, cards and paperwork all in a neatly organised pile. Someone else had been here. They'd taken his clothes off, put him to bed, then gone through his bills and stuff. Christ all bloody mighty!

Bargain Ben's was run by a local Muslim family, the Ben Ali's. Open 24/7 and packed to the gills with food, booze, stationary, photo copying , even toys! Which one of the family would be on the early morning shift today? Fortunately it was Ravina, the elder daughter. He liked Ravina, and she appeared to like him. Some of the males in her family stared at him as if he were their sworn enemy. Ravina never did. Today she was sorting through the newly arrived papers and mags. She clocked him, smiled, said a warm 'Hello' and carried on cutting straps and organising the delivery into discreet piles. Duncan headed straight for the freezer and chilled cabinets, found sausages, eggs, butter, bread, beans etc. At the counter Davina gave him a concerned look.

'You look rougher than usual, heavy night was it, with you and your friends?' 

'Friends? Did you see me Ravina....... last night?'

'From a distance, you were being literally helped out of a car and carried home by four, maybe five people. That was well after midnight. I'd just driven here. You don't remember last night?'

'Nope, not a thing. Its all a bit of an unknown quantity at present, and its fuckin freaking me out right now.'

'Oh go easy. It'll return In embarrassing technicolour detail no doubt. That's nine twenty six please.'

Duncan unscruched a tenner from his pocket, paid her, picked up the change and plastic bag full of food. He frowned, feeling even more out of sync with reality than before. He'd been brought home. Had a good look round whilst he was out cold. Invading his privacy. He momentarily froze. Then shaking himself out of it.

'Thanks Ravina. You finishing soon?'

'Yes, not my favourite shift. Some deeply unpleasant folk hang around the estate at night. My Father will be here any time soon. See yah later.''

'Bye, enjoy the rest of your day'

Once back at the flat. Fry up made and eaten. Second, then third coffee. Duncan began to feel more himself. He kept rerunning over what he did remember. Gradually things started turning up to fill previously empty spaces, like lost jigsaw pieces. Though a lot was still not there. The time between the beginning of the clairvoyance and him waking on the bed was pretty vague still. Though he'd begun to get a half remembered sensation of having completely blacked out. He hadn't drunk a lot, had he? Just the one glass of cheap plonk Avril had given him, he remembered that clearly enough.

An alarm suddenly struck up on his mobile. Gosh, it can't be his usual eight o'clock wake up call already. It wasn't, this was a totally unfamiliar alarm. It said - 'Book your meeting, Today!  Luv A' That imaginary story line from earlier. The one that sent him into a whirlwind of anxiety. Well, maybe that was not so far fetched after all.

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Remembrance of Things Past ( Episode 4 / 12 )
Will be posted next Friday 23rd September

FRIDAY SERIAL - Duncan's Night Out ( Epi 2 )

He got himself into an unnecessary fretful state of mind about how he should dress for  - A Night of Clairvoyance. It wasn't a rock concert, not bingo either. In the end because it was an event, open to all, it would be like a public talk. He threw on a slightly creased pale mint polo shirt, ditto the ivory chinos, blue Harrington bomber jacket and grey Converse, that had all seen better days. Varying degrees of casual, that was pretty much all he had anyway, so this would have to do.

The masonic institute's hall was twenty minutes walk from his flat on the Mulberry Garden Estate. Unknowingly passing it quite regularly, but taking little conscious notice of it. Its imposing grand classical pediments, pillars and wrought iron railings, like those of an old established bank. The building though had turned seedy and disreputable looking. The dark blue paintwork weathered, cracked and curling away like apple peel, framing mottled glass windows ingrained with dirt. It found itself on the more desreputable side of town these days. Tonight its huge doors were swung wide open, and a large rhomboid of light spilled out from inside across the steps and pavement. As though it were both inviting Duncan in and reassuring him of a quick exit, if need be.

Not wanting to arrive early and be too conspicuously alone. He'd planned to arrive ten minutes before the evening was due to kick off. Smoothly waltz in, get his bearings, tune into the vibe of the place, and find a good seat where he could safely view the proceedings.  He wasn't, however, expecting 'the welcoming party.' The moment he stepped through the door he was besieged by a handful of earnest young men, all much younger than him. Dressed like showroon dummies from a Next window, identical styles of clothing, neatly side parted hair. So nervously over eager to befriend you, it had entirely the opposite effect. Duncan clammed up, frowned his best 'piss off you creeps' look. As one, they all took frit, stepped back, letting him pass through.

Once he got beyond this stone flagged lobby and the 'boy greeters' he relaxed. In the next room there was a reception table. Around which a number of efficient women were busy being busy. This was obviously the organisational hub for the entire evenings proceedings. There were a broad range of women, in age and style of dress. Plenty of cut off sweat shirt tops with brightly coloured cullots and pumps, alongside neat pencil skirts, power shouldered blouses with bows, with a smattering of gauzy bangle bedecked hippies floating around as if already living in Elysium. As he purchased his ticket for the evening, each of the women, as if on cue, slowly turned their heads towards him, taking him in. Duncan was startled. Should he leave right now?

If he'd wanted to, he could have made bookings for fifteen minute tester sessions, to try out spiritual healing, tarot reading, gong therapy, chakra realignment and the like. But Duncan had a real phobia about any form of hands on therapy. The thought of even a sports massage made his flesh creep. Therefore he walked stiffly, eyes straightforward, passed any booking table and the tombola raffle. Which appeared to be offering only alcohol free booze and various tins of vegan shortbread biscuits as prizes. 

'What a waste' he muttered under his breath.

He scanned the room, the marble flooring, ornate plaster ceiling work and a dramatic sequence of alcoves down one wall, all now empty. Once the home for portraits of masonic leaders, now only the dirt shadow of their outlines remained. Today these were forming the improvised booths for a noisy array of merchants selling a wide variety of items of a semi occult or exotic nature. With an unusual preponderance of luridly decorated skulls. 

At the far end of the hall was something of an entirely different character. There was hung a large black and white photo of a man in a grey striped suit with a white nylon shirt and knitted tie. A slim guy, with a thick head of hair, in his late forties, with a stern look and pinched facial features. Was he some sort of guru? Not dressed at all like what Duncan thought a guru would. Instead he stared at you with a reprimanding, paternal questioning demeanour. As though he were saying 'and what precisely do you think you're doing here young man?.' He looked Western, so what the hell was going on here? Was he the clairvoyant Malcolm Ritchie mentioned on the leaflet?

On one table spread out, were books by the guy plus CD's, videos, postcards, photos, inspirational quotes, full length posters, even tote bags with his disapproving face staring out at you. In this corner a small seated area had been created, where you could sit, drink coffee and watch a video recording of the man giving a talk. Brightly lit and softly focused, it was filmed as though he was already speaking to you directly from heaven. Duncan thought the voice might be Eastern European, via the East End? He had a slight tendency to over roll his r's and a way of ending his every sentence with what sounded like a verbal question mark. Hmm?

Duncan bristled, 'I presume this is the creep who runs this outfit'.

He momentarily felt freaked, as if he'd only just realised that he was already in way too deep. Too much weirdness, too many people, much much too close.  Agarophobia struck him, suddenly craving again the security of his flat, the isolation, securely locked doors. In a panic he turned around to leave, failing to notice someone was approaching him from behind. So in the abrupt spin of his movement he had to pull back to avoid crashing straight into this diminutive woman blocking his exit. He exclaimed 

'Oh Fuck, Oh Sorry...... sorry for the....swearing'  

'Hello, my name is Avril' 

She looked him straight into the eyes proffering a drink from the tray she carried, with her ring bestrewn hand. He took it not sure he could handle alcohol tonight, but felt too embarrassed now to refuse.

'You seemed as though you were about to leave. This.'  gesturing toward the photo, the TV and video talk 'Well, it's all a bit daunting, isn't it? A bit too much to take in.  What's your name?'  

Avril was thirty-something, not much above five foot four, but an imposing presence. She knew it and used it. Hovering around the room as though walking on gossamer. With a huge head of jet black hair, smoothly dribbling like a slick of oil all the way down her back. This stopped to rest just above the hem of an artistically layered black dress of rag and lace tatters. Eye coal makeup, darkly rich burgundy lips and thickly drawn eyebrows completed 'the modernist goth look' that made her stare so penetrating. Duncan felt as though she were gazing right into his soul, and was now happily flicking through its pages and reading him like he was a book.

Half mesmerised, the rest intimidated. he coughed up his name.

'Duncan'

'I suppose you've come to see our medium Malcolm Ritchie? He is very good Duncan, well worth staying for. I think you.....of all people.....might find him helpful. He's quite impressive. He has a beautiful aura, it makes him so approachable and grounded. Oh, and there's the charm, Oodle's of charm. Spellbinding charm. Everyone sees something different in him, but everyone falls just a little bit in love with him. Whatever... their sexual proclivities'

Giggling mischievously, she'd got Duncan's number.

'I don't know about all this....stuff.' Duncan nodded derisively towards the occult merchandise 'Whose the weird looking guy in the photo?'

'Oh.....he's our teacher. Our spiritual guide you might say. He lives most of the year in Switzerland for....'

She paused briefly, looking unsure for a moment. 

'....health reasons. The air is so pure there. He's a wonderful man, so direct. Sees right to your essential being. Meeting him can be a life changing.'

She also said what his name was, but it all sounded like (Runga Bunga La Di Da) to Duncan's unaccustomed ears. It didn't sound English.

'He could be running a pedophile ring for all I know'

Avril, visibly squirmed, with a forced smile she sprung on her toes for a few seconds as though deciding whether she ought to move on.

'Well, have a good evening Duncan. If the boys' bother you as you leave, just tell them to bugger off. We've all had to learn to be straightforward in our communication here. Saves time and misunderstandings. Stay for the clairvoyance though. I'd find yourself a seat soon, if I were you. Its already getting packed.'

Pointing towards the the door behind him  - 'Its through there'

That room as he entered was indeed pretty much three quarters full, Most of the remaining seats in the front and back rows. Was the front too close? No way to leave quietly and unnoticed from there. Taking the farthest seat away by an aisle he could find, he sat nervously picking at his fingernails, waiting for the evening to commence.  

A rather self conscious looking woman in a maxi dress, somewhat tipsy, came on stage. She was only there to draw and call the tombola raffle. The table of unwanted prizes appeared. The draw was interminable, with most of the winners either reluctant to pick up their prizes or deaf. It took an age. But once it did end, the paraphernalia was rapidly removed and three chairs laid out in an arc. A middle aged woman with all her supreme confidence on full beam, launched herself onto the stage.

'Ladies and gentlemen. Before I call our mediums for the night to the stage. I'd like to thank you all for coming, and urge you to take advantage of the stalls and catering which will stay open for an hour or so after the clairvoyance. Malcolm Ritchie will be signing his books in reception. Recordings of his guided hypnosis and meditations will also be for sale. Members of our little group will be more than happy to chat informally, answer any questions, put you on our mailing list if you wish, and hand out our planned programme of activities for the next year. So, do stay on if you are able, afterwards'

'We have two mediums for you tonight. The first is a face you may already have seen, Guisella Hausmann, our much cherished Treasurer, who is also a gifted clairaudient. She trained in our movement's headquarters in Switzerland, at the same time as Malcolm Ritchie. With whom she sat in circle with our founder (Runga Bunga La Di Da)  Please put your hands together and welcome to the stage - Gisella Hausmann'

A quiet looking woman in her early thirties came on the stage to polite but supportive applause. She sat rather stiffly self conscious in the chair just to the left of the host.

'The next person I believe most of you will be familiar with, from his stage, TV work and documentaries. He's here for the UK part of his European tour. We are supremely fortunate to have him here tonight. Without need of any further introduction from me. Please welcome to the stage - Malcolm Ritchie.'

The room erupted into wildly ecstatic applause. Everyone seemed to know who he was. Duncan finding himself in ignorance, began to feel as though he'd been living the life of a recluse, which he had. Slowly ascending the side steps into the auditorium came a tall, broad shouldered man, handsome, middle aged in a petrol blue suit, bright white shirt and blond, clearly dyed, hair. He walked onto the stage with the confident swagger of a tele-evangelist, waving, blowing kisses, mouthing 'thank you' and 'I love you'. Then sat on the chair to the right of our host. Duncan's eyes were popping out on stalks

'Drop dead.......gorgeous. The steely charisma of a Dermot O'Leary, but with tinkly bells on'  

Duncan fell into a swoon. Literally putty in this man's hands, before he'd even said a word.

NEXT EPISODE - Duncan's Temporary Amnesia ( Episode 3 / 12 )
Will be posted on Friday 16th September 2022