Delaying the Inevitable

It’s December 2016. We’re in the Labour Suite of the Infirmary. A home away from home – your brothers were born here, and your Mum and Dad work here. It’s been a bad few months – in which governments encouraged us to clamber over each other to escape this fucking dumpster-fire of a year, only pausing to turn back briefly to blame the charred corpses for getting in the way. But now you’re here. The light at the end of the tunnel. What kind of a life have we brought you into? No wonder you came out screaming. Which idiots decided now would be a good time to bring you into the world? One that’s so far off the rails we’re starting to forget what the rails looked like? “Forget about the rails” they tell us, “Rails never really existed”. Maybe it’s because we think that you, in your own way, could make the world a slightly better place? I hope that’s true – that you become one of those people who put in more than you take out, in whichever way makes you happiest. But most of all I h...

Our writing prompt this week was "I could never tell". Did two pieces in the end because I couldn't ignore Trump *shudders* So there's a Santa and Trump medley. ********** I could never tell my kids the truth about Santa. It’d break their little hearts. In our short lives the feeling of wonder should be treasured, protected for as long as possible, like a delicate nestling. Why break the illusion now?  There’s plenty of time for that when they’re grown up. But what if they se e some thing?  A half-awake glimpse in  the shadows?  And then it hits them, the fat, jolly red-suited man isn’t who they thought he was all along. No,  siree  Bob.  Underneath that furry crimson costume beats the callous heart of a monster. We’ve all heard the reports. He runs that North Pole factory like a Victorian workhouse.  Those queues of elves, spending hours going through security at the start and end of their shifts.   They’re nowhere near the Livi...

We live in a pop-up world. Pop-up restaurants, pop-up shops, pop-up furniture, pop-up houses, pop-up jobs, pop-up lives. We all have our fleeting moment to shine, before the page starts to turn and we fold, ready for the next generation to pop-up in our place. But what if we don’t shine? At some point, even the most influential people in history like Caesar, Shakespeare, Lincoln, Einstein will be completely forgotten.  What chance have I got? I doubt I’d ever make as much of an impact on society as, say, Jedward. My time’s running out and I’m staring on slack-jawed, like a medieval serf transported to the modern day and asked to pilot a fighter jet. Things are changing too fast for me to keep up. Things are grittier, more impersonal. I wanted to get back to the things I enjoyed as a kid, but even my favourite kids shows have been updated to reflect our brave new harsher world: Postman Pat’s on a zero-hours contract with Deliveroo, Fireman Sam’s striking about unsafe ...

There comes a point in most peoples’ lives when they realise that the dreams they had as children probably aren’t going to come true. I’m 34, with a wife, two kids and another one on the way and I’m starting to think I’ll never be a rock-star astronaut cowboy. I should’ve gone to rock-star astronaut school. Missed opportunities. But as you get older, the everyday concerns of life get in the way of your dreams. You work hard at school, work hard at college or university, work hard at work. All the time thinking it’ll get better. It’s like the end of the Shawshank Redemption, you’re Andy Dufresne, crawling through that pipe of shit towards a life of freedom. But when you get to the end of the pipe, you realise there’s another, and another, and another, until you can’t remember what it’s like to not be crawling on your hands and knees yearning for a different life. But by then it’s too late. You’re institutionalised. One of the pipe-people. Make the most of it. Raise a pipe-family. ...

It’s not well-known, but Stevi e Wonder is superstitious. Very  in fact. The writing’s on the wall , to be honest . He’s  a nightmare to work with  - the recording studio is always full of rabbits’ feet ,  he won’t work on Friday the 13th, and he once almost blinded a backing singer by throwing salt over his shoulder.   But why do seemingly rational people  believe such irrational things? “Magical thinking” is defined as the belief that an object, action or circumstance not logically related to a course of events can influence its outcome. For example, examining the pattern of tea leaves in a cup cannot (given what we know about the principle of causal relations) logically predict the future. I’ll stick to  astrology , thank you very much.   There’s numerous examples of magical thinking -  whether it’s  ‘black cats’,  ‘lucky’ mascots,  ‘walking under ladders’, ‘breaking mirrors’, ‘homeopathy’, ‘organised religion’ or ‘string’ t...

I thought I'd better take a break from writing about things like politics and the NHS. So I decided to go for a less controversial subject - religion Mysterious Ways My kid thinks that God’s a spy. God a spy? I wonder why - Perhaps it’s the phrase: “mysterious ways” I’ll set him straight, one of these days I’ll sit him down and tell him “Son, Religion’s great for everyone - God’s not a spy, he’s quite alright - Superman (without kryptonite) Religion is so good: I think it’s fair to say It’s made Northern Ireland Just what it is today It’s fun to go to church, To say “God, you’re the Man - But what’s with all the floods? And why’d you kill my Nan?” “Thanks for all the bunnies, The lakes and mountain glades; Thanks for all the puppies, For cancer and for AIDS”. He’s such a super guy, I think that you can tell - (But if you don’t believe in Him You’re going straight to Hell)

I’ve got a confession to make. I’m in my early thirties, I have a wife and kids and a fairly responsible job, and for the vast majority of the time I’m winging it. I am technically a grown up. In 2010, whilst loading a pram into the back of our second-hand Skoda I felt the last vestiges of my youth float up into the ether. And from that moment on, I’ve been waiting. Waiting for someone to sit me down and explain to me what it is to be grown up. To talk through tracker mortgages, self-assessment forms and school catchment areas. To  explain  pensions, life insurance and to tell me how to bleed a radiator. To give me a card I can keep in my wallet that says “Adult”. One that I can look at every now and then say to myself “Don’ t stress about it , you’ve got this”. I ’m  starting to think it  is n’t ever going to happen. That I’ll go through life an imposter: busking-it, making it up on-the-hoof, a joker in a world of sober-suited professionals with “5 year p...

You can't stop progress. Unless you developed a new way to stop it. Which would be progress in itself. Anyway, here's a short story called Progress Progress “That’s the problem with these new builds, they lack character”. Terry leant back under the archway, sheltering from the persistent drizzle. “I mean, sure you can get all the mod cons and everything, but where’s the period features? Where’s the heart?” “Yeah I can see your point mate” replied Ted. He’d known his old friend long enough to realise it would be better not to engage him in debate when he was off on one of his rants. He’d use the “duck and cover” method – try to get by with nods and grunts until this blew over. “I mean, look at my place – 1882 it was built. Think about that for a second. 1882 – that’s over 130 years ago.  Do you think that thing will still be standing in a 100 years?” Terry gestured over to the building site, wagging his bony finger like a disappointed teacher. Ted attempted his...

Costadinos Contostavlos. Grime artist and headwear connoisseur. Question is: Is Dappy happy? A. B. C. D. E. Answers overleaf