A prayer for the tv

Weed doesn’t watch tv. He doesn’t like it and mostly he doesn’t have the time. Daikon AirCon has his time and they are not giving it back. Daikon AirCon is sucking him up and rearranging him in straight lines to their liking, night and day — rather like something going through an air conditioner.

Weed senior, Weed’s dad, had insisted he have a tv. Buying the tv had been a thoroughly horrible experience all of its own.

‘It is the heart and the hearth, the unifying, er … thing, the unifying bit in the middle. The unifying principle. A home without a telly is like a castle without a keep, a trifle without sherry, a toilet without a seat, shoulders without a head. And what’s the point of all that, eh?’

They were in the electrical things shop and Weed’s dad was declaiming — loudly.

Weed had exhibited the temerity right there, surrounded by all those wonderful things, to suggest he might not want or need a tv. He had told his father quite frankly but not at all rudely that he didn’t much like the box and that he didn’t have the time to watch it, and when he did have the time he preferred to do other things such as build a tachyon drive in his bathroom.

Now Weed’s father was gently remonstrating with him.

‘How can you say that? Here we are in this treasury of home entertainment, this trove of electrical convenience, this … this … emporium of … of … discounted stuff, and you say you don’t want a tv, that you’ve got better things to do with your time?

‘Did you know that if the history of this planet was represented as one year, then the telly was invented on December 31st at 11.59 and 59 seconds, just when everybody was popping the bubbly. It therefore represents the pinnacle of a whole year’s evolutionary struggle and carnivorism. And do you know why it took a whole year to invent? Because there was no tv to give us ideas. We had to think for ourselves. Think about it!

‘It is estimated that in history a number of billions of people lived and died without setting eyes on or even hearing the name of tv. That’s a number of billions of people, Robert. That’s more people than you or I could shake a remote control at, lad. All these people who lived and died in mud huts and palaces alike, having to make their own entertainment with logs or bones or string quartets, and you in this wonderful pharmacopoeia have the bloody cheek and the selfish nerve to say that you don’t want one ‘cos you don’t want one. Well, son, I say unto you, go send your peanuts back to Ethiopia.’

To help make his point, Weed’s father climbed a twin-tub UltraKwik MegaKwiet washing machine and declaimed to the whole store.

‘How can it be bad? I asks you, how can it be bad? Tv, after all begins with a crucifix. Not that we believe in all that bollocks, but it’s the association. It denotes goodness and … and nice things. And to them that says there’s too much violence on tv, I say stick it up your arse!

‘It represents peace because it’s nice to watch it when you’re relaxing after work and everyone shuts up their yacking when the telly’s on.

‘It represents love because we love to watch it.

‘It represents harmony because everybody watches it together.

‘It represents wisdom because the people who make the programmes are very clever to know all that stuff; and the telly is the information that saturates us.

‘It represents truth cos the camera never lies.

‘It teaches us self-discipline because we have to get up early to watch breakfast tv.

‘It teaches us forgiveness, ‘cos when the football is snowed off or when the cameramen go on strike they show those nice old movies with proper women in them like Audrey Hepburn and proper straight men like Cary Grant.

‘How can it be a bad thing? Let us pray.


Our Father who art Television, Hallowed be thy Schedule.

Thy kingdom is here. Thy will is done, On earth as it is on the Goggle.

Give us this day our daily fix.

And forgive us our lapses of attention while we make the Brew, As we forgive those who misplace the remote control.

And lead us into Temptation in the Ads and the Soaps, But deliver us from thinking.

For Telly is the kingdom, and the power switch and the glamour, for ever and ever, Innit.

The customers and staff who had gathered round to hear Weed’s dad burst into enthusiastic applause and glared at Weed.

Weed bought a tv.

 Extract from the novel Weedby Chris Page


Yard gets tangled with death

By now, Yard’s agile bulk had propelled itself as far as the tenth floor where it paused to refill its fast emptying weapon, mop sweat and ease the stitch in its side. As the motion-provoked swaying of his loose, blubbery mantle ceased, he became aware of another vibration, asynchronous with his familiar own, that was low and insistent, and which penetrated to Yard’s remote core where it inspired a faint nausea before being finally absorbed. It was a sensation not dissimilar to hunger except that it began at his feet and worked its way up.

He waded obliviously through a family exiting by the fire doors and entered the body of the building. There the vibration, accompanied by a low chthonian rumble, engulfed him. Down the long blank corridor to the fire doors at the lift well the strip lighting flickered incontinently. He inflated himself to his full height and girth, adopted a smile like a banana split and, gurgling happily, proceeded.

In the erratic light Yard could make out a dark huddled mass halfway down toward the lifts. He drew the bolt on his Uzi and held it out ahead of him one handed. In his paw the thing looked little more than a toy. The black pile heaved and flopped still. It had now resolved itself into a mess of tentacles spilling across the hall from a doorway as if some giant squid were trying to free itself from the tiny flat.

A loud clanging startles Yard. It comes from the steel door immediately to his right and he has to check the impulse to fire, leery of ricochets. The banging becomes louder, more urgent, then the door bursts from its frame and Yard is immediately smothered by a tonne of writhing roots.

He rolls onto his front and heaves, comes up from the vegetable depths swinging his blade to loosen the last intimate holds of this presumptuous plant. Once upright, he remains thigh deep in the tangle. In front of him dozens of slatted, head-sized leaves on craning stalks bob and sway, bewildered to find themselves there, wondering what they are doing so close to their roots. Yard licks some of the ice cream off his banana-split smile and readies his blade about his ear — which is about as high as he can raise his arm — and picks out with relish the arc of his first swing. The motion of the leaves changes abruptly to a frenzied thrashing so that the doorway and the leaves appear to Yard as the maw and poisonous incisors on an enraged jabberwocky.

Beyond them, the creature’s black heart is forcing its way up the gullet, thickly wrapped in viscera, to personally oversee the policeman’s dismemberment. Yard let it have it long and good, firing from his outstretched arm whose heavy trunk easily absorbed the weapon’s buck. Something inside the flat recoiled.

‘Ha!’ thinks Yard — then the doorway copiously vomits plant stuff. Embedded in the crest of the spume is a grotesque mannequin, flapping loosely as it is shoved in Yard’s face for his inspection — for it is his own work. Yard bats it away in disgust with a big boxing-glove fist and it flops onto the convoluted versant of the root pile. It is the formerly missing Mr. Perkins who is just about the former Mr. Perkins, twitching violently and expiring with a long gurgle and riddled with Yard’s bullets.

‘You have the right to remain silent,’ Yard began. ‘You are entitled to, er … something, and one phone call, and, er … a cup of tea, but not a very good one.’ Yard knew he was obliged to read the arrested their rights, but could never remember what they were. ‘Ok, Perkins, you’re nicked. Obstruction — to wit, obstructing the progress of police bullets, you twit — endangerment, assaulting a pi — a police officer, constipation — I mean conspiracy — and bleeding on the carpet. You are going to come quietly. It is a well known scientific fact that cooperating with the authorities vastly reduces your chances of falling down stairs.’

Yard observes with a professional eye that the almost late inhabitant of number 1,249 Nirvana Heights is uniformly covered with a fine white dust which nicely shows up the bright whorish smear of blood round his mouth, and that his hair and pyjamas contain lumps of plaster and masonry. Perkins must have been displaced from his bed, carried down through two floors and laterally through several walls before being regurgitated through the doorway of number 1,064 here and into the path of Yard’s bullets. And all while the poor git was still in his jimjams. Yard might have wondered what kind of monster it was that was filling up the interior of Nirvana heights with greenery, but he thinks he already knows.

However, knowing is not helping right now. Yard is trapped, pinned against the wall, chest deep in the spillage over which newly arrived tentacles slither. Out of sight, hirsute fingers probe his nethers, perhaps assessing his nutritional value, his nitrogen content. Encased, Yard wobbles helplessly. The floor sags, tearing away from the skirting with a muffled whump that expels fat billows of dust through the crevices and pores of the tangled vegetable.

Fighting to regain his footing he cackles into his radio, ‘A real party, up here. Room for a few more if you’ve nothing better to do.’ This is the closest he has ever come to saying he needed help — this is possibly the first time he has needed help and the phenomenon amuses him.

‘Time!’ exclaims Yard, as if he has an urgent appointment at his grandmother’s. ‘Time to make like a tree and leave.’ With an endearing burble of delight he swells and gathers himself tightly into a yet rounder shape and moves, urging his gargantuan bulk against the tons of tangled creeper. He barges belly-first and the root pack moves minutely with him until the floor beneath exhales once more, spilling another knotty tsunami downhill at his head. Up to his nose in it now, Yard puts his shoulder down and his adversary retreats in a slow skid, still tenaciously braced against him.

‘Oh? Sumo salad, is it?’ asks Yard. The reluctant theatre judders around them and Yard slips out of sight beneath the coils.

Weed compared to Tom Sharpe

A publisher in London wrote of the novel Weed, “… it’s really witty and very strong … I would compare the writing to Robert Rankin, or a really satirically biting Tom Sharpe, and will say again that I’m really impressed by it.”

I confess I have never read Robert Rankin (but really ought to now) but I was chuffed with the reference to Tom Sharpe.

image loadingI have read and appreciated a great many of Mr Sharpe’s novels but when writing Weed I didn’t have his work in mind at all. I was not really thinking of any particular authors. I was certainly very influenced by Terry Gilliam’s film Brazil, and Lindsay Anderson’s If, Britannia Hospital and O Lucky Man! I was definitely trying to channel some kind of counter-culture thing. No, Mr Sharpe hadn’t crossed my mind.

Oddly, my father, not much of a reader or appreciator of books, and certainly not a fan of vulgarity, turned me on Tom Sharpe. I think that was Blot on the Landscape and I was a teenager, so Mr Sharpe must have been a rising star at that point in time.

I appreciated the work for its brutal satire, its polemic, its vitriol. Sharpe tracked down folly, inanity, unfairness and hypocrisy and beat it with his sense of humour until it looked as silly as it could get.

No, despite the connection that the publisher made, Mr Sharpe didn’t come into the Weed world. However, he does with my next story, currently a work in progress. Last year starting on this new project (Sir Hades) I tried to draw on some things I have learned from Tom Sharpe — and also, as unalike as he is, Terry Pratchett. What have I learned? Well, let’s get this story finished and then we’ll see. I’ll be more than chuffed if anyone makes the same comparison they did with Weed.

At this time when Mr Sharpe has come back into my thoughts, the man himself has departed this world. He died just a few days ago.

Remembering Tom Sharpe.

A bit of Weed: Testoteroni takes in the view

To the right of Heavenly Estate, dawn is piling on the horizon like spilt jam. Sergeant Testosteroni is standing on top of his APC, arms akimbo, binoculars hanging on his chest. This is just how Rommel would have looked surveying Tobruk in 1942, if Tobruk had looked like a well tossed salad and if Rommel had sported a dangly beer gut and had possessed a face like a sausage breakfast.

A bit of Weed: Inspector Yard on a roll

In the boll of the night, by Shangri-la Heights, round Olympus Towers, past Avalon Hall and veering left before Elysium House, strolls a man: a round man, a big ball of a man with a football head, red cricket ball cheeks, a golf ball nose, and ping-pong ball eyes. He walks — or rolls — nonchalantly and slowly, going where the ramps and stairs and walkways and the rucked tarmac take him, silently between upended supermarket trolleys, skirting charred and mouldering mattresses, avoiding the heaps of black bin bags, ignoring the novas of paint and the dead cat under his feet. His head is happily cradled by his ample, rugby ball shoulders, and a quiet smile is recumbent on his comfy face.

He is carefully ignored. A Community Cruiser — half bicycle cop, half main battle tank — ignores him, gliding away into the deep galaxy of Cuckooland Mall, with only the barest crunching of glass under its six wheels. Several of the smaller shadows ignore him, sidling without glances — suddenly empty hands thrust into deeply innocent pockets — into alleys and niches even the architects of the estate knew nothing of. Two dogs humping in the bones of a burned out Mini ignore him. The cateracted apartment windows overlook him.
On and around he aimlessly rolls on Dr. Bovver soles pounded by long use to the motherly consistency of old mattresses. He pauses to broaden his smile and to unwedge something from between his teeth with his right pinky. He looks up at the sour yellow sky while his big cheesy lips retain their moon. His brow divides and caterpillars over his eyes as if suddenly aware of something above or below or to one side of the usual range of human perception. In an instant he unslings an Uzi from beneath his left armpit and aims up at the still, blank facade of Nirvana Heights. There is a crash of breaking glass, normally as natural in this concrete massif as lark song in a forest, but this time too momentous to be a bottle or a car window. Some part of the estate’s stressed structure has burst, and before the cascade of glass has splashed down, the round man has bounced out of its way. A siren bays and the stroller, over the barrel of his gun, with his bright, swift eyes has picked out in the city’s foul aura, high on the wall above him, something like drying laundry or a stray tree flapping in the hot wind.


This is an extract from early in Weed, where we meet our laughing policeman Inspector Yard who will prove to be a wannabe nemesis of Bob Weed.
There will be more extracts of Weed appearing here from time to time.