Interactive version of Oliver's Poetry Garret
Magic Carpet
Monday, 12 June 2006, Blog 10
Lewes London Bridge train
Just retreated from First Class the train had been packed, standing room only, but when they added another four carriages at Haywards Heath, I felt I could not stay there. For once I managed around eight hours of sleep last night, having knocked myself out with cider and wine and dropped off at around 9.30pm. So, I am looking forward to a better than usual Monday.
Yesterday I was asked not to write about a particularly subject in this blog, so, this blog (and flashbacks) will change as a result. I feared this would happen, but did not think it would occur as soon as a week in. Gradually I shall be able to write about less and less of my life, until I am coming entirely out of left field, flying on the magic carpet of my imagination.
8am. London Marylebone - Leamington train. Surprisingly packed. I am having to sit opposite an overweight bloke with a microchip beard who is chewing gum. He reminds me of the Goon (Andrew Gilligan).
My shoulder hurts and I am worrying about what is happening with these blogs and flashbacks. They are taking over the entire Oliver's Poetry project. I must rein them in. Like so often in life, I am traducing myself into something I did not intend to do.
Otta Adoption
Flashback to Tuesday, 23 May 2006
Lainesford Garret
Brighter outside, patches of blue forcing their way through the clouds. Slept heavily and awoke with terrible back again. How much more of this purgatory? What am I being punished for? I wish to be released from this pain and lead a purer life. I am almost out of codine painkillers.
6.27pm. Lainesford Garret. Sunny outside, after the rain, over a car park packed with top-of-the-range BMWs, Jags and Mercs. God, what a day! The women leading this course are beginning to annoy me, particularly the one who talks about people being on 'tippy toes' and 'ra-ra' and says things like: 'I don't think I put a value judgment on that comment' when someone points out something daft she has said.
The other one is not a lot better. They have double-act exchanges like:
Trainer One: 'We are going to do something practical.'
Trainer Two: 'We are!'
There was one unbelievable exchange involving them the two of them, the plump lady, the pretty economist and me.
Trainer Two: 'One group consultants we were working with called themselves Tiger and adopted a tiger from London Zoo.'
Trainer One: 'Fab.'
Plump Civil Servant: 'We have adopted an otta.'
Pretty economist: 'What does that say about your department?'
Me: 'You're in deep water!'
Otta adoption! Otta adoption! What is going on? Although I have been trying my darnest to get something really good out of this for the Day-Job, they are driving me mad. This afternoon, the older lady taught us eye movement recognition, by which you could, she assured us, tell what sense people were using by the flicks of their eyes. We all tried it out and showed that at least half the time, it does not work!
The sun has already gone in. The weather has been dreadful. I nipped into Lainesford to use the cashpoint. If I had had my stuff with me, I would have got on the train and gone home. When a taxi arrived to take me back to the concentration camp, I almost cried.
11.23pm. (or the more pleasing 23.23 on the laptop clock. Bed, Lainesford Garret. Trying not to feel depressed. I went to sit and read in the bar, The Gravy Train, suitably decorated with images of locomotives from the age of steam. It was packed with people drinking on expenses.
The females looked particularly ropey and inebriated. After half an hour, one of my bunch came in a nice guy. I bought him a malt whisky and he told me about his workplace. 'The last two director-generals have been having affairs with the PA,' he said. 'Everyone knows but no one seems to care.'
My group seem very open about their departments. Another guy was telling me earlier that he was disgusted by the way the late Dr David Kelly had been sold down the river. I said that I had known The Goon Andrew Gilligan from my time working for the Sunday Telegraph and had also come across Ally Campbell and had been appalled by the entire seedy business.
The malt whisky drinker left me to continue to read my Alan Clark groups of delegates raucously drunk around me, buying yet more rounds of booze.
I had intended to write some poetry but could not find the energy in this environment. Walking back to my student digs, I reflected that staying here is like something out of an episode of Doctor Who; The Doctor and his delicious assistant are drawn to a modern complex of buildings. It looks like any normal student campus.
Yet something is wrong. A red telephone box has been placed between ugly accommodation blocks. Inside there is no telephone. The car park is full of luxury cars. The people walking around look uniform and characterless.
The Doctor and the girl soon find out that a sinister, puerile race of aliens have taken over the campus, and are brain-washing the humans. They are targeting the simple and guillible with Neuro Linguistic Programming. Robotal humans are being turned out, their free-thinking suspended.
The masterstroke: they have consented to this brainwashing, and take enormous pride in it and its perks. I could go on but no one is going to liberate these people not even the Time Lord.
What would Alan Clark have done? Mind you, Alan Clark was a wealthy, pampered aristocrat who would not have been in my situation. 12.06am. I have just realised I have lost the exercise book containing my latest poetry. I must have left in the Gravy Train which will be locked up now, or dropped it on the way back to my cell. Not only did I want to work on it, it will be most annoying if it is missed - kidnapped by aliens!
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