“He’s not smart, isn’t Fergus, but he knows what his mother says about how cleanliness is next to godliness and that not enough goddamn-sinners are getting their goddamn-jussdesserts-pardon-the-swearing.”
“He’s not smart, isn’t Fergus, but he knows what his mother says about how cleanliness is next to godliness and that not enough goddamn-sinners are getting their goddamn-jussdesserts-pardon-the-swearing.”
People with intellectual disabilities want to be like everyone else which means they want jobs. But first, there aren’t enough jobs; second, there aren’t enough jobs for people who need support; third, what jobs there are often don’t pay; and fourth, the people who take them with hope and gratitude are frequently bullied straight out of them. Those things are fact; Jussdeserts is fiction, but only juss. Flash Flood, June 24th.
Edited 24/06/17 to include direct link
This is not fiction but it is a horror story many people don’t know they’re living in.
This video was recorded by a friend, worried by his wife’s interrupted breathing at night. It’s here with their permission because he used it to convince his GP she had Obstructive Sleep Apnoea (OSA) which is a killer.
There are different kinds of OSA, some central – to do with the brain – and some more peripheral involving blocked sinuses or collapsing nasal canals. They all stop the sleeper from breathing, sometimes hundreds of times a night, without them noticing. They wake up tired, often fall asleep during the day, including while driving, Some drivers have killed other road users due to this disorder.
But it’s often the sleeper themselves most at risk of dying because it deprives the brain of oxygen, and while the brain will keep pushing the body to breathe as carbon dioxide levels rise, it can’t overcome the physical obstruction itself. The result can be cardiac arrest or stroke.
If it’s you, your partner may have noticed your snoring and put up with it for a long time. Snoring isn’t glamorous, is it? But don’t ignore it, have the discussion my friend and his wife had and get an assessment via your GP. It will involve an overnight test and it could save your life.
So what can be done about it? Depending on your lifestyle, you might be advised to lose weight (too much of it can make your neck muscles floppy), reduce your alcohol intake (does much the same thing). Treatment includes the CPAP (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) which pushes air into your airways via a mask so you don’t have to drag it in by your own effort. There are also devices that keep your bottom jaw in place if the apnoea is caused by your jaw and tongue falling back into your throat while you’re asleep. And the most minimal of interventions, the strips that keep your nasal passages open if these are inclined to collapse.
Watch the video, hear those agonisingly long pauses in my friend’s wife’s breathing, and take action if it could be you, Be informed; don’t die of ignorance.
Fat Mo’s Taxi to Huddersfield and other stories of resistance. [working title]
Mo considers the price she has paid, learning to be right. Merv would call it an investment – a cost for a benefit – and it occurs to Mo that in fact she has quite a portfolio of these. Most she has kept in her head, but there are others in the backs of filing cabinets and the bottoms of drawers. Mo reviews some of them: there are letters Merv does not want sent on; the envelopes he does want sent on, and the girl at a house in Huddersfield who pitied her but said nothing. These things are devious, subversive, and wrong; but they are wrong in a way that puts Merv in a different light, one where he is doing the paying.
Linked stories, The Mother’s Son and Home for the Queen, shine a light into some of those around her, including Merv.
They only half do Christmas, he and Sam; maybe because they only half do their own origins, but he has presents for her and the first, safely concealed earlier in the day, is the one he really wants her to like. The others are backups in case she does not. He heads out to his car, a midnight blue Jaguar with leather upholstery, a built-in radio, and just enough of the right paperwork to fool the local idiot constabulary. He walks around it – twice clockwise and twice counter-clockwise – checking as best he can in the ditch water dribble that passes for street lighting, that it bears no sign of the night’s activities, runs a finger over the passenger door handle and peers at it; it seems clean. Then he unlocks the car and opens the door. The interior light comes on which makes his job easier but also picks him out should anyone be passing and not in enough of a bone-chilled hurry to just keep going. He judges the likelihood to be remote, given the derelict nature of the environs; nevertheless he needs to be quick. Merv looks around inside, practiced and expert, he has done it often. The Mother’s Son.
The pavements in the back streets are slippery with a layer of ice crusting the snow that has lain untroubled there since it fell two days ago. Pauline’s little ankle boots, zipped up at the front and with ridged rubber soles, cope nicely. Unlike the maroon patent sling-backs the girl over the road is wearing to totter along on goose pimpled blue legs like a frozen stork. Her skirt is nothing but a flimsy pelmet, a tiny wrap-around no more substantial than a bit of nylon curtain. Pauline tuts to herself. Where was this lass going, dressed like this? Home to her family is where she should be going. Probably she has been out all night at a Christmas party, drinking lager and lime or rum and coke, and ending up in a back bedroom under the coats with a complete stranger pulling at her pants. Pauline thinks she can even see the pants in question. Girls these days, no good would come of it, you only had to look at Mo. Home for the Queen.
A second group, set in The Royal Hospital – an asylum for the mentally defective that becomes an institution for the mentally handicapped, a repository for people with learning disabilities, and finally a crumbling warehouse about to decant its residents into the ill-prepared towns and villages nearby.
Jeff’s feet were turning pink; the kind of pink where you couldn’t feel the floor any more. He lurched a heel forwards and rode it like a ballerina – arms out, trailing leg arabesquing behind him. For a moment, Jeff was an alabaster frieze, a pallid silhouette against tiles the colour of dirty bottles; and then he wasn’t. Fire broke out in Jeff’s knee when it hit the lino. A million volts lit up his cramped-back toes, two million went through his hip with its cracks and runnels no one knew were there, and knives chopped at his deep-freeze sausage fingers. ‘Big boys don’t cry,’ he said through a mouthful of gnarly bangers like you would never get from a shop. The Smell of Hollow Water.
The third group; less linked stories, more resonances of each other: an unnamed nurse plots revenge for half a lifetime, a deaf woman finds God on a beach, powerless Rosa retreats into dissociation and lets her hands take the responsibility, a young couple constructs a truth about the death of their baby.
We’re placing bets again today; and Eric is jangling change in his pockets, like a showman at a travelling fair. Our plastic ducks are the inmates in solitary. They don’t come around often because, frankly, they’re a bit tame. All that ECT and chlorpromazine, aimed at curing what they didn’t have in the first place, rots their brains, eventually. Anyway, Eric is scrawling names on the board with a stub of white chalk; and we’re drinking tea that looks like stew, while he parades his contestants.
‘McTaggart,’ he says. An arm goes up, and Eric writes a name next to McTaggart.
‘Straker,’ says someone else; yuk yukking buddy-bravado. Suddenly, my idea starts to twitch in my head; a wick little grub, flick flicking its new body this way and that. I don’t know what to do yet; or how, but – ‘Give me Boothroyd,’ I say. ‘Two bob to kick off by lights out.’ The Justice Box.
Alice liked how the sea here didn’t just look bright, it felt bright too. As if every part of it were a little crystal that jiggled and jostled its neighbours as the wave went tumbling towards the shore, a chandelier on the move. That other sea was not bright at all; it rolled and heaved, smooth and dark and secretive. It drew you in with its slow thunderous mountains. One slip and you’re mine, it said.
Alice rummaged her toes through the shingle, exposing a scaled-down world of rivers and streams that hurried its cargo of sand grain boulders down the beach. How did this miniature sea feel about being so far away from home? Did it still jostle and jiggle down there between the pebbles, or did it try to stay silent and not be noticed until it was whole again and safe? The tide was on the turn, it would not have much longer to wait. Dancing Her Black Bones Home.
Ambiguity is the common thread; victims have lives and strengths, they’re not all sympathetic; perpetrators are sometimes also victims; contexts and the actions or inactions of small players can have undue impact, institutions bear responsibilities they do not always acknowledge. Nothing is wholly one thing and never another.
Tales in a Tweet [working title][illustrated]
Prompted by Edinburgh [Book] Festival’s regular twitter challenge; a word or phrase issued each morning and a tale-in-a-tweet to be posted by evening. Small triumphs of concision composed on the hoof.
A rip in the sky, an eye. Whose God was this? Whose prayers would condemn & whose exalt? New priests find opportunity amid fear.
Birthed in superheated majesty, pounded & shaped by tectonic tides; in modern ignominy it murdered a girl who loved the wrong man.
This tweet has only a placeholder for now:
There are 5 metatarsals in the human foot. In 2002 one of these damn near brought a country to its patellae. No sense of humerus.
Tales in a Tweet currently totals sixty or so stories and is likely to be boosted by a further twenty plus during this year’s festival. Images take a little longer than twelve hours and will probably change. I have our local Creative Arts Group to thank for the imaginative stimulus and thinking space for these.
Post may be edited or amended over time as required.
Rapture by Phillippa Yaa de Villiers, notable South African poet, performance artist, and PhD candidate with Lancaster university. Rapture was First published in the 2013 anthology For Rhino in a Shrinking World (Ed Harry Owen).
Shadow by Lyn Jennings, poet and past Educational Psychotherapist for children with learning difficulties. Shadow is ‘dedicated to our neighbours at Shoreham with respect and sympathy for all who died or suffered in the Air Show disaster [West Sussex 2015]’.
Ducks in a Row by Suzanne Conboy-Hill, short story and flash fiction writer. This was also written after a Hawker Hunter jet ploughed through traffic waiting for the lights to change or standing on the verge watching the display.
Wood by Tracy Fells, short story and flash fiction writer with novels on the production line. Wood is a relationship story that sheds a different light on the idea of going back to one’s roots.
All material taken from the Anthology Let Me Tell You a Story (contributing editor, Suzanne Conboy-Hill) available from Lulu (print and ebook) and Amazon (print only). Listen to Ian McMillan’s foreword:
This is a link to a post on my more techy blog where I’ve set out some of the basics of Echo ownership – starting with the observation that it’s more cat than gadget.
The four year old girl crouched in the footwell has never heard of christmas and wouldn’t care if she had. She stares at her hands and wipes them on the pink anorak that used to fit but now hangs more loosely from her shoulders.
The twelve year old boy next to her is angry and feels himself uprooted and displaced. He has heard of christmas but he blames the westeners who celebrate it for where he finds himself. His eyes tell simultaneously of a child’s dark despair and the blazing hatred of the adult he will become. He is already conjuring revenge in his head.
Their grandmother strokes his hair and nuzzles the girl closer to her feet but cannot be their mother. She too knows about christmas but finds it impossible to disentangle her feelings about it from their current plight. The flags of the people who mark it are often the ones which bring destruction, or which hesitate and do nothing to stop it. But some of those same flags fly proud at their destination which promises relief. Those people will be celebrating soon and what will that mean for her and the little ones?
Her son crashes into the seat next to her, scarf around his face, weapons bulking his khaki jacket. ‘We’re leaving,’ he says to his children, ‘Stay down.’ The gunfire stops, then starts again. The green bus starts then stops. There are two more starts and stops before the convoy eventually inches away along its assigned corridor of broken, bombed out buildings, abandoned family cars, and three blackened buses once as green as their own.
While his mother sobs silently into the chill air, the young father hunches over his children, a futile shield against snipers. He breathes them in and prays not to see their blood, but at least if they die today, the world will be watching. Soon it will be christmas day and then the countries of the puppet masters will be looking elsewhere. Their TVs will be full of joy and fun, their fridges stuffed with food, and their minds wiped of far-off troubles. No news is good news and they will not look for news.
Later, when they come back to pick up where they left off, believing somehow that the world will not have moved on while they were otherwise engaged, the father of children, widowed husband of a young wife, and son of a weeping mother, wonders what there will be of this fragile caravan for them to see. He hopes not ghosts. His son glances up at him and the father sees a ferocity burning in his eyes that he recognises. He bends to soften it, to say that there are good people everywhere in the world, but he cannot bring himself to promise it.
My thanks to an activist friend, who has spent much time volunteering among refugees at the Calais Jungle camp, for her comments on an earlier draft. She said no one she had met blamed Christians and so I have softened that reference. They do blame the West though, and I have taken licence to push that to the front in service of the message, which is that refugees and evacuees will still be in huge peril while most of us will be looking elsewhere until after the new year. If bombing and injury were not enough, starvation damages young brains, and emotional insecurity damages young minds. How can we hope for positive change when the next generations are so physiologically and mentally vulnerable? If you have a moment and a spare pound or so, please consider a donation to Save the Children for Syria or DEC’s Yemen crisis appeal. Thank you.
Clarice puffed out her cheeks, pink with the cold, and screwed up her eyes against the chill wind. She turned her face to the sky and peered through frosty lashes at the heavy clouds lumbering in from the coast.
‘Where are you?’ she called, hot breath forming its own tiny weather front above her nose as it hit the freezing air.
‘Come on in, Clar, you’ll catch your death.’ Mother.
Clarice stamped her feet, chilly in her spotted wellies despite the thick Huggy socks that hung pinkly over their tops.
‘But she promised!’
‘I know sweetheart, but you know fairies. I expect Santa’s got her working double shifts on all that last minute wrapping.’
Clarice knew when she was being sold a dummy. Seven she might be, stupid she wasn’t. She tugged at her hat and covered her ears, and then she tugged at the rope on her red plastic sledge and marched it across the tarmacked drive onto the lawn. The grass was flat, defeated by the wintry cold, and had scuffed up patches where Bugs, their scatter-brained Springer, had been excavating. The patches scraped the bottom of the sledge, making a screeeeek sound so Clarice picked it up, polished it off with her sleeve, and carried it to the centre of the garden. There, she positioned it so it was facing down the long slope to the trickling brook, sat herself on it with the rope in her hands, and waited. It would snow, Demelza had promised.
Demelza was a sprite, a wisp, a flitting insubstantial thing that Clarice could see, or sort of see, if she was looking a bit sideways and a bit upways but never if she was looking frontways. If she looked frontways, Demelza vanished and so did her drawings but luckily, Clarice could capture drawings in her mind, see them in the air, curling and glowing like neon after images. She could move them around, and she could make compositions with them. That’s how she knew it would snow today, even though it never snowed in Sussex on Christmas Eve. Demelza had given her a drawing that said so and she had copied it down and put it with all the others for proof.
Clarice sat making little dragon puffs into the air and recreating Demelza’s drawing around them while she flicked back and forth through her catalogue of inky designs and rocked in time on the plastic sledge . Now, any minute.
‘Clar, that’s enough, in you come.’ She heard the crunch of booted feet on the newly frosted grass, the scrabble of other feet skittering excitedly alongside. Dad had brought Bugs to soften the blow of denial.
Just then, three things happened.
Demelza returned so that Clarice stopped dead, her eyes rolled up, her grip on her small sheaf of papers loosened so that they fluttered onto the grass under her dad’s astonished gaze.
The wing of a butterfly in Rotorua also fluttered in its own time on a breeze that caught the world in its net.
And high above, the physics of winter magic built fractals out of raindrops and began to float them gently down to earth.
©suzanne conboy-hill 2010
SANTA’S IQ TEST
‘If Santa really exists,’ Gary announced in the professorial monotone of his Asperger’s, ‘he will be able to read it.’
Trevor looked into the serious blue eyes of his nine year old son and took delivery of the bundle of papers. They were going shopping tomorrow; this had better be easy to figure out.
Later, Gary in bed and ritually counting the fluorescent stars on his ceiling, Trevor unfolded the letter.
‘Dear Father Christmas …’ it began, then nothing – just rows of black lines, some thick, some thin, some spaced out and some close together. Gary had spent hours doing this and he was meticulous so it definitely had meaning but what? Maybe there was a clue on-screen. Trevor called up Gary’s account, pushing aside some wrappers and labels stacked neatly next to the monitor. There it was, four pages, all lines. He zoomed in; Gary was a demon for detail, he could have hidden something in the lines. Trevor squinted at it. Nothing. Zoom out then; whoops, way too far. Hang on though, it seemed familiar. Trevor looked at the page, the stack of labels, back at the page and dawn broke – bar codes! Gary had produced, with photographic accuracy, a bar coded present list as a digital challenge to Santa’s authenticity. Trevor checked the labels; a USB stick, a DVD of British birds, a Dr Who annual. Repeats for now but maybe not next year and he dreaded to think what fiendish tests his son might have devised by then.
©suzanne conboy-hill 2010
Arthur inspected himself: shirt, pullover, trousers (with belt), and sock. Just the one sock. The other was stranded on the end of his foot like a piece of flotsam at high tide, a pixie hat of ruched wool with a holly pattern woven into it. Bugger! Arthur took a deep breath, coughed rousingly, and geared up for another assault. Rocking himself forwards in his seat, he rode the impetus towards his target, now illuminated by a sliver of sunlight angling in between the still closed bedroom curtains.
Aha – a bomber’s moon! Got the bastard in my sights, slight course correction at Knee Joint, Danny giving it everything in the rear gunner’s bay, RAT TAT TAT! Old girl had better hold out or we’re done for. And it’s a direct hit! Back to Blighty in time for tea!
He pinched the recalcitrant sock between finger and thumb and hauled it downwards and then upwards to dock with the cuff of his long johns. Three Six Three squadron counted home, all present and correct, Sir! He dropped back into the chair, huffing a little from the exertion, and closed his eyes for a moment, half a salute hovering in the air.
‘You decent, Arthur?’ It was Allie; cheery, bustly, and somewhat rotund due to her having a face like a starved puppy around people’s chocolate supplies. ‘Sarah’s all dressed up and ready for her date,’ she said, pulling back the curtains and eyeing up the biscuit tin Arthur kept on his dresser. He noticed but said nothing. Often, she would bring her tea in with his and they would share a dunk on a Saturday morning, but not today. Today was special. Arthur’s thoughts flickered like an old film, re-winding, cutting and splicing, bringing up the colour. A soundtrack crept in on syncopated soft shoe shuffling patent pumps. Jazz, boogie, jitterbug; all the girls in ration-shortened dresses and glowing with excitement at the prospect of meeting a handsome sailor or a soldier, or even an airman.
‘Need a hand out of that chair?’ Allie was standing, hands on ample hips and head cocked over to one side in professional evaluation.
‘Got rope and tackle?’ Arthur winked back. ‘Thought not. Right then …’ and he began rocking back and forth to gather momentum. ‘Let’s see. How soon. I can reach. Take-off speed!’ And he was upright. Allie slid a hand under the blue blazer that had been laid out on the bed, military insignia neatly pinned to the lapel, and held it out behind for Arthur to slip his arms into.
‘I bet you were a right looker in your day,’ she beamed, turning him round and fussing like a proud nanny over a child in his new school uniform. She smoothed down the pockets and pulled the shining buttons towards their targets.
‘I bet Sarah had to fight off the competition, alright’. Arthur raised an eyebrow and mustered a twinkle. ‘Ready for your Christmas lunch then? Table for two, Sir, right by the window.’ She offered her arm.
‘Thank you, Allie, but not today,’ Arthur replied, looking not at her, but at the man in the mirror. ‘Today I will get there under my own steam.’
Face, shaved, no nicks. Check. Collar, crisp. Check. Tie, neatly knotted and centred. Check.
He felt in his pocket for the little box with its smooth edges and precious cargo. ‘You get on, I’ll be there in a minute.’ The man in the mirror looked back; blond hair slicked and brylcreemed into place under his precariously balanced cap, eyes ready to burst into life with the telling of a rambling story that might or might not be true, the faintest of smiles threatening to crack the carefully assembled military carapace supposed to add gravitas to his bare eighteen years. ‘Time to go.’
The young airman straightened his back, tugged down his uniform jacket, and patted his pocket for the twentieth time. Then, cap tucked under his arm, he made his way down the corridor into the hall with its flags and bunting, and across the crowded dance floor to the little wooden table for two hunched under the window. Good thing there was a decent blackout curtain; those eyes were surely the most sparkling he had ever seen.
©suzanne conboy-hill 2010
‘Come on, prezzie time.’ Stella’s mother slapped a hat on Stella’s head and held out a tube of sunblock, ‘You’ll need it to go outside.’
‘I won’t because I’m not going outside.’
‘Please, just stop grumping, see if you can’t crack a smile?’
Stella crossed her legs in front of her on the bed and then folded her body on top of them.
‘Come on Stella, it’ll be fab.’
‘I hate this place.’
‘You don’t want your presents then?’
Stella’s foot beat a rhythm in the air like the tail of an irritated cat, ‘Not fair.’ Presents were all that was left of a proper Christmas. One that was cold and you could switch on your Christmas lights in the middle of the day, walk down the street at half past three in the afternoon and see everyone else’s trees twinkling through their curtains. Australia was stupid, it didn’t deserve to have Christmas. She crossed her arms over her head and hugged her ears.
‘Why did we have to come here?’
‘It’s where your dad and me are from.’
‘It’s not where I’m from.’
‘You don’t know that; what if it is? What if your birth family’s here, wouldn’t that be a thing?’
Stella thrust out a pair of raw-pastry arms and puffed an escaped strand of near-silver hair in her mother’s direction, ‘Because obviously, I’m a natural beach babe, said nobody ever.’ She retracted her arms and her mother waited, letting the heat of the moment dissipate before baiting a new hook, ‘There’s a package that looks like it’s from Mrs M.’
‘Ursi?’ Stella groaned, raised her head and leaned it back against the wall; now she’d have to give in, drag herself outside to where summer was ruining Christmas by being in the same place at the same time. She groaned again; was that even legal?
A few minutes later, hat rammed low over her forehead, sunglasses crammed like black bottle bottoms onto her face and a scowl leaking out from underneath, Stella scuffed onto the patio and slumped into a lounger near the table with the presents on it. The table was draped in red cloth with Ho Ho Ho printed along the white edging, and some flickering fairy lights, strung among the gifts, battled with the glare.
Stella rolled her eyes – Ursi would hate it. Her house was squat and dark all year, looking more like a derelict hovel than a home, but from the beginning of Advent right through to Twelfth Night there were lanterns among the tangled shrubbery, her front path was covered in frosty sparkles, and the windows glowed like hot honey. Most kids stayed away though, freaked by Ursi’s bright white hair and eyes that looked like they went all the way down to the bottom of the Arctic ocean. They called her a witch but Stella liked her so they called her a witch too which made Stella feel a kind of kinship. Ursi said Stella had an ‘old soul’ and they got on.
Hearing about the package tied an unexpected knot in Stella’s stomach, driving her eventually to get up from the lounger and mosey over to the table. She trailed a desultory finger over the gifts: several bore tags with her name on them; some large and boxy, others small and boxy, and a big thing that had ears individually wrapped in shiny red foil. But the one that drew her, that stood out from the rest, was a small package done up in bright white paper that had a blue tinge to it, making it look like a slab of ice. She picked it up; she didn’t expect it to be cold but she was disappointed nonetheless to find it was warm. Her name was clearly printed on the front.
‘When did you give her our address?’ she said, turning it over in her hands. The FROM label was a join-the-dots puzzle; a box with string flying off one corner and U.M scribbled in the centre. She squinted at it.
‘I thought you told her.’ Stella’s mother squinted at the label too.
‘I didn’t see her before we left – you never see her in the summer.’ Stella found the edge of the wrapping and pulled it open. There was a box inside which she set down on the table and opened. In it was an old iPhone, slightly battered looking but with all its bits and pieces. She switched it on; it said Hi, and it loaded a screen with just one app showing.
‘What’s that?’ Stella’s mother leaned in to take a look.
‘It’s that astronomy app, the one that shows you all the constellations and the space station and stuff.’ Stella thumbed it, tilted it up at the sky without thinking. Her mother tilted it down again, ‘Best try it tonight,’ she said.
Stella looked back at the downturned screen, it was barely in shadow but the display was astonishingly bright and clear – digitally penetrating the patio, the top soil, the earth’s crust and core, the ice and the tundra of the north, to show the night sky on the other side of the world arcing across it. She peered closer, shaded the screen a little; one of the stars was pulsing – the North Star, the beacon to homecoming sailors.
Stella pressed it, it expanded to fill the screen and kept expanding with dizzying acceleration; larger and larger, the world encompassed within the screen and the screen bearing down on hot suns, cold suns, comets and planets; then just one sun and one planet.
It plunged through the blue atmosphere, past snowflakes the size of islands, skimming the frozen waves, swooping alongside singing glaciers, and racing through glittering valleys, stopping only when it arrived at a small house, drifted deep into the snow but with a crisp clearing out at the front. There were lanterns all the way along the frosted path, and its windows glowed the colour of hot honey.
First published by EDF, December 2015 © suzanne conboy-hill 2015
Audio is here
I posted about this a while ago after Claudia Winkelman’s daughter had her horrendous accident on Halloween which led to convolutions on the show and in the press as they tried not to give the game away. Claudia was ‘still’ with her daughter on Sunday so couldn’t be in the so-called live show. As the seriousness of the incident propelled that news out of the entertainment columns and into the mainstream, journalists were apparently compelled (or felt themselves so) to start using phrases such as ‘Claudia had to miss both shows’ in order to get around the truth, which is – SPOILER – that the two are recorded on the same night.
Celebs and even judges slip up from time to time but they soldier on with the pretence even though hundreds (thousands?) of audience members know how it really works and, if you don’t want to wait for the results, there’s a site that will tell you by about 11 pm on the Saturday.
In the grand scheme of things, this is small beer. But I’m not a fan of such unnecessary deception – a con that involves many people and requires them to collude with a pretence that has no real value beyond attracting people to a show they may otherwise not watch. And recently, three things have given me a heightened sense of concern at the implications this has for participants.
The first was when Anastacia was injured and couldn’t take part in the dance-off. As a result, ‘Twitter erupted, branding the decision “unfair”‘, presumably unaware that, rather than 24 hours in which she might recover sufficiently to perform, she had less than an hour. That’s unfair, and that’s important.
The second was when Will Young left the show suddenly. He didn’t make public his reasons and so this is pure speculation. But let’s consider Will; a sociable and well known man, and one who strikes me as a refreshingly lovely innocent who just might not have grasped the full implications of the Sunday purdah he would need to maintain for the duration of his stay. If that’s the reason, he has my admiration.
The third incident has just happened. Gorka, one of the professional dancers, was assaulted on Saturday night after the Blackpool show – the actually live show – two teeth being broken in the attack. Unfortunately, he was dancing in the opening of the ‘Sunday’ show which led to the convoluted assertion that `The dance had been filmed in advance on Saturday night for the BBC results show that airs on Sunday evening.’ Fair enough but if that’s the case, it does rather pick away at the content of that show to the point where it begins to look like a stump, a leftover.
But supposing we accept that – what were these dancers doing going off to a club ‘in the early hours of Sunday morning’ on school night? How likely is that to be acceptable, do we think? Not at all, I’d guess. It was permissible precisely because it was not a school night. Luckily for him, it appears to have been just (just?) his teeth and nothing more serious, and because he’s no longer in the competition, no one has had to find a way of explaining how he managed to look unblemished for his supposedly live appearance.
Surely it’s time to put a stop to this deception? One that makes liars of participants (and their friends and family) who have to stay out of the public eye every Sunday until they’re no longer in the show? That asks audiences to keep secret the fact they saw both shows on the same night, just shuffled their seats and wore a different top? That leads TV audiences to believe that the whole shebang – stage set, makeup, costumes, and in this case a public venue (Blackpool Tower ballroom) – is recreated the day after it’s all dismantled? That dancers have a good night’s sleep and recovery or rehearsal time between the two shows? And worse, that people drawn in by injury or ill-health, people who may not be anything to do with the show, become unwitting victims stuck with the burden of this ridiculous pretence?
Surely it’s time the show was reformatted before an event occurs that can’t be ignored, because if that happens, it will lose its veneer of early evening innocence and with it, much public sympathy.
Update 18.30: BBC News reports that Gorka’s dance during Rick Astley’s performance, another feature of the Sunday show, was also recorded on the Saturday, which leaves very little content that is supposedly live. In addition, there are questions as to why this assault wasn’t reported to the police. I will be interested in Strictly’s reply.
You might recall I reviewed this book when it first came out in paperback, well now it’s out as an audiobook and the clip suggests a deservedly professional performance. Here it is:
And here’s the press release:
P R E S S R E L E A S E
MEETING LYDIA GOES AUDIO
Linda MacDonald’s first novel Meeting Lydia is about the powerful
long term effects of school bullying and of internet relationships.
First released in 2011, it has now been abridged and turned into an
audiobook, narrated by talented voice actress Harriet Carmichael.
When Marianne comes home from work one day to find her husband talking to a glamorous woman in the kitchen, insecurities resurface from a time when she was bullied at school. Jealousy rears its head and her marriage begins to fall apart. Desperate for a solution, she finds herself trying to track down her first schoolgirl crush …
“Edward Harvey. Even thinking his name made her tingle with half-remembered childlike giddiness. Edward Harvey, the only one from Brocklebank to whom she might write if she found him.”
“Many women have said they can relate to the character of Marianne,’ says Linda. ‘She’s in her mid forties and fearful of ageing and no longer being attractive to her husband. When a younger woman appears on the scene, she over-reacts and creates more problems.’ Linda adds that it was the arrival of Friends Reunited in 2001 that gave her the idea for the novel. ‘This was the beginning of the social media explosion which along with MySpace and Facebook, gave people a chance to find long lost friends and classmates,’ she explains. ‘We sent off emails without thought of where this might lead and the potential consequences to existing relationships. In Meeting Lydia, I wanted to highlight the issues. It’s quite an introspective novel and I’ve always felt it would be perfect for audio. Now my dream is being realised and I’m very excited by the outcome.’
Born and brought up in Cockermouth, Cumbria, Linda MacDonald has a degree in psychology and a PGCE in biology and science. She retired from teaching in 2012 in order to focus on writing, and has now published three novels with Matador. She lives in Beckenham, and travels to speak to various groups about the Lydia series and the psychology of internet relationships.
For author interviews, review copies, articles, photos or extracts please contact Linda MacDonald: Email: firstname.lastname@example.org
Twitter: @LindaMac1 Facebook: www.facebook.com/MeetingLydia
UK ASIN – B01MXKO1BW
Audiobook produced by Essential Music Ltd, 20 Great Chapel Street, London, W1F 8FW. Tel: 0207 439 7113. Email: email@example.com