REFERENCES

Here are two references that I wrote in August 2008 for employees who were leaving our employ. These are not, of course, the real ones that I gave to their new employers, rather, the ones that I should, perhaps, in all honesty, have forwarded. The sentiments expressed within these lines truthfully reflect the characters of these two gentlemen. These could possibly be a foundation for a comedy. (T.V.series?). The names have been altered.

PANEER'S REFERENCE

by

T.J.Hurford

Paneer, who, I understand hails originally from Mumbai, is a man of great good humour and seemingly limitless charms ( many of which he keeps hidden in his locker, or, judging by the frequency with which he adjusts and consults them through his pockets, his trousers ).

A man of considerable girth - the result of a glandular problem, and nothing, he assures us, to do with his nightly diet of two curries, fifteen pints of lager and twenty chocolate puddings - Paneer commands his kitchen station with great professionalism and although we have often tried to move him to other departments to increase his culinary understanding and repertoire, his position as Head Chef of the Desserts Department has been unassailable, not least because the fork-lift truck cannot easily be manoeuvered within the confines of our premises.

I say 'cannot' but 'could not' would be more accurate since, with the inexplicable and purely accidental collapse of the main wall behind Paneer's work area, we have now been able to encourage this Titan of the kitchen to seek out pastures new beyond our own small and sadly, almost bankrupt, once thriving restaurant. It being coincidental that our demise began the day after Paneer first came to us, we would LOVE to see another establishment take up where we have left off in this GREAT man's culinary education and although you might be a rival to this firm, we would be very happy indeed to see you employ him.

P.S. Delivery can be arranged.

end

JOHANN'S REFERENCE

by

T.J.Hurford

Johann, as far as we know, has never invaded another country. Neither, we believe, has he kept a female family member locked in a basement for two decades siring multiple children with her in an incestuous relationship, despite being Austrian.

Johann is, it must be admitted, relatively short, as you will no doubt ascertain if you stand up and peer over the edge of your desk, however, over time, this has proven to be a useful asset, saving, as it does, less vertically-challenged staff members from having to bend down for things on lower shelves.

Passionate to a fault, Johann can, on occasion, display many of the more interesting traits of another, far more well-known Austrian. He is very professional about his craft and, selflessly, tastes at least two, and sometimes THREE, bottles of white wine an evening, the better to understand the effects these will have upon his dishes.

His professionalism is such that, in addition, he is known to take home whole fillet steaks on a regular basis, secreted, (he would be embarrassed to let his employers know how seriously he takes things), about his person so that he can perfect his recipes on his own time and at his own expense. What a hero!.

Johann cares about fellow staff members to the extent that he communicates with them solely in four-letter words, sometimes screaming them so as to be heard above the general kitchen din.

If you are considering employing this man, please be aware that he likes to delegate responsibility the sooner to be able to go home and therein develop his culinary proficiency.

Having read this reference, if you believe that he is the man for your restaurant, then you deserve him, and if you can get him to work for you, then you will indeed be fortunate.

end

THE MAGIN

Here is a story that I wrote in 1995. copyright T.J.Hurford. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

THE MAGIN

by

T.J.Hurford

There were seven of them originally. Why seven?. No particular reason. At least, that's what people thought. Seven mystical shadowy men, who, it was said, held the Heavens on their shoulders. Seven men who caused the rains to fall and the winds to blow. Brought forth the Moon and stars at night and the life-giving sunlight that caused the plants to grow and made children strong and healthy; who held the mighty oceans in their beds and the planets in their orbits. Seven mythical Gods in whose name people cursed and prayed, loved and scolded; whose names cowed even the most recalcitrant of children at bedtime. Men who 'obviously' never really existed. A fairy story from long ago. The stuff of myth and legend. No-one needed that kind of childish prattling anymore. People controlled their own lives and destinies. No such thing as Seven Wise Men, was there?. Of course not.

Down in the great chambers below the earth where rays of sunlight never penetrate, where cold and damp are all-pervading, where nature has created a timeless realm, lies a void where seconds, hours, days, and even centuries mean nothing. Nothing. Where any creatures that really do exist live out their brief allotted span in pale and sightless gropings like spectral whispers. Shadows of their surface cousins. Down in nocturnal halls and passageways, cracks and chasms, deep in Gothic splendour with only the drip, drip, drip of ever- present water to pierce the oppressive silence; water creating majestic pillars of crystal if one had eyes but to see them. Down, down in the sepulchral Kingdom alone, one stands waiting. One above all others both in form and spirit. Pale of face and blind in eye. Silent. Staring. Dreaming. Waiting...waiting....waiting. Magus. Sorcerer. Magician. Call him what you will. One of The Seven. THE SEVEN. Alone, the Magus. Together, THE MAGIN.

This being, more presence than actuality. The First among Equals bound by patterns of force too vague and ethereal for any but themselves to note. A foundation. A living pillar, imprisoned by need and choice, forever to 'walk' the lonely paths of thought in pursuit of dangers as yet unknown. Searching for the one peril that must surely one day come and threaten all that they have striven down the long and painful years to defend...life, itself upon this planet's surface; its creatures, atmosphere, plants and very orbit around the star that had given them birth and breath.

Entombed in fields of energy that they themselves had created. Linked together by mind alone. Sentinels from a time long ago. A time in which all had walked the surface as Kings. Gods. A time when all had recognised the Magin for what they truly were...The Creators and Guardians of life and nature. Time, itself. The very planet and the Star about which it circled. Seven men who had realised that their time was passing. That soon the awe and understanding in which they had been held would be gone forever. Forever?. Perhaps not. Perhaps their time would come again.

Yet in acceptance or banishment, their role would still be necessary. Without them nothing would exist. Ages might pass and memory of them dwindle until little remained  but childrens' stories and fairy tales, yet still, they must keep the faith. Seven beings. One for Air; One for light; One for Spirit and One for Night. One for Life and One for Earth.....And One for....DEATH.

One for Death.

One amongst them who had nursed his doubts about the wisdom of quitting the world where once they had lived in splendour, free to walk the forest tracks in sunlight and air, adored and worshipped by all who met them, recognising their supremacy over all.

The Magus of Death. His grief had turned to anger. Anger to hate, and hate to madness. An all-consuming, passionate, tyrannical insanity, festering and pulsating, expanding with a rapidity and force that would break the bonds that they had all, so many aeons before created to imprison their omniscient power and restrain their existence along the paths of DUTY. Duty to every man and woman, plant, animal and rock upon and beneath the surface of the planet.

Five had learnt humility and peace. One had embraced wickedness and lunacy. The Seventh?. The seventh had gone from strength to strength. Testing his powers. Expanding the boundaries of sorcery. Sponging up the possibilities that millennia of thought and introspection had offered. One for Life. One for Death, and Five for...what?. For whom?. Who would they support when the time came and evil; total, raw and unadulterated EVIL walked abroad upon the face of the Earth?. The time for Life had not yet come but the time for Death was very, very near. A few heartbeats more and He would be free. Free. FREE!. His heart soared within his pale, emaciated body and with these thoughts his power increased yet more and with it, the time of his freedom came one step closer. Mental bonds loosening as evil energies strove to break their loathsome grip.

Down in the cavern where THE ONE stood waiting, shockwaves of thought radiated in tangible coruscating patterns of light and sound, shattering the massive stalagtites like glass. Pulses and waves of energy formed from desperation as, frantically, the Magus of Life sought to catch up. Running back along the endless corridors through the library of their collective mind, desperate to prevent the escape of the Devil that his cousin had become. Aware, so frighteningly aware of the possibilities. Calling to The Five for help to stop the library doors from being bolted with spells from without...Aware that entrapment of The Six would turn horrid, frightening possibilities into unimaginably awful probabilities. Running. Running...RUNNING. The doors in sight. The way out. The light. He would make it. The Five were there also, joining in the mad dash down the long corridor of thought toward freedom. Images and impressions scattering in streams of multi-coloured light from their robes as they ran, the remnants of whatever mental tome they had been absorbing when the call for help had reached them.

Nearer, nearer. The sunlight beckoned. They might make it. They would. They MUST. The fate of all rested with them. If Death alone escaped......the thought came and went in an instant leaving The Six pale and chilled. The doors were moving, shutting. Their bonds tightening, restricting. They must escape. THEY MUST. Around the edge of reason's portal, a face appeared, wan to the point of horror. A drowned, bloated face, gashed with a thick and rubbery mouth and sightless eyes. A mouth from which mucous spittle ran in leering, toothless, unstoppable torrents. A horrible empty, moaning sound emanated from the blubbery head. A single flabby hand appeared and waved once goodbye. The doors began to close. Chains of thought tightened around The Six. One last hope. Just one. A frail and slender hope. The Six joined together as One. A message sent upon its way above the head of Death. A plea for aid to anyone who could help. A call to arms. One message, one slender final cry for help.

Come...Come....COME. We DO exist. We do. Release us and we will help in the trials that are about to engulf you all. COME...COme...come.... come. The doors closed. The light was gone. The self-inflicted bonds of ages past once more held firm. No possible escape from within, yet from without?. In six cathedral-like caverns, in six different places below the surface of the planet, six beings stood waiting. Pale of face and blind, blind in eye. Silent, staring, dreaming, waiting....waiting....waiting....waiting.

..............................................................................

Tom Wheelwright awoke with a start. Cold, clammy sweat soaked his nightshirt. Wild staring eyes pierced the gloom; not knowing; not seeing; not caring. Empty. The sunlight streamed in through the window of his peaceful cabin and slowly at first, then with increasing, uncontrollable, hysterical force, he began to weep.

The Magin. Seven wise and beneficent men who controlled all aspects of day to day life on the planet from the seasons of the year to the price of eggs in the market. Magicians who controlled the very thoughts of billions of scurrying ant-like humans who thought themselves so clever. So far above superstition that the existence of Gods was a childish fetish to be laughed at with derision.

Seven men. Below Heaven but above temptation.

Seven Men. THE Seven.

THE MAGIN...

And then,

One of them put himself above Heaven and below temptation.....

'G' IS FOR GUN

This is a short story idea that might make a movie or T.V. plot idea. Whilst it is set in England, this could be anywhere. I wrote it in 1995. copyright: Timothy James Hurford. 1995. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. It is called...

'G' IS FOR GUN

by

T.J.Hurford

'A' is for Arab

'T' is for Thrill

'B' is for Bullet

'K' is for Kill

Childhood is a time of great change. It is potentially a time of trauma for young minds and, in the hands of the wrong person, those minds can be distorted, turned away from what is 'right' and 'decent' and 'proper' toward that other thing - that thing with many names but all of them EVIL.

The small town of Warburton is a place like many others. It has a twice weekly market in the central square, a small police station and a cattle market. There is a long High Street where the local farmers come to do their business and rather more pubs' than at first glance might seem necessary for a community of only five thousand souls.

There is a railway station and an abattoir and an old council housing estate on the outskirts.

There is also a school.

Warburton IS different, though. Warburton is the home of a serial killer.

Some schools get lucky with their teaching staff and turn out well-rounded, informed and presentable young people whose future seems assured. Others, like Warburton Secondary Modern seem to attract the outcasts of the teaching fraternity. Men and women who seem to have become vocationally misplaced.

It has been a trying day for Brahim Ladwa. His girlfriend has just left him. He has been turned down for a loan to buy a car, and he has a hangover. If only he had never strayed from the paths of enlightenment. To cap it all, that horrible boy, Jack Winslow, who is always disrupting the class has been nattering away all afternoon. Brahim blows up. He hates teaching and takes it out regularly on the 'kids' in the class. He hates them and they hate him.

"You're all a bunch of ingrates". He shouts. "You're the thickest group of no-hopers I've ever come across". He storms out. At the back of the classroom, Jack Winslow gives his retreating figure an obscene gesture.

Out in the hills on the outskirts of town there is an army rifle range. It hasn't been used for some time, and although there is a regular patrol by a soldier who comes round to check the padlocks on the gates and 'Nissan' huts, these visits are predictable enough for the children to slip in and out unseen. For much of the time, nobody comes near the place, which, for obvious reasons is secluded and well-hidden in a fold of the hills.

Jack is a sullen boy. Growing up in the boring atmosphere of a small town with no entertainment, except for television, which only increases his frustration by showing him things he can never have, he is always getting into trouble. At fifteen, he rules the class both physically and emotionally. What Jack says, 'goes'.

Jack HAS found something to relieve the monotony though. His gang is into black magic. Not spells and all that, although they DO mix things together over a fire in the abandoned hut down by the railway line and regularly offer the resultant substances to wild animals in the vicinity with satisfying, though horrid, results. The kind of magic that Jack's gang is into involves sacrifice.

It started out with pets and quickly moved on to farm animals. Now it has taken the next logical step. Jack has killed a human being. The hut that after months of patient whittling away at, he has finally managed to break into out on the range contained little of interest except for one wonderful find.

A gun. A genuine army service pistol complete with a large supply of ammunition. The accident had happened  whilst Jack was sitting staring in admiration at this weapon A soldier had entered the hut. It was the same soldier who had visited the school to give a careers lecture. He had told them stories about the war. The children had listened with interest. So, the REAL heroes had been those who had killed the most enemies?.

He had been early on his rounds, wanting to get back to barracks for a trip into town with the 'lads'. With a shout, the man had tried to take the gun away from Jack and it had gone off. The soldier died instantly. Jack was too innued to violence from watching the television to be worried by the sight, or, indeed, the act, of what he had done, but he did know that all trace of the deed must be hidden.

The gang had come to his rescue. A burial deep in the woods later that evening. There had been a full moon. Jack performed a kind of Satanic ritual by candlelight. In his mind the act of murder had already become deliberate and was believed by his 'tribe'. Everyone was there. Tom and Zack, Mo and 'Chunky', Billy and 'The Snot'. Even Rachael, 'Pens' and Sal. The girls looked in awe at Jack as he stood over the grave and fired a single shot from the gun into the unmoving corpse. There had been a lot of blood and as they filed past the open hole, each had spat upon the soldier's body and their leader had smeared blood from a jar onto their foreheads.

The death did not go unnoticed, but, try as they might, the police and army could find neither clue nor the body. The fact that there had been a gun in the hut had long since been forgotten, so eventually the general opinion became that a tramp had done the deed and hidden the remains. The search was continuing when another murder took place.

Sergeant Thorpe. Town 'Bobby' made a mistake. He was an old fashioned kind of 'copper'. If a child did wrong, he didn't report it. Not for a first, nor even, a second, offence. He merely gave the boy, (and it almost invariably WAS a boy) a clip round the ear. That Tuesday, Chunky Stevens wanted the day off from school to go to the cattle market, so he took the day off. The policeman saw him and took his normal action. That evening as he pushed his bicycle home across the churchyard, Sergeant Thorpe paid the price for his error.

Brahim Ladwa is the next. A man with a short fuse, he pays the price too. His mistake?. Shouting once too often at Jack. He is shot dead next day on his way to school.

A Soldier.

A Policeman.

And a Teacher.

The town is panic stricken. Three ordinary citizens. No apparent motive.

Nobody suspects the children but after every killing, the gang goes into the woods and performs a ritual. The words come naturally. The 'Brotherhood' have found a voice. No-one will ever push any of them around again. They have THE GUN.

They chant.........

'The Squaddie 'ated all us kids.

They 'Bogey clipped me 'ead.

The Teacher said that we was fick.

But they're the ones what's dead'.

As each killing occurs the chant gets longer:

And longer:

'We likes killin'

'F' is for fun.

'B' is for bullet.

'G' is for gun'.

end

ROMERO AND JULIAN

Here is an idea for a movie that I created back in 1996. It is called...

ROMERO AND JULIAN

by

T.J.Hurford

copyright 1996.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Romero and Julian are two star-crossed gay lovers.

Romero works for his parents in a small, smart suburb of New York. The family business is hair dressing and they are rightly proud of their reputation.

Unfortunately, all is not as rosy as it might at first appear. Romero and his parents are losing some of their oldest and wealthiest clients to a new salon that has just opened nearby for business. Romero is sent to investigate and, disguised as a wealthy customer, he keeps an appointment.

Julian is the son of the couple who own the new salon. He is highly talented and not a little flamboyant. It is his flair and imagination that is taking away the custom. Romero is smitten and introduces himself. The couple get on like a house on fire until Romero is introduced to Julians' parents. Unfortunately, whereas both young men are obviously gay, neither set of parents has recognised the fact and each believes the other son is corrupting their boy. Julian and Romero have to meet secretly whilst their respective sets of parents become increasingly agitated, becoming more and more aware of their son's sexuality and blaming what they see as a change upon the influence of the other young man.

Romero and Julian are distraught when the worst happens. Romero is to be sent away by his doting parents who believe that a long trip back to Mother Italy will calm things down. Romero will stay with Great Uncle Luigi, a Mafia boss known for his lack of humour and very short temper. In short, he is an absolute BEAST.

Romero leaves his tearful friend at the airport but Julian is not taking the situation lying down. Disguised as an air stewardess for Air Italia, he gets aboard the plane and causes mayhem amongst both the crew members and the minders sent by Uncle Luigi to collect Romero. These men are hot-blooded Italian gangsters who think that Julian is one of the most attractive 'women' they have ever seen.

Romero is incensed at the bottom-pinching, leering attention being paid to his boyfriend by all the men on the aircraft and Julian ends up scaring several of them witless when their 'friendliness' goes too far and they learn the. to them, horrible, truth.

Uncle Luigi is NOT amused!. The two New Yorkers are given lessons in manliness, beastliness and nastiness. He turns them into two, manly, beastly, nasty gay hair stylists with ATTITUDE.

Romero and Julian return to New York. They dress in the uniform of the Mafiosi: Italian suits , patent leather shoes, reflective, silvered, 'shades' and trilby hats. All in very butch black. The parents don't know what has hit them. Romero and Julian are no longer timid, cringing, effeminate stylists. They are now 'in yer face', aggressive, cutting-edge style creators. They leave the parental' nests' and set up in business for themselves; an act that finally brings the parents together out of mutual need to fight the 'threat' to their established businesses from their talented sons.

Romero and Julian are aggressive no-nonsense, hi-tech designers who tell their customers what they are going to do. They DO NOT ask for permission. They are tanned, muscular, sharp New York Italian guys. They are a SENSATION.

(Maybe they go on and take over their parents businesses, establishing a chain?). (Perhaps the parents take lessons from their sons?)..

CLONE TRANSPORTER

Here is an idea for a sci-fi movie that I originated back in 1996.It is called...

CLONE TRANSPORTER

by

T.J.Hurford

copyright: Timothy James Hurford 1996

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Quote: 'According to the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, it is impossible to determine the location and energy of every atom in a human being'. Endquote.

Mavis McGrath shook her head wearily, crumpled up the scrap of paper with this singularly un-enlightening piece of information on it and made an unsuccessful attempt at hitting her editor on the head. Instead, the ball landed square in her own plastic cup of coffee. "BLAST!". She crossed the office and tipped the sodden mass into the waste paper basket.

Bob Tasker swivelled round in his chair and stared thoughtfully at his Chief - and only - Science Correspondent. Not for the first time he wondered how even science with all its wonders and marvels could possibly have come up with such a stupendously attractive young woman. As she came closer he toyed with the idea of wrestling her onto the nearest available desk, ripping her underclothes from off her struggling, firm young body, and......

Mavis eyed her editor apprehensively. Was it her imagination, or had the plate of sandwiches on his lap  just fallen to the ground of its own accord?. She detoured and placed her desk between the two of them. The man sighed. The pain of their last encounter still made him shudder inwardly and even now, some two months later, brought the odd tear to his eye.

Mavis pulled up a chair and sat down, grimly aware that her micro mini-skirt was still visible to the man opposite. 'Why is it?' she mused inwardly 'That men always seem to think if a woman is wearing something even halfway revealing, it's for their benefit?'.

Then, honestly. 'In my case, it is true, of course, although not for him. The right man had not, as yet, turned up in her life, but that didn't stop Mavis hoping.

She looked at her 'Chief'. 'This Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, Bob. It rather makes the 'Star Trek' Matter Transporter look a bit foolish,doesn't it?. I mean to say, you can't go beaming people about through space if bits of them don't turn up where you want them to, can you?'. Bob Tasker, Editor in Chief of Rutherford Science Monthly nodded. 'Mmmm!. That's why I want you to go and interview this Collins chap down in Cornwall. Seems to think that he's come up with a way round it. Must be pretty certain. He's already come up with a name for the process. The Lazarus Effect. Not too many boffins willing to stick their neck out that far nowadays. Not unless they're damned sure of their results, that is'.

The train journey down from London was, Mavis thought, almost entirely boring. She had been re-routed part of the way through Basingstoke and Salisbury on the Bristol line, and, with the exception of a slight disagreement with some 'squaddies' on their way back to base at Warminster, the 'run' had well nigh sent her to sleep. It had been this that had nearly been her undoing. Hushed whispers close at hand had alerted her to possible problems. She had been startled to find five or six leering soldiers, their beery breath enveloping her, ready to pounce in pursuit of what they obviously felt was 'fair game'.

Black Belts in four martial arts, however, had quickly put paid to the young mens' ambitions, not to mention their amorous intentions for some little time to come and they were deposited none too gently on the platform at their destination, rolling and moaning in anguished torment.

'Really!.MEN!.Just because I'm wearing a short skirt'. Mavis jerked the carriage window up and her mini skirt down, the former with total success and the latter, it must be said, with very little.

William Andrew Collins stared at the figure advancing down the platform towards him. From the top of her scarlet, dreadlocked head to the soles of her platform trainers, she was, from what he could remember, every inch a woman.

At thirty-one years of age, Collins was not exactly a wallflower, his friends having all married years before, but he wasn't exactly a lothario either. For some reason the right girl had never come along. Maybe it was the obsessive pursuit of his own Holy Grail or perhaps it was the ever-present pipe with its attendant cloud of tobacco smoke that put women off, but, whatever the reason, he was still a bachelor, and, he glumly admitted, likely to remain one.

Mavis McGrath stopped short someway down the platform. Her glasses, that some unkindly souls had hinted she wore merely for effect, but which she actually DID need had become suddenly clouded. There could be NO mistake. No-one else was waiting . The description she had been given, tall, tweed jacket, pipe, dog, had given her the impression of some latterday Professor Brainstorm, but here, waiting silently in the heavy drizzle of a late Spring afternoon, stood the Man of her Dreams.

At a guess, she thought, 6ft 2"?, and ever so slightly older than herself, built like a rugby player on steroids. Not obviously handsome, but extremely attractive nonetheless. She came closer. Sadness in the eyes?. Brown. Brown hair too. Slightly unshaven. Sensitive hands and long, potentially probing fingers. She shuddered inwardly at this thought. Threadbare tweed jacket it was true but black drainpipe jeans. Matching polo shirt and very ornate 'cowboy' boots completed his obviously 'normal' outfit. Good teeth. He was smiling at her and stepping forward, hand outstretched.

For the first time in her life, Mavis McGrath stepped outside of her normally reserved and somewhat shy self. Brushing aside his welcoming handshake, she flung her arms about the young man's neck and, with as much passion as if it had been her wedding night, kissed Professor Bill Collins full on the mouth.

...........

The laboratory, housed inside a collection of large farm buildings, was about as well-equipped as it was possible to be. Everywhere, state of the art electronic machinery -some of it as yet unwrapped- stood in buzzing splendour. At the centre of the main room, a rather incongruous red London telephone box stood in silent scarlet arrogance, as if to say: 'I'm every bit as important as you lot with your microchips and fancy diodes'. Even more strange in this laboratory, dedicated, or so it was rumoured locally, to 'THE TRANSPORTATION OF HUMAN BEINGS THROUGH THIN AIR!!!', a small but fully functional recording studio stood in one corner.

Mavis' resignation had been delivered by First Class mail, Monday morning to her office in London, breaking the heart of her editor and indeed, many others, both male and female in the surrounding work places. Their only memento, a life-sized cardboard photograph of the girl in the Martini advert who wiggles on her roller skates in a lift. NOT Mavis McGrath, but as near as dammit.

In Mavis, Bill had found the perfect companion. Scientifically educated to a very high standard, yat able, and willing, to more than live up to his fantasies elsewhere.

..............................

"SO!.Ladies and Gentlemen, esteemed colleagues. To put it succinctly, my process will allow not only the transportation of human and, indeed, plant, life, but also its storage for an indefinite periods.
For the benefit of the press who are here present, I will just re-iterate the salient features which my wife and I have developed".

"Basically, it is now possible to map the human G-Nome. This has been made possible with the help of a linked 'congress' of my own and the world's 'Kray' super computers. The combined computing power of these marvelous machines has allowed this phenomenally complex procedure to be completed way ahead of schedule. Indeed, I can think of very few other projects more suitable for the celebration of the Millennium. For some time now, it has been 'common knowledge' that, because of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, it would never be possible to subject human beings to matter transportation and yet, some years ago now, it came to me that there just might be a way round this problem. I am very pleased to announce that a way has been discovered. I have invented a machine that can almost instantaneously 'read' an entire human being. The information thus collated is then recorded onto a compact disc which can then be sent anywhere . Kiosks such as this crude telephone box behind me could be set up in most locations to perform this important function. With our new Clone Transporter, it is now possible for mankind to reach the stars".

A loud raspberry in the audience showed the level of skepticism present. "How does it work?. Well!. A customer might decide that he or she has had enough of the maunderings of deranged and critical journalists (laughter), and wishes to go to another planet. Stepping into the kiosk, they are 'sampled' and invited to press the 'Eleventh Hour Button' if they have final second thoughts. This would halt the procedure. If they wish to continue, they insert their 'plastic' to pay for their trip, depress the 'proceed' switch and the fully automatic machine takes over. The glass walls polarise. A tranquiliser gas is injected to put the seated passenger to sleep and the machine 'vapourises' them. It has, of course, previously noted the desired destination and automatically places the cd into a mail box compartment to await collection by a postal delivery service. It is then despatched to the destination of choice. I do realise that vapourisation may seem a bit drastic and the ethical considerations problematic but this is an important part of the procedure, which, hopefully, once the possibilities inherent in the scheme have been fully discussed, will seem acceptable".

"Think, also though of the enormous benefits. In a world of increasing population growth, vast numbers of people could choose to be stored in this way and either prolong their lives almost indefinitely, to be re-awakened at some pre-programmed time in the future or sent through the far reaches of space by an automatic probe. its mission, to find inhabitable planets, recreate the necessary lives for colonisation from within its storage facility and deliver them to the planets surface".

Whole armies could be transported in this way. Most functions of today's deep space missions are automatic and autonomous. ally these to large on-board libraries of specialist stored clones and settlers could finally allow humankind to spread out from our own small, fragile and isolated planet to other worlds without having to worry about the time involved in travelling such enormous distances. Imagine how many people could be transported in one shuttle. Instead of the expensive and uneconomic missions that today deliver six or seven astronauts into space, under this system, tens of thousands could be sent. An interplanetary expedition would need only an automated 'juke box' in command waiting to play the 'requests' that sensors showed were needed for that particular destination. If warlike 'peoples' were encountered, an army could be restored from the space ship's cd collection to protect the mission. If scientists were needed, then they would be the first to be 'uploaded'. The opportunities are endless. The boundaries are limitless. Only the will is needed".

............................

A well intentioned scientist sees only the advantages and not the potential pitfalls of his ideas. (Assassination by erasing; kidnappings; slavery by theft of cds; private collectors; ethnic cleansing, etc., etc,.euthanasia, clone discs used as 'frisbees' or hung on wires in fields to scare birds away from crops, cloned people being used as avatars for on-line gamers who don't realise that the images on screen are actually real, if cloned, people, eugenics through the mixing together of different clones by some future deranged studio recording engineer....

DYING IN STRANGE POSITIONS

This treatment is a distinctly 'black' comedy. I wrote it in January, 1997. copyright T.J.Hurford. All Rights Reserved. It is called....

DYING IN STRANGE POSITIONS

by

T.J.Hurford

It is the 'Sixties' and everybody is really 'swinging'. Psychedelia rules and talk centres around the next 'Beatles' album. In the kitchenette of flat number 14b overlooking the King's Road in Chelsea, The 'Fab Four' have been forgotten in the turmoil surrounding the disappearance of Uncle Albert.

It's bad enough him dying three days ago on the eve of his step-son's sixteenth birthday, but to actually go missing too!. The family can't quite come to grips with the situation. The undertaker is frantic. Nothing like this has ever happened before to U. Diggit and Isla Plantem. The whole thing is grave. Very grave indeed.

Light, though IS beginning to dawn. There appears to have been a mix-up. It's all the fault of the 'wacky baccy'. Isla Plantem has just had a very painful discussion with her two young mortuary assistants, Flower and Lettuce. Strange, she muses, how artificial substances can alter the mind. 

Albert Jacobs has been mistakenly transported to Jamaica for cremation and Bernie Marley, London bus driver will always,now, be late. HE is waiting in Uncle Albert's coffin at the Chapel of Rest across the river in Lambeth. His 'laying out' should be very interesting indeed. The Marley family are Rastafarian Jamaicans and the Jacobs are white Jews.

Isla Plantem communicates the problem to her partner, Ulysses Diggit. There's nothing they can do. They don't have another body available although there IS some discussion about Lettuce or Flower 'standing in'. Isla and Ulysses decide to put a brave face on it. The Marleys don't know about the problem and with any luck the telegram that has just been dispatched to Kingston explaining that high-altitude air travel in very cold cargo bays can sometimes have a rather unusual effect on skin colouration will reach the family home before the coffin does. The firm recommends dark tan shoe polish to avoid any distress to the mourners.

Isla, herself, visits the Jacobs family above The Heavenly Three Spice Joyful Hygienic Chinese Takeaway (laundry done) in their King's Road flat where they have lived for the past ten years. There has been an accident, she explains Uncle Albert has been found but the hearse had been in an accident. Four undertakers are in hospital, she lies, being treated for smoke inhalation, (only a slight exaggeration she thinks, Lettuce having just been taken to Chelsea hospital suffering from withdrawal symptoms after his 'stash' has been confiscated as a punishment). There has been a little singeing. The merest hint of smoke damage. It IS possible that Uncle Albert might just look the teeniest bit, well, foreign, shall we say?. No charge will be made for the funeral because of the inconvenience and distress caused.

Mrs. Jacobs is overcome. To lose her husband AND get the funeral done for FREE. She doesn't know whether to wail or cheer. She realises that she is rubbing her hands together gleefully and endeavours to make it look like  this is through distress rather than the profit motive.

Isla makes her way to the door. 'PHEW!' That was a really narrow escape. She decides to try some of that wacky baccy herself when she gets back to the office and to Hell with the consequences. There is just one cloud to blot the horizon. The step-son. What was his name?. Ah yes. George. Whispered some very disparaging remarks as she left the flat. A sullen-faced boy, Isla thought. Would be a handful when he grows up. Didn't believe a word she had told them. Well. Tough!. Isla tries to shrug off her vague feelings of disquiet and drives off to her Sloane Street office. "Get even with YOU". he'd said. "Someday".

The funerals go off without a hitch. Having been apprised of the difficulties, none of the assembled mourners seem in any hurry to view the mortal remains of their respective Dearly departed.

In the back of the hall at Uncle Albert's funeral, George sits sullenly brooding. His Mother comes over to comfort him with a sardine sandwich. "Albert was like a Step-Father to me Mum". "He WAS your Step Father, George". "Well. There you are then!". He shrugs off her hand and leaves the wake to walk home in the rain. The sound of 'Eleanor Rigby' drifts across his consciousness. He walks into the cafe and sits on a bench by the window stirring a glass of cola with a straw. "One day I'm going to get my own back on them undertakers." He thinks. "On ALL bloody undertakers".

It is eight years later.

The world seems a different place. Duller somehow. The Beatles have split up and 'flower power' and psychedelia have given way to 'glam' rock and Gary Glitter. Things will never be the same again.

At Portsmouth Royal Naval Dockyard, George Abraham Jacobs is descending the gangplank from his ship for the last time. From the deck his erstwhile crew mates (including the Captain and Officers) give him the traditional send-off of streamers of Izal toilet paper. He is bombarded with rotten fruit and boiled eggs until he rounds the corner of the nearest building and disappears from sight. It has NOT been a happy eight years.

In the flat above the takeaway, George stares down into a plate of half-eaten cold baked beans. Several cigarettes have been stubbed out into the congealed mess. On the floor in the corner a screwed up charred piece of paper is the only evidence that his Mother was ever there. "Dear Son". The note had read. "I have re-married. A charming man named Winston. I met him a week after Uncle Albert's funeral at the undertakers office. It seems that WE buried Winston's brother and they cremated your Step Father. Makes you laugh doesn't it?" George did not laugh.

In the corner of the room an old record player stands dusty and unused. George opens the lid, switches it on and plays the record on the turntable. It is Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles.

At his desk in New Scotland Yard, Chief Superintendent Jack Tugwell is looking distinctly worried. FIVE murders on his 'patch' in the last three weeks. Not so unusual, perhaps given the number of tourists in London at this time of year and the ethnic diversity of the local populace but there is something very, very odd about these particular killings. The connection between them would not even go unnoticed be the rawest recruit. The pattern has nothing to do with the manner in which these five people died. One stabbing, one shooting, two strangulations and one 'tap' on the head to date. No!. the peculiar similarities between the murders is quite straightforward, although in Jack Tugwell's experience, entirely unique. ALL of the victims were undertakers and all of them, without exception had left a note in their own hand-writing stipulating that they should be 'catered for' by the Chelsea firm of U.Diggit and Isla Plantem.

Chief Superintendent Tugwell sighs. Across the office one of his subordinates looks up. "Tricky case, Sir?". "Not just tricky, Bob. Bloody peculiar, more like. FIVE undertakers. All unrelated in any way as far as we can make out. All leaving instructions to be buried by the same firm who are not, repeat NOT suspected of drumming up more than their fair share  of trade by doing a spot of creative nobbling of the opposition". The other man shakes his head. "I'm afraid I don't quite get it?. Strange, yes, but why peculiar?. His superior stands up. "Fancy a trip to the mortuary, Bob?. I'll show you why this case is peculiar".

Down in the bowels of Saint Thomas's Hospital beside the Thames, there is a problem. Two problems, to be exact, and there are going to be a few more before the week is out. The normal mortuary refrigerator stands in all its gleaming shiny magnificence along one wall, an array of massive steal filing cabinets. In the middle of the room four large domestic chest freezers, hastily installed are getting in the way. Two stand empty and open. Another two have occupants.

The two policemen stand at the door awaiting permission from the staff to enter the crowded room.The mortician calls them over and lifts  three lids. Inside the murder victims lie awaiting release to the undertaker. One of the bodies is bent double as though touching his toes. Only a rather large and pimply bottom is visible. Another is doing the 'splits' a look of profound shock on his aged face. The third is in a rather graceful balletic pose, one hand frozen into a very obscene gesture. The attendant sighs shrugging his shoulders in disgust. "A sense of humour, this one, Jack. Should see the other two. They're upstairs in the kitchen cold store. The restaurant staff aren't happy". "One has his leg round his neck like some Indian yogi. The other is standing on one leg with the other held up  to the back of his head like an acrobat. Well. you get the picture. Tied in position they were. It was done after they died except for the 'splits bloke' over there". He nodded towards a chest freezer by the door where one of his assistants was looking rather guilty having just stuffed his shopping down the side of one of the corpses. "Not very tactful, John". "Sorry boss. I'd normally put my shopping in the cafe cold room but for some reason the manager told me to sod off, today. Actually, 'sod' was not the word he used".

The Chief Mortician sighed again. "Bloody Hell. It's always Mondays, isn't it?" "Tied up like human bonzai trees they were, before Rigor set in. For some reason the boys thought it would be amusing to bring them to us before the effect had worn off. There WILL be words, but I suppose it is important for your lot to see what you're up against?".. "By the way, It WAS five. It's now six. Another one came in half an hour ago".

"It's THEM I feel sorry for". He nodded towards a double set of swing doors from behind which for some minutes past loud grunts and cursing have been apparent. The three men walk over and quietly open one of the doors.

In this adjoining room, Isla Plantem, Ulysses Diggit and their two assistants Lettuce and Flower are struggling to straighten out a grotesquely 'moulded' naked corpse, standing with one leg in the air, a tiny bow and arrow in his stiffened hands. The clouds that fill this room are not only attributable to the frosty air. All four people have very large 'cigarettes' in their hands. There is a strong and pungent smell of Marijuana. The policemen tactfully withdraw but not before they see the corpse topple over and pierce an anonymous rump with its obviously sharp arrow, with very loud results.

George Jacobs is finally getting his revenge. On the floor of the sitting room a large library  book with the word 'RODIN' lies alongside an open telephone book. Beneath the title, 'Undertakers' several names have been crossed out. Dozens more are ringed in red ink.

The firm of U.Diggit and Isla Plantem has never been so busy. It is just a question of whether the public will learn to accept the rather unusually-shaped coffins which at this very minute are at the design stage and awaiting approval by the staff. Whether Isla, Ulysses, Lettuce and Flower will suffer collective nervous breakdowns first, hernias and slipped discs notwithstanding before they get used is debatable.

end

GRAMPIE

This is a story plot that I created in 1996. It is aimed at teenagers as a slightly humorous morality tale. It could be a weekly animation series a la 'Simpsons' with a different message each week. Many in this age group seem nowadays to be incapable of distinguishing between right and wrong and the fault, of course, lies with parents, teachers and those responsible for distorting the truth through various forms of media. Violence, for example is now portrayed routinely as having comic possibilities and overtones. this treatment is called...

GRAMPIE

by

T.J.Hurford

copyright: T.J.Hurford. 1996

All Rights Reserved

Grampie is an 'in your face' seventy five? year old man. He is caring, honest and hard-working. His early years are somewhat shrouded in the fog of time as he rarely talks about them.

Grampie has been 'called in by his worried Grandchildren, themselves now adults, to try and 'win back' their own wayward teenage children who have embraced the 'yob and yoof' culture.

These children are persuaded to come to the old man's birthday celebrations but only because, privately, they hope to 'nick' a few bits of 'gear'. Grampie meets them and is a revelation. Looking like a cross between Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and Eric Clapton with Italian suits, cowboy boots and long hair. He is haggard and looks 'lived in'. He tells them what he did when he was a young man, a long time before they were born. His stories are not sermons and he is helped by being able to communicate through the language of music. He is well up on their bands and having been in one himself, the songs from which they still listen to, he can tell speak in their 'language' telling them where he went wrong and advising them not to make the same mistakes which have given him poor health and disgusting symptoms. He tells them in gross detail, showing disturbing photographs. (see George Clooney in 'Intolerable Cruelty' when he has to speak to the head of the law firm where he works, VERY funny. 'Living Without Intestines Magazine').

His influence and the reforming of his ultra famous rock band which gives them 'bragging rights' with their friends at school, puts the teenagers back on the straight and narrow. They tell him their problems and he always seems to have a solution based upon his own experiences.

The young people visit him each week without needing to be forced by their parents. Grampie has not only been there first, he has seen it AND done it. He has learnt through bitter experience. Grampie has witnessed extremes of violence, greed and debauchery.

Grampie knows all about drugs. An ex-morphine addict to suppress the pain from numerous motorcycle accidents and gang fights, he only weened himself off this addiction by becoming an alcoholic. He managed eventually after years of misery to clean himself up by being told of the illnesses that he has afflicted on his body, the death of his long-suffering wife and the revelation of seeing an interview with himself on television which he has kept to remind himself what a prat he used to be. He shows them and weeps with the memory. They are so moved that they swear to themselves they will never make the same mistakes although they do revere some aspects of his lifestyle.

The series would be a no holds barred morality tale with drugs, alcohol, swearing and death all covered with a veneer of black humour and great rock music. The 'lessons' are made through 'consequence'-style images based on the experiences of an old man: "You kick a cat in the street and the cat runs out into the road, causing a car to swerve to avoid it, and the car smashes into a bus queue of school children killing a load of your mates and your girlfriend whose older brothers come round and fire-bomb your house. Your Mother dies in the blaze and you take to drink and kill someone in a fight and you go to prison for life where you are gang raped by the other 'lifers' and you hang yourself from shame and you know what?. Nobody gives a shit. All because you didn't have the patience and downright compassion to make friends with that cat instead of mistreating it. What if it had turned out belong to that really great looking girl down the road. It has hurt its paw and you take it home. The owner is really REALLY grateful. You move in with her and she's into health and fitness so you give up drink and drugs because the alternative is losing her and you get a good job because the dole money you have saved by not doing 'stuff' has allowed you to smarten up your image. You and your girlfriend buy a great set of 'wheels and you move out of the old town and into a flat in the city and life is just GREAT.

In other words, the Gaia effect as applied to consequences. A butterfly flaps its wings and on the other side of the planet a wave tosses a swimmer onto the beach just as a 'Great White' is about to nibble her little toties.

Grampie shows through a colourful animation?, that self help and understanding can conquer most things if you only learn to recognise which direction to take at the fork in the road.

end

copyright: T.J.Hurford, 1996

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED