1978......... Snowed........... Lame...... Dennis, Dennis

Nineteen seventy-eight.

Wild animals learn the facts of survival at an early age. As infants, they play as children play, but it is during this crucial playful period that animals acquire the fundamental skill that will prepare them for their difficult life ahead: eating without being eaten.
The minute attention span of the world's offspring demands that learning should be fun, because as soon as the fun stops, their minds cloud over and any new information bounces back off their dull eyes quicker than a ping-pong ball.
The big cats of the Serengeti chase one another as cubs to master the art of chasing and killing prey. They imitate the older members of the pride and practise with their peers, hurling themselves through the tall grass of the African plains pouncing on each other and either by instinct or mimicry, the cubs aim for the jugular—always going in for the kill, even during these early playful games.
Human children learn by playing also.. we learn to be doctors and nurses; cops and robbers; cowboys and Indians; mums and dads; footballers, pop-stars and stuntmen. The human race has evolved to such an extent that we no longer need to learn how to stay alive—we only need to know how best to utilise the relatively short time we are given.
"How d'you want to die then?"
"I don't know."
"Choose your weapon."
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking.."
The game is called Dead Man's Fall and it's prime objective is to achieve the most realistic or most dramatic death throes imaginable.. possible uses in later life are pretty slim, career opportunities are virtually non-existent.
There are two very simple directions in the game: choose a murder weapon and then get a friend to kill you. It all sounds easy enough, but it is a game that requires great skill, a powerful imagination and a wide knowledge of TV and film, for this is where the craft is developed. Every cop show, every western, every thriller has a dead man's fall: cowboys drop from stage-coaches with arrows embedded in their stomachs and white men dressed as red Indians fall from their horses with every crack of a Colt 45; cops shoot robbers from roofs clutching their bloody chests, and soldiers fall from bridges riddled with machine-gun fire.. the falling dead man is an obsession with a society steeped in movie lore. Death has become a spectacle, and as an audience we have become anaesthetized—the dead man is no longer enough to satisfy our appetite, we desire agony and acrobatics, murder with movement.. let the corpse dance before its final curtain.
"Okay then; knife."
"Oh you always do knife Mart," whines Noel, "do something different."
"Let him do knife if he wants to do knife," Robert says. He always acts as an intermediary, defusing possible arguments before they get out of hand.
"It's so boring," Noel adds.
"But I'm good at knife aren't I?" Martin says trying desperately to defend himself.
"Okay, okay," interrupts Billy, "do knife, for Christ's sake." Martin smiles and running to the top of a steep bank that stands before them, waits eagerly for Noel's delivery.
The choice of weapon in Dead Man's Fall is a crucial part of the game, it says as much about the character of the player as their choice of clothes or their choice of friends. The more ostentatious player may opt for a machine-gun as their weapon of destruction, and will delight in their complicated act as they imagine tens of bullets tearing into their torso, jerking their body and flailing their arms with every impact until finally they either fly backwards into a heap or against a wall, or even more dramatically, they will drop to their knees slowly, and still shaking, fall flat on their face. A single gun shot is potentially more thrilling however, because their is a concentration on the fall rather than the wound itself. A player can feel the wound as the bullet slams into them, and because it is not fatal they have the opportunity to stagger forward a few paces, scrunching up their face in pain for extra effect, and then the fall can be perfected—and depending on the location, they can drop from a wall, launch themselves down a grassy bank, or fall into water.
Martin watches Noel as he pulls back his arm, and waits for the deadly projectile to reach its target. Martin can hear the knife sing as it flies through the air and then feels it slice clean into his stomach.
"Aaagghhh!" Martin cries out in true comic-book style, emphasizing the G‘s. He staggers backwards clutching the wound. "Gotta get it out," he wails and then carefully withdraws the steel blade from his bloody flesh. Robert, Billy and Noel all watch in awe as Martin drops to his knees, anguish carved across his face as he discards the stained knife. Martin pictures blood soaking into his T-shirt and places one hand over the deep gash. "Can't die here.. gotta get home." With his other hand he pushes himself to his feet and staggers bravely forward to the edge of the steep bank. "Gotta get back to.. aagghh.. too late." He screams and drops down the hill towards his friends, landing in a heap at their feet. Martin lies still for a moment and then lifts his head. "How did it look?" he asks.
"Good one!" Robert declares.
Martin stands up smiling and brushes the dead grass from his trousers: "I told you I was good at knife."
It is a wonder of man's consciousness that we are able to distinguish between real and make-believe; the imagination is a powerful resource and it can be manipulated very easily. Filmmakers and storytellers alike exploit the pliability of the minds of their audience with a collection of clever tricks and subtle devices; Hollywood makes us cry and makes us laugh (but only because we allow them to).
The movie industry deals in the suspension of disbelief; not upholding reality, but twisting it.. we stop not believing for a short time and allow ourselves to enter the realms of fabrication to enjoy a wealth of emotions and feelings not always on offer to us: love, hate, joy, sorrow, loss and grief (but always from the safety of our cinema seat or armchair, where we know we can walk away); and experiences including death—other people's death.. and man is truly obsessed with his own mortality, perhaps because it is the one unavoidable part of existence.

"Okay, my turn," Noel declares, and he races up the bank, turning to face his friends as he reaches the top.
"What d'you want?"
"Flame-thrower..? Grenade..? Arrow..? Axe..?"
"No, no.. first off," Noel begins, "I want a rifle shot to hit me here." Noel indicates his left shoulder by slapping his palm against his body, "and then another shot at my stomach, spilling my guts out onto the floor. And when I reach the edge give me a head shot.. bang! Brains everywhere."
"I didn't know you could have more than one shot in a go," Martin says, feeling a little put out not thinking of it himself.
"Should we each take a shot?" asks Billy.
"Guess so," Robert replies as Noel gets into position.
"Smart," Billy says and lifts an imaginary rifle to his shoulder. He adjusts his arm enough to look down the sight, and fixing the barrel of the gun on his friend, he squeezes the trigger.. BANG!
Noel falls and flies, jerks and jumps, staggers and screams. The bullets whiz through the air; bang, bang, bang. Noel rocks from foot to foot in an exaggerated manner, overacting for all he is worth; looking more like a clown and less like a dying man.
"You look like a right tit," Billy calls up the hill laughing. Noel wakes momentarily from his piss poor performance, noticeably perturbed. He stares agog at his companions below and losing his footing at the top of the bank, he tumbles down the incline.
"Shit!" Noel cries, his arms and legs waving manically, throwing clumps of dead grass into the air before landing in an untidy pile at the foot of the hill.
"Brilliant fall Noel," jokes Billy.
"Best ever!" Martin nods his head earnestly.
Noel remains on the floor moaning gently. "I fell.. I bloody fell!" He grabs hold of his ankle and pulls up his trouser leg. "I think I've broken my leg."
Billy and Martin smile, sensing the actor's reluctance to leave the stage. Robert kneels down and examines Noel's ankle.
"Get up shorty," Billy demands, "it's my go now."
Robert looks up, a concerned expression grows across his face. "I think he's really hurt."
"I am you tossers!" Noel screams. "I'm dying." The colour drains from Noel's face as if the blood is being siphoned off, while the flesh around his anklebone simultaneously swells and blackens. "I'll never walk again."
"And you’ll ne...ver walk, a...gain," Martin sings. "You’ll never..." and stops when he sees the look of concern on Robert’s face.
An air of apprehension descends on the group, as the seriousness of the situation becomes apparent. Lips tighten and smiles turn into expressions of surprise, and then foreheads wrinkle up to form frowns. The fairy tale is at an end; the four boys have come back to earth with a thump.. the credits are rolling, the actors are all shown up to be the fakes they really are. Nothing is real, yet everything is real—the suspension of disbelief is over, it is time to not believe again. And now there is pain, and now there is hate.. and now there is also friendship and there is love.
This is real life where there are no quick fades or snappy edits; no sympathetic lighting or soft-focus effects; no stunt willies or airbrushed arses, and no award ceremonies for the survivors. This is not a reflection or a mirror image, but flesh and bloody noses, snapped fibulas, soiled underpants, feelings of sympathy and selfish thoughts; a whole spectrum of emotions from fear to unconditional love and support. Life—and we are truly lucky to be alive, as blind and as ignorant as we may be; for it is better to be a bit part in the overall scheme of things than a nothing. The opportunity to make a contribution, to struggle, to eat, to laugh, to love and to feel, is a gift not extended to the dead. Time marches on, the inevitable countdown is with us all; our destiny is to love and live life while there is still breath inside each and everyone of us.
"It's getting late," Martin declares. "We'd better get going."
"Bedtime already?" Billy says cynically.
"Can you stand up Noel?" asks Robert. "I mean we can't leave you here?"
Billy laughs again: "Can't we?"
"No you bloody can't," Noel roars, "it's your fault I'm stuck like this anyway."
"How?"
"You put me off while I was falling." Noel sits upright and stretches his legs out in front of him.
"You shouldn't dance around like a big girl then should you?" Billy says. "The game's called Dead Man's Fall, not ‘slightly injured girl skips through the fields picking flowers‘."
"Oh piss off!" Noel folds his arms across his chest and sulks.
"So you want to stay here then?" asks Robert.
Noel looks up at Robert stubbornly, his bottom lip sticking outward, covering his top lip altogether. He shakes his head.
"Well get up off your arse then!"
"All right!" Noel moves carefully onto his knees and then tries to stand, placing only gentle pressure on his damaged ankle. "Ow! It's broken I know it." Robert and Billy stand either side of Noel and grab his arms, supporting him gently.
"You're just gonna have to hop home," Robert suggests.
"What? Like a frog?" Noel asks beginning to laugh now.
"Yeah that's right," Billy says giggling, "or a kangaroo."
"Or Tigger," adds Noel.
"No," Martin says, walking a few paces behind his three friends, "Tiggers bounce, they don't hop."
"Okay," Noel continues, "a rabbit then."
"The White Rabbit," offers Robert.
"No," Billy announces, "that's Martin; he‘s the White Rabbit.. ‘I'm late, I'm late for a very.. boring.. thing, no time to say.. whatever." Noel and Robert laugh along with Billy, nodding excitedly.
Martin nods his head reluctantly. "Yeah, you're right," he says, "that's me."
The four boys head home. Robert and Billy either side of Noel, holding him upright as he hops slowly forwards, Martin walking behind his friends, his arms outstretched in case Noel should fall back.
A feeling of contentment sweeps through the group. At this precise moment in their lives they are closer than they have been, and will ever be. It is a rare time for all of them—it is a time of the now, it is a day when only the present is important; the past, the future are far from their minds. They are truly focused on life. Friendship is a transient affair, people grow up and grow apart, but childhood is uncomplicated, it is a period of time when no means no, and yes means yes, not maybe, or perhaps, or sometimes, or sort of—you either are or you are not.. there is no lack of conviction and friendship is everything. Billy, Robert, Noel and Martin know who they are, where they are and who they can turn to. They know their friends and their enemies; there are no surprises, no pretensions, no airs and graces, no misplaced ambitions or delusions of grandeur, just the here and the now. If one of them falls, they know after the jokes and the laughs, they will be picked up and taken home. And home, with all of its faults, is still a refuge and a place of relative stability—even though at times it can be a tough place to live, there is still affection and warmth between its four walls, for the four young boys.
Their lives make such a valid statement, a statement of strength and substance; a statement that may well become eroded if they allow the world's false values to wear them down. False values like envy, ambition, or greed and the all-embracing desire for more and more money.. more rooms in a bigger house in a better area, with a red Italian sports car on the drive. Values that will impress the neighbours and make you feel alive and more like a human being, but which will in fact weigh down the soul and serve only to fire your greed, not the natural human instinct to love and support.
Noel stumbles as he steps off the kerb into the road and drops backwards. Martin rushes forward, cushioning Noel's fall, and the biceps on the arms of Robert and Billy tighten as they hold their friend upright. Noel regains his balance and hops on the spot for a moment. He looks around at his friends and smiles, his eyes sparkling.
"Phew," he says, "I almost lost it there."
"We’ve got you, " says Martin.
"Are you ready to go on?" asks Billy tenderly.
"Yeah."
Noel prepares himself for the next stage of the journey home. "Hey lads," Noel says, looking slightly embarrassed now. "Thanks." And although he says the word almost inaudibly, he means it, he really means it; not just because he is helpless and would not be able to get home without his friends, but because he recognises perhaps for the first time, that he is lucky to have friends as loyal as this.
Noel’s embarrassment stems from the fact that the bond that holds them together at this time, is something unspoken—it is a delicate thing and to analyse or refer to it directly may make it disappear. His expression of gratitude makes reference directly to their friendship, and the only time this is acceptable in a modern world is after a skin-full down the pub, when you tell your best mate that he is unmistakably your best mate in the world, until you drift into unconsciousness. Noel doesn’t know this for sure yet, but the awkwardness he feels thanking his friends, supports the idea that as individuals we are moulded by the society in which we live and this does affect the way we express ourselves.
The mumbled responses to Noel’s subdued show of appreciation, serves only to confirm his feelings and the four boys remain silent for the remainder of the journey home.





Snowed.

Today felt like Christmas.. writes Robert in his best handwriting, and then stops and lifts the nib of the fountain pen from the paper, wondering how to punctuate the sentence. A full stop perhaps to give a short punchy beginning to his story, or maybe a comma or even a semi-colon to open the scene a little with an additional descriptive clause. Robert's forehead wrinkles up as the debate continues across his mind and he bites on a thumbnail.
The young writer surveys his first page, finding an immense satisfaction in the big number one in the top left hand corner of the piece of paper and those first four words; the all important opening line. A smile takes shape on the boy's face and he pokes a dot at the foot of the last word, bringing the first sentence to a close with a brave full stop.
Robert stands now and paces the room, allowing some space to form between himself and his work. He looks at the page from across the room and it looks less impressive somehow-the words hardly having any impact on the expanse of blank white paper at all. Robert stares out of the window. Snow is falling over the estate, it is a rare sight for late April, but a welcome one for Robert. Tiny frozen droplets of rain stretch themselves out, and working together they cover everything in sight, from the deflated red football in his garden, to the unwanted space hopper next door, to the row of terraced houses in the distance. It is a wonder of nature and it succeeds in touching the human spirit somehow. Robert is moved and he presses his face against the cold glass to get a better look, condensation builds up around his mouth and nostrils. His bright eyes follow the snowflakes on their erratic journey to the ground, watching as a single frozen crystal becomes a part of the mass of fallen snow and disappears. Robert breathes out and his hot breath forms a mist over the window, obscuring his view. He wipes the glass with his hand and droplets of condensation stream down the window, collecting in a little pool of water on the sill.
Robert paces back to his desk still deep in thought; he wants to express all that is burning in his soul-he knows that there is something in the falling snow which will act as a suitable metaphor for his leading paragraph.. but he has no idea what a metaphor is. He only knows there is an ache within him to describe the ache within.

Snow falls gently, inconspicuously. Snowflakes meander as they drop through the sky. They drift this way and that in no hurry to reach their destination, more than happy in their fickle descent. A snowstorm can be very peaceful, not like a shower of rain or hail which batters the earth-snow has respect.
Rain cuts into faces; wind elbows its way through layers of clothes letting in the damp; hail hammers into heads. Snow lands softly, kisses the skin with its cold lips, impresses even the most troubled of souls. Maybe it is because snowfall in England is such a rare occurrence, or that associations warm the heart more than the snow itself.. snow is a sign of winter; winter is a sign of the seasons; seasons are a sign of change; change indicates passage of time; time passing means one thing.. life.
However, Robert is right, snow is indicative of one thing more than anything else. Snow means Christmas, and the festive season stirs up powerful emotions, often good, but occasionally bad, but emotions nonetheless.

Robert is trying to expand upon his one sentence, he is thinking of ways to express clearly the feelings that motivated him to draw a big number one on a page, and write down four words, but he cannot because that one sentence says it all; Today felt like Christmas. He has precisely and succinctly set down his thoughts, he can do no more; and he doesn't. Robert folds the cover back over his opening page and lays his pen next to the book, stands up from the desk and leaves the room.

"Mum, can I go out?"
"Don't be silly love, it's snowing."
"But that's why.."
"No Robert," Celia says with authority. "If you think I'm going to let you get soaked and spend the rest of my day washing and drying your clothes, you're very much mistaken." She turns to face her son and Robert quickly removes the sulk from his mouth. He stands there hoping the pathetic look that replaced the sulk will change her mind, but no.
"If you're bored, you could always help me clean up in here." Celia offers. "Why not grab a duster?" Celia's question is almost rhetorical; Robert could answer her and choose to duck out of the housework with a feeble excuse, but her request is so heavily weighted with responsibility and guilt, to say no would be like plunging a dagger into her heart.
"Okay mum," Robert says finally. "Where shall I start?"
"Thanks love."
And still the snow falls..
Celia passes a bright yellow cloth and a large aerosol can of polish to Robert. She strokes his head and straightens out the parting in his hair.
"Don't forget to shake the can before you spray," she says. "You can start on the bookshelves."
Robert slumps across the room, dragging his heels; today may feel like Christmas, but it definitely is not. Celia returns to her pile of glass and china ornaments, delicately cleaning and buffing each one in turn and then replacing them into position in a glass cabinet.
Robert snaps the top off the polish, directs the jet at a shelf and forgetting to shake, he sprays. A dollop of foam flops from the can and is deposited against the spines of a number of old leather bound books, staining their covers. Robert quickly pushes the duster into the gob of polish, throwing a look over his shoulder to see if his mum is watching; she isn't. The duster moves across the shelf soaking up the remains of the foam but leaving wet streaks over all the books.
"Remember Robert," Celia says from across the room. "You don't need much; just a quick, fine spray will do." Celia is still focused on her own work, but Robert feels her close presence the whole time, standing at her shoulder, shaking her head and tutting; he can hear the air sucking in through her front teeth and her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth.
Robert finds it impossible to concentrate on his chores, mainly due to the snow whipping around the house, but also because he knows his mum dusted and polished this same set of bookshelves only the day before. The irony of Robert's present situation is that the shelves were cleaner before he started. The duster is damp now with polish but Robert sprays again onto the next dust-free shelf. This time he is more successful with his aim and the fine jet of pressurized liquid floats onto the wood. However, the cloth can soak up no more and the shelves remain wet and streaky, glistening where they should shine.
"What on earth are you doing?" Celia is behind Robert, she snatches the cloth from his grip. "It's soaking!"
Robert steps back from the bookshelf. A blank look drifts over his face as Celia's mouth snaps into a scowl.
"You're doing this on purpose," she cries. "I know you want to go out, but I need help keeping this house clean." Celia's voice begins to crack now as the emotion builds and she shakes uncontrollably, holding onto the duster tightly. "It's not easy.." She backs up and falls into a chair, tears forming at the corner of her eyes. Robert holds onto the polish not knowing what else to do. "I'm here on my own. I don't ask much of you do I?" Celia looks across at her son, he looks at the floor. "It's hard.. alone."
"I'm here mum."
Celia begins to weep quietly, wringing the duster tighter and tighter in her hands. Robert has never felt close enough to his mum to hold her when she is like this. He is painfully aware of his own ineptitude; he feels clumsy and awkward and will withdraw rather than advance as a defence mechanism. Robert sees his mother crying and pictures himself going to comfort her, tripping and falling, and pulling the whole house down around their ears. So he stands stock still and clicks the top back on the polish.
Through blurry eyes Celia sees her son transform into her husband. She whispers under her breath: 'You're just like him.. just like him'. Bob, empowered by his existence only in Celia's mind, smiles and says: 'You're fucked up, leave the boy alone'. Celia shakes her head to clear her mind of the vision, and Bob turns into Robert; he is still standing there, head bowed and with the polish in his hands. Celia rises and hurls the wet cloth at her son. It slaps Robert in the face, and he looks up startled.
"This house is a disgrace," Celia roars. "Look at it; shit everywhere. Why can't you help me?" Robert is silent although he is screaming inside; fear and concern racing through his veins. Celia crosses the room and holds him by the shoulders. Her voice is brittle now. "Why can’t you help me," she repeats. "Help me.."
Robert steps back away from his mother and bends down. He picks up the damp duster and places it back into her hands. "I'm sorry mum," he says. "I was trying my best."
Celia kneels down and throws her arms around Robert. She kisses his cheek, her tears salting her lips. She speaks quietly and coldly: "Go out if you want, I'll finish off in here. It's still snowing.. go and make a snowman or something."
"No, it's all right.. why don't I make a cup of tea for us?"
Celia wipes her eyes and smiles. "Yeah, that's what we need; a tea-break." Robert navigates around his mum, careful not to touch her in case she shatters, and leaves the room. Celia laughs to herself and calls after him. "Maybe we should crack open the biscuits?" Robert does not answer, but he can be heard in the kitchen filling the kettle and putting out the mugs. "Robert?" she calls again. "Biscuits?"
"Okay mum," Robert replies dryly.
Celia begins to clear up, wiping the table meticulously and making space for the tea. She is interrupted when the doorbell sounds. "I'll get it!" she shouts and rushes for the door.
The snow continues to drop out of the heavens. It is thick now on the path to the house, disturbed only by a single set of footprints. Celia opens the door slowly, shuddering as the wind whips into the hall. "Oh hello," she says. "It's Martin isn't it? I can hardly see you in all that. You look like an Eskimo!" Celia laughs. Martin peers out from his fur-lined hood and smiles. "Come in, come in.. quickly," she continues, and Martin reluctantly steps into the house. Celia closes the door and notices the pile of snow at Martin's feet.
"I'll just stay here," Martin says. "I won't drag snow into the hall.. I just wanted to know if Rob was coming out?"
"Well you're certainly well wrapped up I must say!" Celia brushes the snow that has collected around the fur of Martin's hood. "I was going to get Robert one of these snorkel coats, they're great in this weather aren't they?" Martin smiles. "You look as snug as a bug in there."
"Is Rob coming out?" asks Martin again, trying to rush through the pleasantries as quickly as possible, so he can get out of the house.
Celia calls into the kitchen: "Are you going out Robert?" she looks back at Martin. "I've been trying to get him outside all day, but he won't; he'd rather be stuck in this stuffy old house."
Robert steps into the hall, fully aware of his mother's lies. "Hi Mart," he says when she has finished.
"Why won't you go out you old fuddy-duddy?" Celia mocks. "Go and be boys."
"I'll get my coat."
Celia's face drops. Robert has called her bluff and she will have to play along. "What about the tea?"
Robert drags his coat out of the cupboard and pulls it on. Reaching into his pocket for his scarf and gloves, he throws a glance at Celia: "I've made yours, I'll have mine later when I get back."
"Oh." Celia is stumped for a moment. "Well don't forget your wellies."
"Don't worry, I won't"
And the two boys are gone. Celia is alone again, on her hands and knees scrubbing the front doormat, trying to clean the white stains from the coarse fibres, while her tea goes cold in the kitchen.

"Thanks Mart," Robert says. "You saved me." He drags a lump of snow across the ground to form a pile using the side of his welly, and then begins to shape it into a ball. Martin looks over at his friend waiting for some kind of explanation but it is not forthcoming. Instead Robert begins to roll his ball through the thick snow, watching it grow in size with every rotation. "Is that big enough for the body?"
"Yeah," Martin answers, moving his own lump of snow over to Robert's. "This can be the chest." Martin places the upper part of the snowman onto its base, making sure it is stable. "Is your mum all right?"
"I don't know."
"It looked like she'd been crying."
"Yeah, she does that."
Robert positions the snow head on the snowman and Martin adds some stones for buttons, eyes and nose.
"You know what?" Martin begins to smile. "We should've made a snow-woman." He laughs, scoops up some snow from the ground and adds two extra lumps around the chest area, shaping them into breasts. "What d'you think?"
Robert picks off the buttons that run between the breasts and then weighs up the two additional lumps, looking from one to the other. Martin looks up.
"Well?"
"One's bigger than the other," says Robert critically.
"So?"
"Yeah, I suppose it doesn't really matter."
The two boys giggle helplessly as Martin carefully moulds two large nipples. He gently caresses the tip of each breast and whispers: "Hey baby!" Robert breaks up into a fit of laughter and falls over into the snow next to Martin.
"Great hooters! Here let me have a go."
"She's all yours," Martin says and withdraws. "I'm gonna find some arms."
Martin wanders off searching through the snow for sticks while Robert carefully and timidly places his hand onto one of the breasts. He looks around to see if anyone is watching and then grabs both snow nipples, rolling them between forefinger and thumb. Robert then moves forward slowly, and tilting his head the way he has seen on the TV, places his lips against the cold mouth of the snow-woman. His tongue licks innocently at the imaginary lips and he only withdraws it when he feels a blade of grass that has become embedded in the snow enter his mouth.
"She's great," calls Robert, picking the grass from between his lips. Martin returns with two branches.
"Arms," Martin declares, holding up two rather sad looking sticks. Robert looks around bemused.
"Sod the arms! What d'you want arms for?"
"I thought she'd look more real."
"She looks real enough from here," Robert laughs.
Martin drops the branches and approaches their creation. His eyebrows lower over his eyes and a frown distorts his mouth. "What have you done to her nipps?"
Robert looks up at his friend and then back at the chest, and then at his fingers-the nipples have gone and his fingers are dripping wet.
"I think I've melted them.. sorry!"
"You silly tosser."

The snow stops falling gradually and Martin and Robert make their way home. Their clothes are damp now from snowball fights and games of Dead Man's Fall, and they are beginning to let in the icy cold. Martin pulls the hood of his coat over his head but it does not help; the chill is already within. Robert reaches into his pocket for his gloves. He begins to place his red fingers inside them but withdraws his hand quickly, the wool is soaked through. He rubs his hands together trying to keep the blood moving.
"I'm freezing," he says.
Martin chatters a reply from within his hood as the two boys reach Robert's house. Martin notices Celia twitching the nets at a window, and imagines the horrors that await his friend inside-warm flannels, talcum powder, Vaseline and a horrific invasion of privacy.
"I hate winter," Robert says walking towards his door.
"Yeah," agrees Martin. "Sod this.. let's hibernate."
"Bye." Robert reaches the front door and Celia opens it. Martin can just see her shaking her head before the door is closed.
"See you in the spring," he whispers and facing into the wind, he heads for home.

"Look at you."
Robert stands with a sheepish expression penned in across his face. Celia corners Robert with a large towel and holds him in position.. he is forced to look at himself.
"You're soaked through to the skin."
Robert has to concede, as his mother demonstrates her talent for stating the bloody obvious.
"Let's get you out of those wet clothes."
Robert is undressed and then smothered.. happy Christmas.




Lame.

Even before Noel has safely navigated his way out of his dad’s car and through the school gates, it is clear to everyone present that he is the new target for ridicule. It is not just that he carries unwieldy, grey aluminium NHS crutches, which seem to impede rather than assist with his walking; it’s not even the dirty white plaster cast that envelopes his lower leg and prevents him from wearing anything but a tatty old trainer, that has been cut open and then taped around his massively swollen foot; no, Noel is a target because he looks vulnerable, he has an air about him of an injured animal, he positively smells like a victim-and kids, like all predators, can sense when one of the herd is in trouble, and they take enormous satisfaction in taking advantage.. survival of the fittest is an instinctive stimulus in all living things. It is Noel’s first day back at school in weeks and he now wishes he had stayed in bed again today.

Noel tries to cross the playground inconspicuously; his head hanging down in embarrassment, as well as to keep an eye on the arc of his crutches, which scrape along the concrete with every step. The sound carries through the school like an alarm call and soon Noel has an audience. Like a pack of hyenas, the group encircle him, laughing and bating him until he stops completely and rests his sore leg. Noel hops to regain his balance, putting his full weight on the crutches and then turns his head from side to side, picking out faces from the crowd; faces he knows and thought were his friends. Noel knows he is helpless and his heart sinks. If he had more confidence he could have laughed the situation off, but Noel’s whole manner screams, ‘I am a loser, knock me down’. And what galls Noel most is that he knows if it were the other way around and he were in the crowd, and some other kid was standing like a knob with crutches, he’d be absolutely loving it-he’d be there with the sarcastic remarks and the ‘Did you enjoy your trip?’ jokes. Noel then realises that it’s always better when shit happens to someone else.
A couple of boys from the year above Noel, approach him and reach out for the crutches. Noel grips onto them tightly.
“Give us a go kid,” they demand, pulling at the aluminium tubes.
“I need them,” Noel replies softly.
“You don’t say!” the boy says, and the crowd laugh, safe in their anonymity.
“Please,” Noel asks pathetically, trying to overpower the two older boys who now have both hands around his crutches, “I’ll fall.”
Noel’s plea falls softly to the grey concrete floor, drowned out by giggling girls and sniggering boys. Just as Noel’s strength leaves him, there is a shout from beyond the group and the crowd separates as they are pushed out of the way.
“Get the fuck off my brother!”
“Ruth,” Noel whispers to himself, relieved.
Noel’s older sister Ruth, flies at the two boys with such force that they both fall over into the arms of the crowd, before crashing untidily to the floor.
“Pick on someone your own size, you cowards,” Ruth continues as she helps Noel the rest of the way into the school building.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Ruth asks tenderly as they reach Noel’s first class.
“Yes,” Noel replies, “thanks to you.” He continues, “I wish you’d driven in with me and dad.”
“Sorry, but I’d rather walk.”
Noel looks up sadly for a second.
“But I’ll wait for you tonight.. and tomorrow,” she says, “if you want.”
“Thanks.”
“Until you get better.”
They are interrupted by the sound of laughter echoing down the corridor, but Noel relaxes when he recognises the voices of his friend.
“Alright hopalong?” Billy asks, slapping his friend on the back. “Nice crutch, nice and big. I suppose you’re not used to having such a big one in your hands?”
“Funny,” Noel says dryly.
“I’m only joking, little bollocks,” Billy whispers, “here take my arm, those crutches are useless, you’ll never get anywhere with them.”
Billy helps his friend across the classroom and into a seat. “Better?” he asks, and Noel nods, smiling. He looks up to see Ruth standing in the doorway, she waves and then disappears down the corridor. “That is some cast Noel; I’m not surprised the NHS are in trouble, they’ve spent all their money on the plaster for your poxy ankle.”
“It really hurts,” Noel says, “actually.”
“I bet it does; you must feel like you’ve got gout. Are you sure you‘re not smuggling diamonds in there?” Billy knocks on the cast, listening carefully.
“Ow!”
“Um, no diamonds then.”
Some of Noel’s classmates come over to marvel at the patient-the victim, through his relationship with Billy, is now a protected species and has suddenly turned newsworthy; but he is a celebrity with nothing to celebrate.. a personality without a personality, and his fans will soon turn their interest to the next big thing (whatever that may be)..
“Gimme a pen then,” Billy says, “let me be the first to sign the famous Turner leg.”
A felt-tip pen is passed over and Billy thinks for a moment before choosing a place to write his message. He kneels down, puts his finger on a spot where Noel cannot see and finally writes: “NOTE TO DOCTOR - PLEASE DON’T CUT MY FRIEND’S LEG OFF WHEN REMOVING.”
“What does it say?” Noel asks, “I can‘t see.”
Billy laughs, “You’ll find out when they cut the plaster off.” Billy then proceeds to draw the basic outline of a penis on the top of Noel’s foot, so the end of the cast looks like a big willy, complete with little hairy balls.
“Don’t do that!” Noel cries out, laughing.
Billy just smiles.

Later that day, Noel begins to relax, he is no longer considered interesting, and the centre of attention is now thankfully elsewhere. He has a legful of signatures and he feels accepted; better still, he is excused from taking part in P.E., something that causes Robert to feel sick with jealousy, and even for an instant, as he stands in goal, hands waving in the air, watching the ball roll through his legs for the third time.. for that drawn out, painful moment, he considers breaking his own ankle.
“Can’t we have a new goalie, sir?” Robert’s team mates ask, “he’s bloody useless.”
“He’s useless in every position.”
“What about left back?”
“Yeah, left back in the bloody changing rooms.”
Robert collects the football from the back of the net. He shapes to kick the ball back towards the centre circle, but only manages to slice it out across the playing fields.
“Small?” Robert looks up at the teacher who is refereeing the game. “You’re fat and useless, and worst of all, you don’t even try-go and get an early shower. Brown? You’re in goal, I’ll take your place as centre forward.”
“Ah, sir?”
“Do as you’re told.” There is a sharp blast on the whistle as the two teams prepare to kick off again. Robert trudges back towards the changing rooms alone.

At lunchtime Billy and Noel are tucking into Noel’s sandwiches; Billy as usual has no packed lunch and no money. Noel has his leg propped up on a chair and he is admiring the signatures and get well messages spread across his cast.
“Your mum makes a mean corned beef and tomato sauce sarnie,” Billy says, his mouth full.
Noel smiles. “So what did you write on my plaster?”
Billy shakes his head and says, “You’ll find out when they take it off.”
“Come on,” Noel pleads, “what does it say..? You better not have put ‘Noel is a big bender’ or something, like when you stuck that sign on my back the other week.”
Billy laughs, “No, nothing like that.”
Noel sulks.
“Relax, I’m your friend remember.”
“Yeah, I know... but you like to take the piss.”
Billy looks up laughing, his mouth open showing the mashed up sandwich inside. Martin and Robert cross the dining hall and sit next to their friends, their hair still damp from the shower after football.
“How many did you let in this morning Robbo?” asks Billy, spitting out small pieces of corned beef as he speaks.
Robert looks up from his sandwich box glumly, “Three..” he says, “before I was sent off.”
“Sent off?” gasps Billy, “How the hell did you get sent off?”
“I let in three goals.”
“You’re shit,” Billy states.
“I didn’t ask to go in goal; they made me, cos no one else wants to play there.”
Robert’s three friends nod in agreement.
“But where else are you gonna play Rob?” Noel begins, breaking into unrestrained laughter as he speaks, “You’re too fat to run, and you’re almost big enough to fill the goal; perfect.”
Robert sinks his teeth into a thick cheese sandwich and says almost inaudibly, “Sod off.”
Martin eats his dinner quietly, thinking of his only success in football: a typical right back’s goal from a corner kick. He remembers the ball flying in from the corner flag, bouncing around the opposition’s penalty area and suddenly landing at his foot, where he calmly poked it into the gaping goalmouth. It was the first and only goal Martin ever scored at school, and he still can relive the elation he felt on that day as he turned from the six yard box, arms aloft, wide grin across his face, with his team mates cheering and patting his back. In twenty years time, scoring that goal will still rank in his top ten of all time greatest achievements.. sad.
Martin is still smiling inanely to himself as a dark haired girl approaches their table. He catches the girl’s eye who is also smiling, and Martin is momentarily terrified as he thinks the girl is coming to talk to him. At the last moment, she looks away and asks Noel: “Can I read your cast?”
Noel is used to the attention now and just nods nonchalantly.
Martin stares at the girl; he is amazed at her self-confidence, the way she approaches a group of boys as if it required no effort whatsoever, when he could never summon the strength to do the same.
“You’ve got loads of signatures,” she says, “do you mind if I sign it?”
“No,” Noel replies, “knock yourself out.”
In neat, rounded handwriting, the girl writes: “Hope it is not too itchy in there, get well soon.”
Martin’s eyes are fixed on the flowing movement of the slender hand as it moves across Noel’s cast. He is hypnotised by the milky white skin, the long, graceful fingers, and the lines of concentration on her forehead. He also resents Noel for managing to grab the attention of the best looking girl of their year.
She signs the message, Rachel, and Martin immediately thinks: “I love you Rachel.”
“I broke my arm last year,” Rachel smiles, “I know how uncomfortable it is.. you know, having a cast on.. when you‘ve got an itch.”
Billy takes one of Noel’s crutches and says to Rachel: “Yes, my friend is very ill, it would really cheer him up if you could hold his crotch for a while.”
Martin’s stomach churns, both with embarrassment and also from a strange feeling of wanting to protect Rachel, who, with enormous poise looks at the grey crutch, a wry smile playing on her lips and says, “I’m sorry, do you mean you want me to play with his willy, because if you do, I don’t think I’d be able to find it it’s so small.. or yours for that matter.”
Robert laughs, almost choking on his dry sandwich. Martin smiles and is again thrown into ecstasy, as he catches Rachel’s mischievous grin before she turns and walks back to her friends.
Billy shakes his head and passes Noel his crutch. “Lezzer,” he says.
Robert speaks softly, “Regardless of her sexuality, she has clearly shown that her wit far outweighs yours.”
“Poof,” spits Billy.
“Insults are always the ammunition of the slow-witted.”
Billy stands up and walks away without a word, but then remembers that Noel is incapacitated, stops and helps his friend to his feet.
Robert finishes his sandwich and swallowing, says to Billy: “Go on, call me a fat bastard, say you want to stick my dictionary up my arse.”
Billy doesn’t acknowledge Robert; he desperately wants to call him a fat bastard, and the words try and force their way into the open air, but with great control he remains silent-Billy wants to prove Robert wrong, but as he only has a long list of insults in his vocabulary, he knows the only way to feel like a winner is to do the opposite of what Robert expects.. so he says nothing and just leaves the hall. Robert had expected this, instinctively knowing that using negative psychology on Billy would work. However, instead of feeling a sense of victory, Robert is left with a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach-he knows that his friendship with Billy is fragile, but he does consider Billy a friend and would not want to put pressure on an already tenuous relationship, and lose it altogether.
“Do you like me?” Robert asks Martin.
Martin frowns, a little puzzled, “You’re my friend.”
“I know, but do you like me?”
Martin thinks, looking around the dozens of tables that surround them in the slowly emptying canteen. He spots Rachel leaving with her friends, she catches his eye and waves. The information captured on Martin’s retina, is slowly processed by his brain, but by the time he realises she is waving at him, she has already turned away.
“You’re having to think about it,” Robert says.
Martin snaps out of his reverie, “No, sorry; I got waylaid there-I don’t have to think about it Rob, of course I like you. Don’t worry about Billy.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
The bell indicating the end of dinnertime rings, echoing around the stark white walls of the canteen. When the sound dies away, Martin packs away his lunchbox into his bag and says, “Billy does like you; he’s just a bit scared of you..”
“Scared!” Robert says, interrupting.
“Yeah,” Martin continues, “cos you’re so bloody clever.”
“I’m not clever; I just work hard.. there‘s a difference”
“Maybe.. come on, we’ll be late for Science.”

The two boys collect their belongings, and to a symphony of clattering cutlery, they leave the dining hall.
At the end of the day Ruth waits for Noel and they both walk to the school gates. With Ruth’s help, Noel picks his way carefully through the grey stream of children. Ruth spots their dad’s red car parked across the road. Her father watches as the uniformed figures file past his window; his eyes searching through the crowd of short skirts and tight jumpers, until finally he catches sight of his son hobbling across the road. Noel reaches the car and Ruth helps him into the front seat next to his dad. Ruth tries to open the back door to put the crutches out of Noel’s way, but the door is locked. She looks in through the passenger window to see her father remove the newspaper from off his lap and reposition his balls in his trousers. Ruth taps on the glass and points to the locked door.
Ruth’s dad Giles shakes his head and says laughing, “No, no, this taxi is for cripples only; you can walk my girl.”
Ruth holds Noel’s crutches up and visibly irritated says, “I don’t want a lift home, I want to put these on the backseat.”
Noel reaches behind him and unlocks the door. As Ruth carefully places the crutches into the car, Noel looks at her pleading, “Come on Ruth, come back with us.”
“Come on princess,” Giles says softly, “I was only joking.”
“Don’t call me that,” Ruth spits, “I’m not a princess.”
Giles laughs, “I was talking to the car.”
Ruth slams the door of Giles’ pride and joy, an Austin Princess, and strides away from the car. Giles turns to his son, “Women, eh? No sense of humour.” Noel laughs, nodding his head. Turning the key in the ignition, Giles pats the big black steering wheel and whispers, “Okay princess; take us home.” With a last look at the stragglers coming out of school, Giles pulls away from the kerb and drives up the road.




Dennis, Dennis.

It is Thursday night. Martin is sitting in front of the television, dressed in a tasteful pair of Paisley pyjamas. His mother and sister are beside him on the settee. His dad sits in an armchair opposite fingering a newspaper, grunting and laughing to himself as he reads. At each exclamation, three faces turn their attention from the TV to the obscured face behind the tabloid and back again. Martin holds his gaze from the screen for a moment and focuses on the end of the room at the large bay window, and the black night beyond. Darkness stands at the window and protects the street from Martin's envious glances. Although night has already fallen over the estate, it is still early evening and Martin knows his friends are outside enjoying their youth, while he sits sandwiched between his mother and younger sister, waiting for the newspaper curtain to drop and his day to be brought to a close by an extended forefinger indicating, bed. He longs to be released from his timetabled life, he wants to wander the streets after dark and hang around on corners, smoke fags, ride bikes and look cool-he craves the life his other friends have.. no rules, no restrictions, no curfews.
However, Martin will thank his maker today. He will remember this February night for many years to come, always associating it with the true awakening of his sexual curiosity. His friends will kick themselves tomorrow and wish they had stayed in and watched TV.
Thursday is always a special night for television, not as spiritually uplifting as a Friday, or entertaining as a Saturday night (what could possibly compare with Starsky and Hutch and Match of the Day?); however, Thursdays have the ace, the ultimate power card.. Thursday is Top of the Pops.
To grow up in Great Britain during the seventies means catching a fleeting glimpse of your favourite artist on Top of the Pops; it stands for bands miming badly to songs they built reputations on playing live; it is music television before the pop video, and when music television meant the Royal Variety Show, Saturday Night at the Palladium or The Black and White Minstrel Show, Top of the Pops understandably became a beacon to the youth of the United Kingdom.
It has inspired, sickened and bewildered countless older generations.. everybody at some stage of their lives has watched Top of the Pops and shaken their heads in total amazement-after all it is a twisted reflection of youth, and not always easily digested. Even though we all live in the same time, we are often very much out of touch.
For a long time Top of the Pops has been a useful yardstick for society; music is always an effective way of measuring cultural attitudes. And this Thursday night is no exception. Martin watches attentively as always, his mother and sister tap their feet and sway their slippers in time to the music, smiling occasionally. Martin's dad looks up from his paper every once in a while and shakes his head. And suddenly, there she is; a vision of peroxide and red leather. The band are introduced but the name means little to Martin, his attention is fixed on the lead singer-nothing else matters. She is American; she skips along to the beat in a very un-English way; she is dressed in a bright red shirt and thigh-length leather boots.. and nothing else; the space between the hem of the shirt and the rim of the boot is naked.. pure East Coast flesh. And she sings, and when she sings there is a strange clash of European and American culture; the aggressive attitude of the United States blends effortlessly with the seductive passion of the French. She is singing about love, about being in love, about her own love whose name is Dennis. And when she says the name there is a strange and glorious nasal quality that attacks the D, changing it from a DEE to a DUH, and she sounds as if she means every word, even the French bit that you don't understand.
Martin's heart pounds inside his pyjamas, pumping blood through his veins and down to his balls; he has found lust, and her name is Debbie Harry. A couple of years ago Martin had a vague understanding of his interest in half-naked women and the effect this had on his senses, last year he had fallen in love with a space princess, now he has come back to earth, and along with the tens of thousands of other young bucks who are watching tonight, he has fallen for the beautiful blonde lead singer of an unknown foreign band.
The experience lasts just two minutes and fifteen seconds, but Martin is hooked. It is a life-shaping moment for him; his ambitions shift, his place in the world alters-he desires something strongly.. something he cannot put a name to, but it will eat away at his present, as he reaches for an unobtainable future. Martin's day to day goals were once achievable; following Robert’s clear and sensible advice, he had mapped out his targets in earnest and formed a clear path in his mind, how he would actually work hard at school, read more books, study science through sixth form and finally specialize in marine biology at university. Now his mind fills with images of a young woman's smooth thigh, the way she kisses out her words, her gentle skip and bounce through the chorus, and the way she tells you she's in love with you over and over and over again.. suddenly a life below the ocean waves looks painfully bleak in comparison. Martin aches to be in a position where he can gain the respect and admiration of a woman like this; the young fool, he finds the blood rushing from his brain to his dick and loses all grip on reality.. and not for the last time in his life.
Martin wakes from his fantasy and focuses on the here and now. His mother and sister are enjoying the song after the initial shock of seeing a half-naked girl so early in the evening. The innocence expressed so precisely in the lyrics and echoed in the vocal style, blurs the senses and shifts the focus away from sex, to romance, which is always more easily packaged by the media and consumed by the public because it carries less risk-there isn't a power struggle going on; there is no struggle at all. It is a marketing dream and a feminist's nightmare, but Jilly Cooper is more likely to find a home on the average Englishman’s book-shelves than Germaine Greer.
Martin's dad isn't thinking about his privileged position in a patriarchal society, he is thinking about other positions; positions he'd like to get into with the cute blonde singer. He does not consider the power struggle that will face his wife and daughter throughout their lives; he believes women have their fair share of power, in fact he prefers women with power, he likes them in control.. as long as he can tuck a fiver into their knickers at the end of the night. Martin's dad had lowered his newspaper initially out of curiosity-the opening bars of Blondie's "Denis" sounding like a mixture of Buddy Holly's "That'll Be the Day", Dave Clark Five's "Bits and Pieces" and The Crystals' "Da Doo Ron Ron".. all too familiar territory. He was mid-headshake, ready to dismiss it outright, eager to re-establish his place in the world, prepared to shelter behind his Daily Express and keep his prejudices perfectly intact, but he could not.. and still can't. So captivating is she, who can possibly resist? All eyes are on the television. Across the UK for two and a quarter minutes a nation is dazzled. Men want her; and women want their partners to look at them once the way they look at her.

Martin is wondering what women look like naked, trying to imagine how the intricate folds on a delicate silk shirt translate into the gentle curve of a woman's breast; attempting to fit the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle in his mind, when his limited experience leaves more blanks than image. He can identify all the main parts of the female body: the nipples, the V of pubic hair between the thighs, the line of the backside.. but he can only place them in a jumbled order like a Picasso painting: tits here, arse kind of.. there. All the subtleties of the female form are lost and the soft lines are distorted into bold shapes and twisted brush strokes.
Boys are small-minded creatures, they don't know any better; they consider tits and fannies to be women's greatest hits, their most memorable assets; but they overlook the delicate contours of the spine, or the crease at the armpit; features that would never make number one in the people's chart, but are wonders of biological design in their own right. Martin will learn one day, but for now he's more than satisfied with the jumbled images in his head.

And as the cameras pull back across the heads of the studio audience, away from the stage in true Top of the Pops style, the song fades and the crowd applauds. Martin, along with the rest of the country, wakes from his reverie and slips back into the cold, grey February night. His father lifts the inky barrier between himself and the outside world. Martin's mother and sister are not overly excited by the performance, it's just another band after all-another rhythm to swing their slippers to. Martin blinks heavily, his eyelids clearing the stains and tears from his eyeballs. Desire wells up from the very depths of his being, swelling out of all proportion and twisting his reality inside out. He centres on the TV again focusing on the next band, but they do not hold his attention. He lowers his field of vision away from the screen in a daze and stares in horror at the spectacle before him.. in a sea of Paisley, an alien vessel is afloat; a living, expanding organism. Martin's body stiffens and the lines across his face contort. His eyes dart around the room desperately hoping no-one is looking-the shame would be too much to bear. Martin looks back down into his lap and there nudging its way through the opening in the pyjama bottoms is his small erect penis. Standing out proudly for all to see, like a raised arm in a classroom of unmotivated children, it demands recognition.. but luckily for Martin the other eyes around him are averted and he can place his hand over the offending appendage without attracting too much attention.
But Martin's problems are far from over.. (years will pass and Martin will one day find himself praying for an erection while his partner pacifies him with reassuring words of affection; he will spend many painful nights worrying about impotence and long for the days when his dick would pop up without so much as a request, like this Thursday night).. But tonight the unconscious rush of blood to Martin's penis is a major inconvenience as he sits, flanked by his mother and sister in front of pre-watershed TV.
An erection is something not easily concealed by thin material; it thrusts outward, shaping the cotton pyjamas, creating a distinct and unnatural bulge. Martin does his best to mask the lump with his hands, that's not the problem, he is worrying about later on when he has to stand up and go to bed. For the moment he can gather the folds of his pyjamas up and around his hard-on to disguise it, but the material will hang flat against his body when he is upright, and his dick will stand out, echoing his father's stiff forefinger pointing straight up in the air to bed.. for a boneless lump of muscle-less flesh, the penis can be a wholly unmanageable organ.
And then, suddenly, Martin's nightmares are realised; there is a rustle of newspaper and a flick of tabloid as Martin's dad sharply folds his Express in two. He looks across at the TV and shaking his head, rises from the chair. Martin holds his hard-on tightly, trying to force it back into his body, expecting to hear the words that will seal his fate-but there is nothing; no orders to turn in, not a single request to retire. Martin looks up and his dad has left the room without a word, alienated by post-punk pop music perhaps.. or maybe he has a stiffy of his own to conceal.
Martin cannot believe his luck; the break from the predictable schedule of a normal Thursday is an unexpected but wholly welcome experience. He still has a little time to play with, enough time to concentrate his mind on pulling the plug on the blood flow to his plonker. But the only thing Martin can focus his mind on is Debbie Harry's lips and the space below the hem of her shirt; images that only serve to swell the veins along his dick and scramble every other thought in his mind.
Martin is so lost in his private battle of will against willy, that he barely notices his mother rising from the settee; he does not hear her voice, hardly recognises her presence until she extends a hand to touch him. Martin wakes. Crying out, he holds his mum's arm away from his body, concerned that she may inadvertently come in contact with his firm cock.
"Are you all right love?" she says. "Your face is as white as a sheet." Martin nods eagerly, his insides roaring a different message.. something like: Get your fucking hands off me! "You could do with some hot chocolate to take to bed, would you like that."
"Yes thanks mum."
"You're not coming down with anything are you?"
No.. not coming down at all. Martin's mum steps across to the door, a concerned look forming over her face. She touches her daughter's shoulder.
"Give us a hand Mandy please."
And Martin is alone.. a boy and his small, lifelong companion. The only obstacle to overcome now is the journey from couch to the safety of the bedroom. It is a fair distance especially when your knob is leading the way like a divining rod, entering every room and quivering with a mixture of excitement and dread.
Martin stands as the Top of the Pops credits roll up the screen and disappear. He stands up and his stiffy pops out from his pyjamas with a comic-strip twang. He throws his splayed fingers around it and backs up to the door, carefully ducking out of the room. He moves into the shadows at the foot of the stairs as voices spill out from the kitchen; his mum and dad laugh with Mandy about nothing. Martin believes for a split second he is the subject of their derision, that they are all fully aware of his problem and his ridiculous loss of genital control and they will all jump out on him in the darkness screaming, Surprise, little willy! But he soon casts the thought from his mind, knowing too well his parents would not voice such opinions, particularly in front of his sister. Martin takes the first step on the bottom stair and begins to beat his retreat; the shame lifting from his shoulders with every footstep as he casts the events of the night into history.

Relief floods through Martin's body as the latch clicks home on the door to his bedroom. He is safe; away from prying eyes and alone with his fantasies. Martin falls onto the bed and closes his eyes on the world. His mind returns once more to naked women, swaying breasts and the lovely Debbie Harry. He reaches for his willy, only to find within the folds of his pyjamas a flaccid flap of deflated foreskin.. a wilted and wrinkled winkle-an ex-stiffy. He tucks it away and rolls over sighing heavily.