A vision

You might think I’d have been more surprised, asked a few questions about OJ’s suggestions – or chucked it right out the window – but, truth is, I’d been expecting it. The past four or five years I’d had this growing, insistent hankering for getting back to America, and rich girl whose uncle works in immigration fantasies aside, I’d figured a hike across a trans-border wilderness would be the way to go.

I’d been researching it. I’d been reading of people who had tried and failed; gotten an insight into the technology they were using (helicopters, infrared and laser sensors, triggers in the ground, drones and planes, border guards on horseback, cameras in trees, etc); and scoured satellite images of forests and mountains that straddled that imaginary line along the 49th parallel.

It wasn’t going to be easy. All the stories, naturally, were of people who had been caught – drug smugglers, immigrants, criminals, all further increasing security – not people who had made it and who had rushed online to advertise the route they’d taken and tell others, “go here, this is the one, you can just waltz right in.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the irony: that it was 9/11 that had caused all this American border paranoia, and now here I was, at the behest of the man behind the whole thing, needing to circumvent all these increased measures in order to arrive at the truth of that day.

I had thought, in all those weeks and months of research, and in my simple boyish longing for adventure, that it was nothing more than a desire for old friends, and to see once again places that had been important in my youth, that was driving my irrational quest to break into America. Each of the past five summers I had put it on the table before me – “do it; do the mad thing,” I’d tell myself, “you don’t want to be on your deathbed not having done it, for the sake of security and not taking a risk, just choosing the safe option like everybody else” – and every year something would stop me. A job offer or a bad dream. A lost passport or a weird ‘sign’ from some passing stranger in the street – seriously, two years before, when I was thinking of it stronger than ever, some drunk guy near Peckham had screamed in my face, “try it, lad, and you’ll end up in jail: you don’t fuck with America” – and so I’d let it slide, all the time thinking (and hoping) that there would be a right time and that right time would reveal itself to me.

Well, I figured, I guess the time was now.

Though after so many previous occasions when I’d felt it was the right time, I tried not to rush into it. Resolved to sleep on it. Left myself open to mysterious stinky tramps screaming the answer to my future on random streets in the middle of the day.

In the event, the answer came in a much more pleasant way than that.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m one of those guys who has visions and dreams. Maybe you picked up on that, the way I didn’t freak out when I had that vision in the sky during OJ’s first phone call, that he somehow weirdly knew about, and was maybe even directing (I’ll tell you more about it later).

Thing is – maybe it’s a bit odd to be talking about this – whenever I’m about to do something potentially life-changing, or desperately need an answer to a question, some clue as to how to make a decision, I either have a dream or, on rarer occasions, a full blown genuine real ‘vision’.

It’s pretty groovy, to be honest: I fair loves ‘em. And many is the morning when I wake up disappointed at just having had ‘standard dreams’, when I’d figured something special was a-brewin’.

But, whenever I need ‘em, they come: and this time was no exception.

I slept early that night, and was sleeping good, when I was suddenly awakened at around 5am.

I opened my eyes. I was in my room – could see the outline of the bedroom furniture, a little crack of dawn’s early light shining around the curtains, and my covers, the pillow, my hands – but I could also see…something else. I was, at the same time, elsewhere. It was as though another reality was being superimposed over my usual surroundings.

I closed my eyes. The ‘superimposed reality’ became everything. I was in it as realistically as I am sitting here now typing at this computer.

I was sort of floating around a town, a disembodied spirit, gently swooping down streets, turning corners, following roads.

Everything was in perfect detail. The cars, the hedges and fences around the houses, the trees and lawns and mail boxes.

It wasn’t England, that was for sure: it was North America.

I opened my eyes. Once again, I could see both realities. I was entirely conscious of being a body in a cosy bed in Leeds, and also of being a man who was right smack bang in the middle of a real, genuine vision. One that seemed useful. One that seemed like it might be an answer to the question of whether I should embark on this mad scheme to break into America or not.

I closed my eyes again. I went deeper into it, satisfied that I knew what was going on, that this weren’t no mere hallucination or waking dream or hypnagogic state.

I carried on floating down streets, investigating my surroundings, looking more closely at things.

I could zoom right in on the fences and the houses. See chips in paint, screw heads in numbers on doors.

It was pretty ecstatic, the feeling of it: to be consciously aware of what was going on, and to be that disembodied spirit so calmly and casually cruising around this other reality.

After a little while I thought to ask a question: okay, I’m in North America – but where exactly?

A few seconds later, I turned a corner. Went past a few buildings. And saw in front of a whole bunch of flagpoles, with flags fluttering atop them.

The flags were Canadian. There were four tall ones in the middle of a circle of around a dozen smaller flagpoles.

I had my answer. I knew in that instant I would be buying a ticket to Canada, and soon.

Like, as soon as I woke up.

I opened my eyes. I felt incredibly happy.

I went back to sleep.

And when I awoke again, some three hours later, I got immediately online, noticed a weirdly cheap one-way ticket to Vancouver, departing the next day – really, honestly, bizarrely cheap given that it was the middle of summer and I was flying at such short notice – and it was as simple as: click, click, buy.

OJ has a suggestion

“It wasn’t always supposed to be what it turned out to be,” said OJ. “Right in the beginning, when I first had the idea, all I really wanted to do was to destroy those documents. Back then, of course, there wasn’t much in the way of computers, no internet. Companies kept everything on paper. If a man owed several million dollars in tax debt, for example, the only record of that would probably be in just one or two files, stored in one drawer of an office. Perhaps in some cases they might have made a copy, but that was the exception rather than the rule. If you could get at those documents, somehow make them disappear, then – whoosh! – your debt would disappear too.

“So my first plan was something a little more ‘small scale’. Maybe assemble a team of crack commandos who had been incarcerated for a crime they didn’t commit. I figured they could go into the office undercover, maybe as post-boys, coffee slaves, or something, and one could get at the files while the others created a diversion by hanging from a window, starting a fire, or maybe shooting up the water cooler. I dunno: I guess I just let my imagination run away with me. Next thing I knew I was envisioning Arabs, airplanes, secret CIA plots, and the whole building in rubble.

“Somewhere in that pile of rubble would be my documents – hopefully shredded and singed beyond repair – and the image of it fair made my lips get licked, to think of that weight off my mind.

“You ever been in debt?” he said. “It’s awful. It’ll drive a man to extremes. I did what I had to do. I guess I’ve always done what I had to do. That’s what made me the greatest running back the NFL has ever seen. First player to rush two thousand yards in a season. Highest average yards per game. You gots to do what you gots to do in this world. There ain’t no crime in that.”

“What about the rumours,” I said, “that they were also storing all the documents and evidence relating to that, uh, court case you were involved in back in ’94? You remember?”

“Sure I remember,” he said, “hard to forget a thing like that, no matter how much you try. You think being a few million dollars in debt is tough – try being on the stand for something you hadn’t done, with some bitch lawyer looking to nail you to her cross and have you burn. But the glove didn’t fit, man – and that’s the whole case right there. No way I could’ve done it: they tried to stick it on me and the damn thing didn’t fit: it barely even went over my fingers. Idiots,” he chuckled, “trying to stick that glove on me, right there in court. But the whole world saw: I ain’t no small-handed motherfucker, like Trump.”

OJ was silent for a while. He’d been getting himself riled up with talk of his debts and the murders he’d so astonishingly been found innocent of. Now he tried to calm himself down.

“Listen,” he said quietly, almost whispering, “don’t you ever wonder…if the glove didn’t fit me, and would only fit a guy with smaller hands, then where is that guy? Who was it who actually did the crime?

“One thing you got to ask yourself is: where was Trump the night of those murders? How would the glove have fitted him, if they’d had him on the stand, as I tried to get Cochran to do?

“But it was all a plot, man: these things go deeper than even I know, and I’m in pretty deep. At least, I think I am, the shit I’m gonna tell you. CIA. Alien reptilians. The goddamn queen of England. And Osama bin Laden? That motherfucker weren’t no Saudi prince or whatever they said he was: nigger was a goddamn ROBOT.

“Why’d you think it took them so long to kill him? I’ll tells you why: there were like SEVEN of him, all the goddamn same. You ever seen Stingray or Captain Scarlet or goddamn Thunderbirds? You watch an episode of that where they’ve got some dancin’ little Arab puppet playing the bad guy and tell me you don’t see a resemblance. The clues are right there in your face: they love to do that, to make a mockery of people. Gives them a kick, stickin’ references in TV shows and movies where anyone can see them: you just gotta watch a few Disney films to know what I’m talking about. And, believe me, I seen ‘em ALL.”

“But listen,” he said, growing quiet again, “I’m saying too much. I gots to get this off my chest, wipe the slate clean before I face my Lord – but I get the feeling the phone’s not the best place to do it. They probably got this thing bugged. Probably listening to every word we say. I shouldn’t have called you in the first place: I’m sorry, bro, but your life’s most likely in danger. CIA are motherfuckers, believe me: if they can knock down JFK like that, what are they gonna do to a nobody like you?

“I mean, I know I’m safe – I’m The Juice! And any CIA guy wants to take out The Juice he’s gonna have a riot on his hands. They wouldn’t even dream of it: the whole country’d be in flames – but for somebody like you…who’s gonna notice when you’re gone? Who’s gonna raise a stink? Who’s gonna bring attention to the fact that it weren’t no ‘natural causes’, that you got two damn bullet holes in the back of your head.

“Listen,” he says, “I got an idea. I think you should come out here. Come visit me and we’ll do some talking face to face. By the time I get out of here – just eight sweet weeks – probably you’ll have the whole book done and dusted and we’ll be ready to go into print. Then you can come stay at mine. I got a sweet crib, man. Pool, chandeliers, a twelve-foot tall statue of me in the garden. Bar stocking anything you want. Bitches and hos left right and center, suckin’ on whatever hole you tell ‘em to. You’ll love it.”

“Ah,” I said, “there might be a problem with that.”

“Say what?” he shouted. “Don’t you be holding out on OJ. Why the fuck not? What, you don’t like bitches? You don’t wanna stay in no palace, ungrateful motherfucker?”

“It ain’t that,” I said – and then corrected myself. “It’s not that,” I said, “it’s that…I’m not actually allowed into America. I got banned, back when I was in my early-twenties. Got deported, like three times, and they banned me for twenty years. Still got three years left till it’s cleared. And even then, I don’t know if I’ll get in.”

“Ho ho ho,” said OJ, chuckling away, “you one bad motherfucker. What did you do? Punch some bitch in the face? Rob a liquor store?”

“OJ,” I said, “can you do me a favour?”

“Sure, man: you name it.”

“Can you stop saying the word ‘bitch’. I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel good.”

“Bro,” he said, and then he went quiet. I could hear him breathing. And then maybe sobbing a little.

He sniffed.

“You’re right, man; I’m sorry. I just…I been watching too many TV shows and movies where homeboys be talking like that, be saying ‘bitch’ and ‘nigger’ and shit. I guess it sort of leeched into me, and particularly today: I like totally binge-watched the entire first series of The Wire.

“The other thing,” he said, sniffing a little, “is…I just miss her, you know. I wish she was still here. That I could see her again. And I guess not having her around makes me weirdly angry, and I take it out on womenfolk in general, and that’s not fair.”

“Nicole?” I said.

“Who?” he said.

“Your ex-wife,” I said, “the one you…were married to.”

“Shit,” he said, “not her. Fuck her. I’m glad she’s…but, no, not her: my mom. I miss her. I only ever wanted her to notice me, to make her proud. And she was proud, I know. Even in my down times, the times I went wrong, she was still proud of me. But…I dunno: I just wanted more. She wasn’t there enough, you know? I can’t even explain it. But I guess I been acting that out with women all my life.”

He went quiet again. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Seemed like the right thing to do, to just leave a bit of space there. Let him ponder. Let him let the words he had spoken sink in a little, settle in his brain.

Seemed like there might be something of a realisation there; a breakthrough, even, if he could only –

“In any case,” he said, “fuck that shit. It’s just a word, man, and if you got a problem with that word – with any word – then it’s you you need to be looking at, not me. Words don’t mean anything, right? Apart from in the head of the listener – and the way you respond to them is your responsibility, ya feel me? If you want to react, that’s your choice. But there ain’t no inherent feeling in words, it’s just your conditioning that makes you react so. So man up; you know what I’m saying?”

“But it does feel bad,” I said, “and certain words do grate, do seem loaded with a certain vibration, or, at least, to express something of the mind or the sentiment of the speaker, and that does sometimes feel unpleasant, in the ears and the being of the listener – ie, me.”

“Like ‘fuck’, for example?”

“Yeah, I’d say that’s true. Sometimes I hear someone saying that word over and over and it’s like being jabbed in the ribs, like a little dagger in the brain.”

“Okay,” he says, “but what about when you hear someone say ‘fuck’ in some other language? In goddamn French or Spanish or something? Whadda they say? ‘Puta’? ‘Merde’? ‘Pinchi’ something or other? Does that ‘feel bad’? Or does it…well, here’s what it does for me: it makes me laugh. Seems like some child’s word. Literally don’t mean a thing.”

I thought about this. It seemed like he had a point. To hear people swearing in another language…he was right! There weren’t no ‘bad vibrations’. It just made me giggle.

And yet…there does seem something there when I hear some guy effin’ and jeffin’ in English. Particularly “bitch” and “cunt” and “fuck”.

I needed some more time to think about this.

Also, I thought we might be getting slightly off topic.

“But, hey,” said OJ, chuckling again, “if you don’t like it, I’ll try and keep it to a minimum. I want us to get on, you know? You seem like an okay guy. I’d like it if we could be friends. I can’t promise I won’t never say no ‘bitch’ again – but I’ll do my best. Fair?”

“Fair,” I said.

He was surprising me. He was full of surprises.

And I wondered what it said about me that I was more surprised that OJ Simpson had made me rethink a long held belief I’d had about communication and language, and that I’d seen him demonstrate some sensitivity with regard to human interaction, than the fact that he was actually, genuinely the mastermind behind the destruction of the World Trade Center.

“So what was I saying?” said OJ. “Something about…oh yeah, so the thing is, some time in about 1997 they moved a bunch of those court records over to WTC7, and that complicated matters somewhat. Also…”

“Why didn’t you just get someone to go in there and destroy those particular records?” I said.

“What?”

“Rather than having this incredibly complex scheme to destroy the entire World Trade Center, involving aeroplanes and terrorists and secret government plots and space lizards, why didn’t you just get someone to go in and, I dunno, one night maybe just steal the records and be done with it. Sort of like Watergate. But better.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said OJ, “I hear ya, and I thought of that, but…well, as you said, that sort of thing didn’t go so well for Nixon, did it? And, more than that, even, things started to snowball somewhat once George got involved. It weren’t just about my documents anymore. We were gonna kill all kinds of birds with them two stones – slash – planes. George took my original scheme and made it into something else. Something that was supposed to not just get rid of my debts, but bring in a whole load of money. Enough that I’d never have to do an after dinner speech or armed robbery ever again.”

“George Bush?” I said. “W or Senior?”

“Sh,” he said, “let’s just leave it at that. But, listen. I’m gonna work on that little deportation problem of yours. I’ll talk to some people. I wanna get you over here And soon.

“Leave it to OJ, man,” he said, “Orenthal James’ll fix it for you.”

He put the phone down. Or, rather, he touched the place on the screen that ends the call.

No one puts the phone down anymore, do they? All that would do would leave the other person able to hear what they did next, what they said.

Probably bad mouth the person they’d just been talking to. Or fart or something; maybe sing a silly song, out of tune, or talk to themselves.

“La-di-da-di-da” – that sort of thing.

An hour later, OJ rang back.

“I got it fixed,” he said – and now this was exciting news. After all these years of being banned from the US, of fantasising about meeting some rich girl, some lawyer, some official with their fingers in all the pies who would pull some strings, throw some money at the issue, and have me once more able to waltz through an American airport without skulking afraid like the dog what’s shit in his master’s slippers, my passport all gleaming and new, and a visa granting me ‘access all areas’ ‘cos, friends in high places, and enough money, you can make any problem disappear.

God bless you OJ!

“Are you ready?” he said. “Here’s what you’re gonna do. Number one, get a flight to Canada: Vancouver or somewhere out west. Two: make your way to the mountains. Three: walk through the mountains over the border and my man AC’ll be there the other side in my Bronco to pick you up. Then he’ll drive you down here to Nevada and bring you out to see me. He’ll have a room booked for you at the Lovelock Inn. They got free wifi, free donuts and brownies for breakfast. You can stay there a month or so – we’ve arranged a special rate – but after that…well,” he said, “funds only stretch so far.”

“But don’t worry about money,” he said, “I got plenty more on its way. I just need to…free up a few loose ends.”

“Don’t you mean ‘tie up’?” I said.

“Tie up. Yeah. Tie up some obstructions and get the cash flow a-flowin’ once more.

“That sound good to you?”

“Walking through the mountains across the US border?”

“Right,” he said.

“Sure,” I sighed. “Why not?”

OJ calls again

I had a strange, strong dream this morning. I was back in Baja with some old acquaintances and friends. We were hanging out and I was telling them the story of the time I ate mushrooms in 2014, right down to the detail of when I felt, during the beginning stage of the trip, that the mushrooms were instructing me to “let go of concepts, and even the concept of concepts; let go of ideas, and even the idea of ideas.” People were into it, and as a result the main man started heading to take over and reassert his authority. He never did like it when people listened to me rather than him.

Still, I didn’t mind: I was back in the vicinity, and that was the main thing.

“Back where I belong,” I said in the dream.

And in the real world, I woke up, and smilingly pondered, and wondered what it meant.

And then I noticed I’d woken up because the dog had come into my room.

“Good morning,” I said.

It was 5 a.m., and sort of weird, because the dog never, ever comes into my room, and actually I don’t think he even comes upstairs; probably he’s been trained to think he’s not allowed.

I thought maybe he was having some sort of toilet emergency, but he showed no interest in being let out when I went and opened the front door for him.

My brain being what it is, it naturally considered the possibility that the dog had entered the room to wake me up and ensure that I remembered the dream.

Maybe it was a sign. An instruction for where to venture next. The sort of thing I’m always hankering for.

We’ll see.

Also, in case you’re wondering: the above is all real – actually happened in the real world (the world you and I spend most of our time in) – and isn’t one of those made up scenarios I frequently post, that not everyone can tell is made up, much to my – and other people’s – bemusement.

When I woke up again, a couple of hours later, the phone was ringing.

“It’s OJ,” the by-now familiar voice said, “how’s it going?”

“It’s seven in the morning,” I said, “I was asleep.”

“Have you got anything?” he said. “I’m keen to get this thing going. I been buzzed about it ever since our last phone call. I can’t think of anything else.”

(I forgot to mention it, but we talked again about five days ago, and got started with the whole ghost writing project.)

“Okay,” I said, “hold on.”

I reached over for my computer, turned it on, threw my phone on the pillow, and went for a piss.

I didn’t bother getting dressed because I figured no one else would be up, and I was right.

The piss was a good one. Very satisfying. Remarkably clear.

Probably ‘cos of all the tea I’d been drinking the night before.

I flushed the toilet and thought about washing my hands. But then I thought, nah, waste of time – and no point, since I’d managed not to piss on them anyways, like the good boy that I am.

I just rubbed them on my arse and thighs, just in case, and got back into bed.

“You still there?” I said, tipping a mouthful of Bombay Mix into my mouth, and crunching it loudly down the phone.

“Goddamn,” said OJ, “what the hell is that?”

“Ongay Miffs,” I said, trying to swallow the spicy dry paste I had created.

“S’gone now,” I said, reaching once more for the bag, and then thinking better of it.

“You one strange cat,” OJ said.

“Yeah,” I said, “but at least I never…okay, here it is. You ready?”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Ahem. Okay. ‘The mid-nineties were a bad time for me: there was a stretch there where, if something could go wrong, it did. I was short on dough. My car kept breaking down. They stuffed me with a Razzy for Naked Gun 3. They cancelled my favourite TV show, 'The Cosby Mysteries'. And the Bills kept getting beaten in the Super Bowl. Plus, my cat, Johnny Rotten, had to have his face amputated due to feline herpes.

‘The veterinary bills were astronomical: it was about the final straw. I tells ya, ‘round that time, if I’d fallen into a vat of prostitutes, I’d have come up sucking my thumb; that’s how bad my luck was in those days.

‘But, more than anything, it was the cash that was giving me headaches: I knew if only I had a few million dollars all my problems would be solved.

‘I racked my brains. I thought and I thought until steam literally blasted out of my ears. Then, one morning, while I was waiting for a Pop Tart to pop from a Dualit toaster my ex-wife had bought me for Christmas, it came: all I had to do was orchestrate the demolition of New York’s World Trade Center in such a way as to fool the unsuspecting public into believing terrible Arabs had done it and, due to the destruction of certain incriminating documents, plus canny investments I had made and information I would sell, I would be minted once again.

‘I knew instantly that I had found my solution. It was a genius idea. A moment of pure, God-given inspiration. But I also knew that pulling it off wouldn’t be as easy as it sounded.

‘This is the story of how I, Orthaniel Jane Simpson – aka, ‘The OJ’; aka, ‘The Juice’ (along with a little help from my friends) masterminded the biggest coup of the century: a scheme so audacious in its ambition and enormity, the world hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

‘This is the true story of the real mastermind behind 9/11.’”

I stopped there. I yawned. I felt my eyelids growing heavy and starting to close.

That always happens, when I listen to the sound of my own voice for any length of time.

“Go on,” said OJ, jerking me awake.

“That’s it,” I said. “That’s all I’ve got so far.”

“Humph,” he said, “I was hoping we’d have more than that by now.”

“I’ve been busy,” I said (I was lying; I'd mostly been watching skateboarding dog videos). “So what do you think?”

“Not bad,” he said. “Could use a little work, a little polishing.”

“Also,” he said, “my name’s not ‘Orthaniel’. And my middle name sure as shit ain't ‘Jane’.”

“Oops,” I said, “typo,” and laughed.

How had I not noticed that? How had I not noticed it, even when reading it?

Jane’s not a man’s name. Not even in America.

The brain’s a funny old thing sometimes.

“Still,” he said, “it’s…it’s not bad. It’s quite exciting. Gets me geed up for what’s to follow. Whatcha thinking next?”

“Oh, you know: a bit of back story, a bit of setting the scene. What you want is to get the reader on your side, get them to understand why you did what you did. It’s good if the main character is likeable.”

“Of course I’m likeable,” he shouted. “I’m The Juice! Everybody loves The Juice. America still loves The Juice. You should see the mail I get. Some of the pictures I get sent. Some of those honeys, man: girls younger than you’ll ever get. Spreading their legs. Showing me their panties. I’m gonna get me some serious poontang when I get outta here. Nine years of fuckin’ men’s asses! You better believe I’m ready to fuck some girl’s asses, aiii!”

I yawned again. Wondered how long this was going to go on for. Wondered if…

“Anyways,” he said, “it ain’t bad, but it needs work. It needs more pizzazz. Cut to the chase, you know. Start with the planes smashing into the buildings. Wham! Wham! Everybody knows that’s what’s coming: they’ll only be thinking about it, hankering after it, so get it out there nice and early.”

“Wham!” he said again. “Wham!”

“I dunno,” I said, “but…hey, I know we were going to talk about this later, but let me ask you about it now, since…I know what you mean: I can’t stop thinking about it either.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Well,” I said, “What was it? How’d you do it? You see all these theories about whether the planes were real, whether they were CGI, whether they had missiles, whether they were holograms, really piloted by Arabs, had passengers on them, whether explosives were already in the buildings, and all that…what’s the truth? It just don’t make no sense.”

OJ chuckled. Then laughed louder. Then laughed, like, REAL LOUD, until he was sort of howling, shrieking, whooping it up big style down the other end of the phone.

I could hear him echoing all 'round his cell, then all around the prison. Hear other prisoners sleepily and angrily yelling at him to shut the fuck up.

But he just kept right on laughing.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh boy.”

He was still chuckling softly to himself, and I pictured him wiping a tear from his eye.

“What if I told you,” he said, “what if I told you it was…ALL OF THE ABOVE. What would you say to that?”

Silence. Silence on my end of the phone, and silence on his.

I furrowed my brow. Tried to get my head around how that could possibly be.

“And don’t forget the chemtrails those planes were carrying,” he said. “You can’t imagine the stuff we put in them.”

Fuck me, I thought, this is getting sillier by the second. Next he’ll be telling me the lizard people were in on it.

“Plus,” he said – and I don’t even need to tell you what he said next.

A phone call

I just got off the phone from about the weirdest conversation of my life.

“This Rory?” an American voice said, calling from an unknown number.

“Sure the hell is,” I answered. I was in a jolly, frivolous mood, having just watched some real daft comedy and got myself in that state of mind where I don’t give a damn about anything.

“Huh?”

“It’s me. Who this?”

“You right, right?” the man said.

I furrowed my brow. Who was this guy? What did he want?

“I’m sorry, man,” I said, “I’m kinda busy” – I was right in the middle of an episode, a good committed two hours into my binge – “and, I promise you, I never buy anything anyway, so –”

“No, man, you’re a writer, right? You write things? Stories, books – right?”

I laughed.

“I’ve written,” I said, “and I think about writing a lot – but I wouldn’t call myself a writer. More a failed writer, if anything. I…”

The man interrupted me. Told me he dug my stuff, liked my ‘voice’, said…

“I’m looking for a ghost writer; I want to tell my story. I want someone who can make me sound hip, put a bit o’ swing into proceedings. I can’t stand no generic crap. Not like last time. It’s time to get it off my chest.”

“Listen, man,” I said, “who is this? Where’d you get my number?”

“It’s me,” the guy said. “It’s OJ. ‘The Juice’.”

Well, I had to laugh at that, didn’t I? If I’d been drinking tea – he’d caught me in one of the rare moments when I wasn’t – I’d surely have spit it all down myself, caused an awkward wet patch on my crotch, gone walking around all self-consciously, suppressing the urge to tell strangers, “it’s not piss, it’s tea” (were there a reason to go out walking somewhere, rather than sit indoors with the curtains drawn watching hours of comedy, which of course, being currently in London, there wasn’t).

“Okay, man,” I said, “so what can I do for you?”

I really was in that kind of mood. Insane mad hoax caller on the phone. But why not have a conversation? Sometimes even the company of a nutter is better than no company at all.

Hell, pretty much all the time.

“I told you,” he said, “it’s time to come clean.”

“About the murders?” I said.

“No!” he shouted. “Goddamn. Why do people keep going on about that? Didn’t I say I didn’t do it? Why does no one believe me? Didn’t you see the TV show? I was acquitted, man: the whole world knows the news. The glove didn’t fit – so they had to a-quit. Right?”

“Sure, sure – I just thought…”

“This is something else, man: a bigger story than that. A story that’s gonna make your big toe shoot up in your boot. Make you some money, too. Make us both some money, God willing. Now you interested or not?”

A thousand thoughts went through my brain – well, I say “a thousand”; it was more like ten – and they went something like: wow, money; hey, this is exciting; oh yeah, but the guy’s a fake pretend nutter; but what if he’s not?; I like writing; I’m always saying I need a push, this could be a push; yeah, but won’t I just end up playing stupid online games and watching videos and clicking on instantly forgotten nonsense, like I always do, instead of the typing that I love?; yeah, probably – but we might as well hear him out; money’s good, I like money; cool.

“Listen,” he said, “this ain’t easy for me. But I gots to get it off my chest. And I gots to find a way to make some cashola. And the people deserve the truth; it’s time for the truth to be told.”

I heard him take a big breath. Then several seconds of silence. A little quiet whimper.

Another big breath.

“Listen, man, you know…you remember that book I wrote – that book I had written – back in the day…?”

“The one about the –”

“Yeah,” he snapped, “the one about the murders. ‘How I Did It’. Or ‘If I Did It’. I can’t even remember the goddamned title. You know I didn’t even make a penny from that book? All I got was goddamned headaches and hassle, you know? Waste o’ goddamn time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I smirked.

Smirking’s good, when you’re on the phone; better than laughing, which is what I would have been doing had we been face-to-face.

“On t’phone, no one can hear you smirk,” I thought – and then thought of Alien, and of Sigourney Weaver running around in her knickers, of how she’s old now, and of how everyone gets old, so what’s the point of marrying someone young and beautiful if you’re just going to wake up next to an old woman one day? No one young and beautiful wants to marry their grandma, right?

“Did you hear what I just said?” said OJ.

“Sure, man – but can you repeat it one more time please? I want to make sure I heard you right. That was…”

“I want a new book,” he said, “and I want you to write it. I want it to be called ‘How I Did It 2’. And with a subtitle – all goddamn books gotta have a goddamn subtitle these days – and the subtitle…”

“Hold on,” I said, “let me get my pen.”

I wasn’t getting a pen, I just felt like saying it.

“‘How I Did It 2’,” he said. “‘How I Did It 2: The Real Mastermind Behind 9/11, by OJ Simpson.’”

“You what?” I said.

“You heard,” he said.

“I heard, but…”

“It was me,” he said, “I was the brains behind the whole thing. I mean, I had some help along the way – George Bush, Osama bin Laden, Martha Stewart – and we’ll get to that in due course. But it was my idea, my plot, my plan. And I want people to know. I needs to get it off my chest. Find a bit of peace of mind, you know? I been carrying this secret too long: it ain’t good for a guy.”

He sighed.

“You know,” he chuckled, “it even feels good just telling you. You’re about the first person I’ve said it out loud to. Damn! If this is how good it feels telling just one person, imagine how good it’ll feel to tell the world!”

I had no idea what to say. Had no idea who this kook was. Was, frankly, a little bit bored by the whole thing.

“But, listen, I’m getting ahead of myself: you’re probably wondering if this is the real OJ. The main man. The Juice of legend. Well…just look out your window.”

“Huh?”

“Look out the window, fool!”

I stood up. Pulled back the curtains. Looked left. Looked down. Looked right. Looked –

“Holy shit!” I said.

OJ laughed.

“That right, man: ‘holy shit’ is right.”

“But why?” I stammered.

“For the money, bro; why else? I needed the cash – just like I need cash today; and you’re the guy who’s gonna make it for me.”

I sat down in my chair, continued to stare gormlessly into the sky.

“But listen,” he said, “that’s enough for today. I’ll talk to you soon. I’m getting out of this place. We gots work to do, you and I.”

“Okay,” I said, dumbly.

“Okay,” he said. “This is,” he said, “as they say in the movies: To Be Continued. I’ll be in touch. I trust you’re on board? This is the story of the century! Just don’t tell no one about this, right?”

But, alas for him, I was already doing it.

Being back in England (Take 2)

Right. Let’s sit down and have that recap we’ve been promising ourselves

“Right,” he says, “write.”

So it’s just over a month since I’ve been back in England. It’s not been a bad month; in fact, it’s been a decent month. Not the month I might have feared when I was rolling around on a Mexico City couch in turmoil unable to sleep when contemplating flying back to these shores. Nor the year like the last year I was back in England, which was grim and awful and took me right to the edge.

It’s been fine. It’s been nice.

But has it been nice enough to want to prolong it?

Actually, in fairness, it’s mostly been me sitting on me laptop doing daft things, which could be anywhere, and isn’t engaging with real life at all – so difficult to judge real life on that.

But that’s a bit of a vague comment that doesn’t really fit in with the general scheme of where I want to go with this, or what’s actually in my head. So…

A month. Lots of places and people visited. All things fulfilled. Everything ticked off the list. And now at that stage where something new must occur; that stage where it’s either: sit down, stay in one place, do the good ‘normal things’; or gad off on a plane to some other country and continue the mad adventure.

Mostly I’m thinking the latter. Mostly I’m thinking of rejoining that trail I was on – which means either jetting back to Mexico, or heading into lands unknown, somewhere now East, not West, and Asia.

But first…some thoughts, numbered in a list, because they’re not really connected and I don’t know how to make a chronological narrative of them…

1.

A thought about my eyesight: this weird story I have wherein my eyes went really bad when I came back to England in summer 2015, and were scarily and upsettingly and depressingly bad for the whole time I was there – after laser eye surgery in 2008; after running out on Mexico, because of various things – and then the wonderful lovely thing of how they got better again – went back to being good – after a month or so in Mexico, and everything was groovy.

That’s weird, right? That eyes could go bad and then good again. But true.

And I’d been to the opticians, and the opticians were cool – English medical folk are always cool, I find – ‘cos instead of just prescribing and taking money and sending me on my way, she asks questions about why I think it’s happening, and suggests maybe it’s just stress.

Stress, huh? What kind of stress? I don’t really gots no stresses in my life: only low-level stuff.

But then, low level stuff is sometimes enough for me: like the times my face puffed up, just ‘cos of almost nothing really, and stopped immediately when I sorted it, so…

Anyway. Yeah. I returned to Mexico. I noticed they were still bad when I got there – inability to read the signs in Wal-Mart; the kids at the back all blurry – and then, like I say, a few weeks down the line all those things disappeared.

Except…whaddya know? The moment I get back to England, everything goes blurry again. I’m not stressed out. I’m not unhappy about being here. And yet…

I immediately think, hm, I guess I won’t be staying here long, huh?

Eyes are important. Being on the right track’s important. Following my ‘soul’.

So it’s been a month and they’re still not what they were. And I guess that means I’s gots to get out of here.

2.

I wrote a couple of things in recent months that suddenly make total sense: one was how I found it weird that Mexican women paid me no heed; and the other was how unattractive English people seemed, after all those lovely faces and hair and beautiful brown cleavages.

And walking Yorkshire and Kent streets I totally realise why the lack of attention: ‘cos we English folk are mostly pretty ugly, and even living in a moderately attractive English face don’t mean nothing to them.

It’s like being the tallest dwarf. Like being a five-foot-nine Chinaman. Like being great at football when you’re playing with kids.

Ho hum: that’s slightly depressing.

And also needs a caveat: people in Norwich were really attractive; and people in London are really attractive.

But some o’ them other places I’ve been…

3.

Norwich was really nice. Like, really incredibly surprisingly nice. And not just in a nice simple provincial English city kind of nice, like Exeter, but also the kind of nice where things are happening, and groovy cafés and arts, and medieval buildings and rivers, and hipsters and music, and young people and things being taken care of, a pride in the city.

Stark contrast to Leeds! Once a city I loved.

Yeah, man, Norwich was hip.

4.

And then London: same old story, really, with London. Some really groovy things, like the Saturday game of football, and several of my most favouritest people in the world. And nice neighbourhoods to stroll round, and a sense of things happening, and whatever you’re into, you can totally find it, no matter how niche or strange.

A part of me thinks I could live there again. Good to be around those people. Good to sense those possibilities. Good to remember when I did live there, and cycled everywhere, and had my regular game, and even got creative things done, despite the necessary busyness (and maybe because of it).

But – oh, man – the planes: the goddamn planes. Constantly overhead. Constant droning din. Zero escape, even when in lovely park, in lush green oasis garden.

Like I say: same old London story.

5.

It does make it tempting, though: to be around good old friends, and to finally be having interesting, long conversations after the weirdness of [two paragraphs deleted here].

What a shame I can’t have both.

6.

Now I’m thinking of standing in the Sainsbury’s in Balham, not long after I’d landed, and trying hard to perceive the characteristics of the people around me: to contrast them with those Cabo Wal-Mart perceptions of empty-headed and afraid North Americans and the content brown-eyed Mexicans they wandered lost amongst. The lack of anger and aggression in Mexican faces. The stresses written across English brows and eyes.

The best time to formulate a sense of a people is right when you get off the plane, having been for some time somewhere completely different. Like returning from China and marvelling at how enormous everyone’s noses were (and how miserable they looked).

And so, in Balham, what did I see, in that long snaking queue for the self-checkout, standing there content with my bread and cheese?

I saw a line of people who looked…bored, and sort of worn down. As though they’d been in prison long enough to have the fight knocked out of them. Shuffling along in their shackles. On some sort of conveyor belt. No longer struggling or striving, just wearily following its course till the end.

It was as though the lights had gone off. A group of still-young people merely going through the motions.

I think I saw that a lot in London.

I suppose it could just be projection.

Mistaken.

More of a reflection of something inside me.

But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like something I’m seeing.

And it reminded me of my early-twenties idea of England as an old man in his rocking chair, having seen it all, done it all, and being now tired beyond wearisome at the lack of novelty and newness life had to offer, and yet having to continue to live it still – in contrast to the excited child of the US, all giddy with possibility, but also kind of dumb.

Poor old London. I’m sure it’s not really like that.

7.

And elsewhere in England? Mostly it just seems to be about buying stuff.

8.

So here we are. One month on, and back to where I was: thinking of randomly flying to Asia, or to renting a room in San Miguel de Allende and trying to sit down and write (though not really the latter, now I mention it).

What else is there? Move to Exeter once more and find a little income and do some typing? Play a game or two of football a week and get back into refereeing? Slowly make some friends, and zoom up to London every now and then, and…

Or hop on a plane to northern Spain and start the walk to Santiago de Compostela and see what happens?

No signs, no dreams, but – running out of country and options while I catch up with friends and fritter away the hours in internet indulgences and generally be quite lazy while at the same time tying up loose ends and still compulsively jettisoning possessions, till I’ve almost nothing left, and…

Yes. Well. Those are the kind of paragraphs that generally lead me on to long fruitless rambles about all the possibilities and confusions – whereas what actually gets me moving forward is a simple recap of what was – a pipe cleaning exercise – and a movement towards that place where I stand up from the comp all empty and fresh and ready for the future to come greet me and make itself known.

So what else is there from this recent past?

9.

I seed me mum, I seed me da.

I bought some trainers and some jeans – you’ll remember my not being able to find any my size in tiny-personned Mexico (of course you’ll remember that) – and I bought three laptops too (sent one back; will probably sell both the others when I’m done).

I sold me solar panel. I’m down to about 15 litres of possessions (ie, one little backpack).

I seed old chums. I went from Manchester to Leeds to London to Kent to London to Birmingham to Leeds to Norwich to Whitby to London to Kent (which is where I am now; and then back to London mañana).

I did a couple of weeks of work, and put eight hundred quid in the bank.

I played three games of football.

I ate lots of Kettle Chips and cheddar cheese, and had some good ol’ Yorkshire fish ‘n’ chips (not actually that good).

I faffed around online, pretty much whenever I could, ‘cos I’m addicted and find it interesting and crave mental stimulation and can’t think of owt else to do.

I wrote not a thing.

10.

That feels like pretty much it. My month is up. I don’t know what to do next. Though that Malaysia plane ticket is starting to loom large – and I even tossed a coin yesterday to maybe buy one going in 11 days.

The coin said nope; I shall have to toss one later to see about going in 4 days then.

11.

Mad old life, huh? I don’t expect anyone to understand it – I barely do myself – nor to really understand this ‘writing’.

‘S’not as good as when I was gadding around the deserts in Mexico, is it, just six weeks ago?

But it serves its purpose.

12.

I think I’ll quit facebook if I go away. Cease being so connected.

I’ll be in a land I know nothing about, and have no interest in researching, will just chuck myself in the river.

Best to be off grid: you never know who you’ll meet, or what’s around the corner, when living like that.

Probably best to quit my metabunking too.

13.

That’s all.

Recurring dreams

Recurring dreams are interesting, aren't they?
I always used to dream about being chased by baddies
I couldn't escape
Like zombies and Terminators and
High school bullies
But then one day I asked a wise man
"What could it mean?"
And he told me something wise
And after that I started to change
Do some 'work'
Ya know:
Internal
Emotional
Spiritual
Work
(maaaaan)
And the dreams changed too
Till one day I stopped running
Turned to face my tormentors
And told them:
"I don't want to fight any more
We should love one another"
And with tears in my eyes
Held my arms out wide for them
And embraced them in a hug
Well -
Those dreams stopped
And, I feel, reflected something
In real life too
Also:
I used to dream of dogs
Of being bitten on the hands by dogs
For many, many years
But not for some time now
(No idea what that signified)
And, more recently,
I kept dreaming that I'd
Gone back to school
As a student
But those dreams stopped
When I finally went and got my degree
There have been other recurring dreams
Ones that go on for years
Ones full of meaning
Ones that change when I change
Now I have two:
One for maybe the last couple of years
About a couple very close to me
Splitting up
(In real life they're fine
It must be saying something about me)
And the other about
The school I taught at in Mexico
About being back there
And seeing the kids again
Kids I liked a lot
And had a lot of feelings for
It's good to see them
In the dreams
No problems there
But
In the dreams
As in real life
It's my relationship with the grown-ups
That leaves a sour taste in my mouth
And makes these dreams
A little unsettling
And makes me wonder
Just what they signify
And what I need to do
To have them change
Into something cool

Being back in England (Take 1)

I’d like to tell you what it’s been like

Being back in England

And leaving Mexico

But I don’t know where to start

Should I

Start with getting off the plane

And being surprised at

How unfreaked out I was?

At how everything seemed

Normal, natural

In stark contrast

To when I came back two years ago?

Mellow, in fact

Nice

No chaos at all

Just people wandering around

Moving their bodies hither and thither

In a quiet, pleasant manner

In shiny cars that

Didn’t have dents in them

Nor bumpers hanging off

Along roads and pavements

Smooth and well kept

Past fields full of grass and

Trees

Green and luscious and splendid

Start there? Or start with

The increasing feeling of

Boredom and blargh

The already knowing that

I want more than anything I can imagine

In this fair isle

The impossibility of a vision

Of living somewhere English

Doing the English thing

Of routine

Of money

Of earning

Of -

Concrete

That’s what I think of

When I think of England

Not just that so much of it

Has been concreted over

But that that’s what it feels like

The life

The people

It’s a very solid place

No mad extremes

Like America

It’s a great place for grounding

No spinning off into weird deserts

No getting lost in

Strange trains of thought

And last time I came back

I needed that

The grounding

But this time…

It don’t feel so necessary

I’m not so spun out

I haven’t gone quite as weird

As I have in the past

And –

Or maybe I could begin

By saying how my eyes have gone bad again

The eyes that went bad

Two years ago, upon my return

And were cured after not too long

In Mexico

How they’ve returned

To blur

To not being able to focus

And that’s sad

And makes me think

I’d better not stay here long

I could begin with

Any of those things

I guess I have

Or maybe also London

Of hanging with a good bud there

And having what felt like

The first real conversations

I’ve had in a long time

Start with the annoyance of being able

To understand all the passing conversations

Of others

One of my joys at being

Overseas

Surrounded by different tongues

(Yeah, yeah -

You have those ears that just

Blot it out

You don’t even notice it

But my ears

Do

They rush to everything

They gather it up

And scoop it in

And to be in a room

With several conversations

With music playing

When ears are darting about

Picking out strangers’ words

Picking out

Which drum the drummer’s hitting

Which -

Well, I’ve laboured that point

Defensively) -

I can’t be bothered with this

I’m sitting on a train

Heading to Norwich

To see a woman

I always refer to as

“An old school friend”

But, truth is

She’s more than that

Someone I was deeply in love with

When I was 14

When I was 16

And even again

At 26

“Deeply in love with” though?

Is that really true?

Or did I just want to kiss her?

To get in her?

Which I sort of did

At 26

And sort of did again

At 37

(First time, went down on her

Second time, lots of kissing

And fingers,

If you must know)

And now I’m thinking -

Now that she’s newly single again -

It’s probably about time

We boned

About time

I put my cock in her

And we moved about

Got sweaty

Did the sex thing

And then it’d be done

And I’d have chalked

One more thing off the list

Which is a terrible way to put it

When perhaps someone’s feelings are involved

But that’s a bit how I feel

And maybe feelings aren’t involved

Anyway

Maybe she feels just the same

Fancies a bit of it

Fancies a bit of it with me

And…

Why not?

So perhaps I should just

Work out how I’m feeling after that

‘Cos right now what I’m feeling

Is the impossibility of

Me and England

And the lure of a plane ticket

To somewhere

Warm

Somewhere

Where it doesn’t rain

Somewhere

Cheap

And interesting

And non-concrete

And alive

For England is…

Moments like standing in Balham Sainsbury’s

And wondering how the faces would compare

To Cabo Wal-Mart

To Americans in Cabo Wal-Mart

Their weird fear and

Empty-headed stupidity

And -

Yes, I do see something different in England

In Balham I saw…

People lined up

Sort of like

Prisoners

Prisoners who had been inside so long

They’d had all the fight knocked out of them

Now they just shuffled along

In lines

Resigned to their fate

An animal still inside

But barely there

On the conveyor belt

Cogs in a machine

But that’s London

Elsewhere is different

In Yorkshire…

The people are ugly

Hideous

And suddenly I realise why

Mexican girls didn’t look at me

‘Cos

Even though I may be

Good looking in Yorkshire

That’s a bit like being

Five-foot-nine in China

We are such a weird-looking nation

Faces so different

So individualistic

Which is another thing that struck me

When I got off the plane

How different all the clothes were

How individual

The expression of style

Which I didn’t really notice

In Mexico

And maybe that’s another reason why

They don’t seem to feel

So alienated

Safety in sameness

Not rocking the boat

Not venturing out too far

Not making themselves

Alone

Whereas…

We love to be different

To stand out

To be individual

And to express that individuality

And yet…

We’re mad

Or are we?

And are they?

And why am I talking about this

Anyway?

Fuggit!

I can’t be arsed

To try and put into words

What it’s like

To be here

To have let go of

The magic of the Mexican desert -

Was it magic?

Or was it just a guy

Standing in the middle of nowhere

Dragging a suitcase around

Not really doing much?

(Maybe that’s why I like being

Overseas

‘Cos the mundane feels like magic

And here it feels like

Real life

And I don’t much like real life -

Which of course relates to

That feeling of

Not liking to be connected

To looking around at the people

And disliking what I see

And realising I’m kind of the same

Whereas in Mexico

I don’t really feel that

I’m not connected to it

In the same way

So it doesn’t remind me of anything

Doesn’t reflect on me

And if I don’t like it -

Assuming that I even notice it -

I see it as “other”)

So…

This is all just a sketch, isn’t it?

Obviously can never be shared

Put out there

Maybe I can make it into something better

And talk, too

About how I kind of miss San Miguel

And then get confused

‘Cos it was there that I first thought about

Leaving

Or flying to China

And went

When…

I had enough muns-muns

For a good two months there

And how I miss also

The feeling of inspiration

Of wanting to write

Where now all I want to do

Is click on Facebook

Click on youtube

Click on metabunk

Click on internet scrabble

Write daft things to

Daft flat earthers

Get into

Conspiracy theory nut job world

And write nothing

Even though I’ve the means

And the place

And the time

Which is pretty annoying

And pretty indicative

Of what I’m really like

And that doesn’t make me feel good

To see that

Over and over again

So I just wish I had my headphones

So I could watch a movie or something

Even one I’ve seen before

‘Cos everything I’m typing is just bollocks

And probably it doesn’t matter ‘cos

I’ll no doubt be feeling happy and good

When I get to see Luan

So writing this here

And putting myself in a glum mood

Probably isn’t the most productive thing

(The most productive thing

Would probably be to have a nap

And get refreshed a little

After yet another sillily late night

And early morning

In my Yeadon

Dosspit)

Ach!