 "Root Cause" There is something in the field of quality management called “root cause analysis”. You may now be asking what this has to do with writing books. I’ll get to that in a minute or two, but first of all I’ll have to explain what root cause analysis is and how it works. Basically, it is an assumption that when something goes wrong in a process, the visible signs are very rarely the root cause of what went wrong. To make sure that the same problem never occurs again, you have to find the root, or real, cause of the problem. It is the difference between treating the symptoms (a headache, say) and treating the cause (a brain tumour). Aspirin may temporarily relieve the pain of the symptom, but it won’t cure the brain tumour. Let me give you a worked example.  Guess the cause! Car A is driving along the road and approaches a stop sign. Being driven by a good driver, the car is brought to a controlled stop in the right place. Car B, following on behind, then crashes into the back of Car A. The assumption, at this point, might be that the driver of Car B wasn’t paying adequate attention and therefore didn’t see Car A coming to a stop and ran into the back of him. Only by asking questions would it be possible to establish if that assumption was correct. In quality management a tool that is used is called “The 6 Whys”. Basically it means that by asking six “why” questions in succession it is possible to find out what the real cause of the accident was. So, question 1 might be “Why did the driver of Car B fail to stop? There are several possible answers, only one of which will be true. For the sake of this illustration, I’ll say that the actual answer is “Because the car’s brakes failed.” The second why question would therefore be “Why did the brakes fail?” Again, there are several possible answers, only one of which will be true. If you ask a further 4 “why” questions in this vein you might get to an answer that is “Because there is a flaw in the manufacturing process for a minor component that hadn’t been previously identified”. Obviously more evidence than just one accident would be needed before that conclusion could be drawn, but gathering that evidence, such as data on other accidents, would be part of finding the true answer.  Brake failure? Or inattentive driver? So, the root cause of the accident is that flaw in the manufacturing process and unless that flaw is corrected, other accidents involving brake failures are bound to occur. That is a long way from “Driver B wasn’t paying attention to his driving”. It is just that sort of process that leads to product recalls on cars, sometimes several years after production started, to rectify defects that have been subsequently identified. If you work in a place where the same problems keep on occurring, time after time, then you might want to carry out this exercise for yourself, or in conjunction with your colleagues. By identifying the root cause of those problems – and getting them fixed - you could earn yourself some kudos (and all that goes with it). Even if Driver B wasn’t paying attention, to get to the root cause of the accident we would have to ask another 5 questions. It might turn out that he is suffering from undiagnosed ADHD, for example, rather than just being distracted by his phone ringing.  It's not just icebergs that have hidden depths. But that leads us onto the real subject of this blog: What does this mean for you as an author? It means that you can build multi-layered characters by showing your readers that what they see on the surface isn’t necessarily what is going on underneath. In characterisation, we call this “having hidden depths”. Let’s take a typical character trope, the cop who drinks too much and prefers to work alone. It’s easy to establish that he drinks too much because his partner got killed in a shoot-out and that he wants to work alone because he’s reluctant to get emotionally attached to other cops in case the same thing happens again. Those are just the answers to the first 2 or 3 “whys”. But if you were to ask yourself a 4th why you might find out that the cop has suffered major losses in his life before. A 5th why might be that he feels responsible for the earlier loss and the 6th why is because he was blamed for the loss even though he was too young to even know what loss was about.  Anyone who has ever gone through counselling (therapy as our American cousins call it) may recognise the depth of questioning necessary to reveal those sorts of emotional scars. But as an author, you can build that character from the ground up to give them hidden depths and secret anxieties. More importantly, you develop them from being a trope into being a ‘real’ person. You don’t have to reveal all that to the reader, at least, not all in one go. It may be something that you keep to yourself or reveal over a series of stories. But when it comes to deciding how your character(s) will react in any situation you put them into, you can draw on that depth of understanding of their emotional baggage to make them more interesting, to make them react consistently and to make them believable.  Emotional engagement. In many novels it is very difficult to understand what motivates a character if the author hasn’t actually explained it. Because of that it is difficult to believe in the character and a lack of belief creates a lack of emotional engagement from the reader. And if the reader doesn’t engage with the character on an emotional level, they don’t care what happens to them and they stop reading the book. That might not matter if you only write one book. After all, the reader has already bought it. But if you want to write a second book, it is important. If your first book didn’t engage the reader, they won’t buy your second book. And if they post a bad review of your first book, it will impact sales to other people for all your books, even if they are in a different genre. So having interesting characters is a big deal. This is the difference between plot led and character led fiction, which is an on-going debate in writing circles. Here at Selfishgenie we’re very much in the ‘character led’ camp because a good plot can’t make up for badly drawn characters. Good characters, however, can save a poor plot – as many a Hollywood movie has demonstrated. Why would my character do that? The place to start in this “root cause” journey is with the initiating event, as it’s known. The things that gets the story moving and gets the character involved in the action. Ask yourself “Why would my character do that? What is their motivation? Is that motivation enough to keep them going when the going gets tough?”  A simple Hobbit These are questions I asked myself a lot when reading Lord of the Rings. As in “Would a simple Hobbit really keep going in the face of all that opposition? Wouldn’t they just throw the flipping ring into the neatest river and hope for the best?”
I’ve read the book several times and the character of Frodo always makes me ask those questions and I’ve never really reached a satisfactory answer. Strength of character and determination to succeed don’t even begin to satisfy as motives. In some types of plot, the triggering event goes with the territory, because it’s the character’s job: police stories, spy thrillers etc. In those cases we have to take a step back and ask questions about why the character got into their job in the first place, as well as why they stay in it when things are going so badly. When we give feedback to authors who submit their manuscripts to us, we often refer to characters being “two dimensional”. It is the deeper motivation of characters that give them their third dimension and make them more human, more realistic. This is especially important if the characters are to go beyond the everyday experiences which we all go through and into worlds where they place themselves in mortal danger. We know we couldn’t do those things – but we have to believe that the character(s) can. Motivation is what makes us believe and motivation comes from deep within – whether we are real people or characters in books. I’m not saying that this sort of analysis is the only way to build good characters – there are many others, I’m sure. But if you are struggling with creating believable characters, this simple tool, "the 6 whys", may help you to add new dimensions to them. If you have enjoyed this blog or found it informative, why not make sure you don't miss future editions by signing up for our newsletter. Just click the button below and you will also qualify for a FREE eBook.
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 In 1742, poet Edward Young said “Procrastination is the thief of time”. Mind you, he didn’t actually get around to saying it out loud until 1743. No, that’s just my little joke. He said it in the poem “Night Thoughts on Life, Death and Immortality”. I’m not sure if authors are the worst when it comes to procrastination, but if the Selfishgenie Twitter feed is anything to go by, it certainly seems to be that way. In fact, research suggests that 95% of people procrastinate to some degree. It’s just more of a problem for some people than it is for others. Procrastination is not the same as laziness. Many procrastinators are actually highly productive; it’s just that what they produce isn’t necessarily what is important.  For example, my own favoured form of procrastination is writing blogs. Especially when I should be editing. Either that or writing wonderfully crafted letters to the media about something of great importance in the world. Some of them have even been published - but compared to what I should be doing, they aren't important. At the extreme end of the scale ADHD, OCD, anxiety and depression are all associated with procrastination. So, you could actually be harming your mental health by not doing what you know you should be doing. Procrastination definitely causes feelings of tension and stress, which are both triggers for anxiety and depression. Social media is one of the places where you will find a lot of people procrastinating. It is the ideal place for them to go. They may genuinely mean it when they say “I’ll just take a quick look, just to see what’s trending.” Then, 3 hours later, they’re still there and haven’t done a single bit of work, whatever their work may be.  There are many reasons why people procrastinate. Some believe that they work better if they are up against a deadline. Back in the old days, when I used to manage a team, I could always tell when someone produced their work right at the last minute. For a start, it was usually substandard because it hadn’t been given enough time for research, colleague input, proof reading, editing or re-writes. Or maybe I was just able to recognise the hunted look in my team member’s eyes when they saw me approaching, knowing that at any moment I might ask to see the work I’d asked them to produce a week before and was due on my desk in under an hour and they hadn’t even started it. Other people procrastinate because they think that whatever needs to be done will be challenging in some way and they want to put the task off in the hope that it will go away (it rarely does). That’s not good for an author. If you have an idea for a story, but you are putting off writing it, then you have to ask yourself if you are really cut out to be an author. If you aren’t contracted to produce a book by a certain date, then the only person who is going to suffer from any delay is you. You are bound to feel frustrated if you haven’t even made a start on it.  And if you are working to a contractually binding deadline, then re-read my observation above about work being substandard if it’s left to the last minute. I know plenty of authors who procrastinate not because they don’t want to write the story, but because they are worried that when they have finished and they try to find an agent or a publisher, no one will be interested. Or if they self-publish, no one will want to read their book. This fear puts them off finishing their work, because they don’t want to have to face that judgement. So, instead, they will re-write the same chapter (or paragraph or even sentence) time after time, telling themselves they’re trying to find perfection. But all they are really doing is putting off finishing their book.  Procrastination and perfectionism go hand in hand. Procrastination and perfectionism are well known to go hand in hand. The question is, does the desire for perfection lead to procrastination, or does the desire to procrastinate lead to perfectionism? What we don’t admit is that there is no such thing as ‘perfect’, but there is plenty of ‘good enough’. This is essentially fear of the unknown. The author doesn’t know how good their work is and is afraid it might not be good enough. A pessimist is more likely to procrastinate than an optimist under those circumstances. Journalist James Surowiecki said that many procrastinators are ‘self handicappers’. Rather than risk failure, they create conditions that make success impossible. I think most procrastinating authors can relate to that. Other people procrastinate because they are worried that when they have finished whatever they are doing, they won’t have anything to move onto, which will leave their lives feeling empty.  Essentially there are three types of procrastinator: those that do nothing (or hang around on social media, which amounts to the same thing), those who do something less important than what they should be doing, or those who do something that they consider to be more important. Surprisingly, getting unimportant things done and getting more important things done are both regarded as being ‘good’ forms of procrastination. By getting the unimportant stuff out of the way, we actually create time to do the more important task, without having to step away from it later to return to the mundane tasks. For example, you want to spend three hours writing, but instead you find yourself doing the laundry, preparing dinner and walking the dog. But that’s great because when you start writing, you won’t have to stop and do those things later and you can focus for three hours non-stop. Doing more important stuff, rather than sitting down and doing the thing you want to, eg writing, also works. So when you do sit down for a couple of hours to write you (a) haven’t anything more important to do that is nagging at you and (b) you can feel virtuous for getting the important stuff out of the way first. "But there are some things you can do to defeat procrastination." But is there an actual ‘cure’ for procrastination? The first thing to do is identify why you are procrastinating. I have suggested a few reasons already, but there are probably more. Only you can know why you are either delaying starting things or delaying finishing them (both are forms of procrastination). Once you have answered the “why” question, you can then start to address the issues, such as lack of confidence in your own ability. But there are some things you can do to defeat procrastination. Commit to the task. Focus on doing, not delaying. It may be helpful to set yourself a deadline for completing something. Perhaps saying “I will write 1,000 words by 4 pm.” Promise yourself a reward for completing what you set out to do. It doesn’t have to be something big, just a 10 minute break for a cup of coffee, or maybe a slice of cake with the coffee you were going to have anyway. Or perhaps 10 minutes catching-up on social media (but make sure it is just 10 minutes).  Minimise distractions Re-phrase your wording. Don’t say “I need to” or “I have to”, say “I want to” or “I choose to” instead. It is far more likely that we will do the things we want to do than the things we feel we have to do. Minimise distractions. I know, more easily said than done, especially if you have family buzzing around in the background or demanding work colleagues. But there are things you can do. Log-off all social media, so it isn’t pinging away in the background, tempting you into paying it attention. Close down your emails, unplug/switch off the phone, close the door. And if you can’t escape from the family, then work at a time when the family aren’t going to be so much of a problem. For example, if you have a young child, work when the child is napping. Work when older children are at school or organise play dates for them, so they aren’t calling on your time. And tell your partner to make their own damn coffee. If a colleague is demanding attention, agree a set time to meet, when it’s convenient for you (if procrastination is the thief of time, demanding work colleagues are master criminals). If the task is a really big one, break it down into much smaller chunks. Don’t set out to write a book. Set out to write a paragraph – or even a sentence. When you have completed that, write the next paragraph and so on. John F Kennedy may have set a goal of putting a man on the Moon, but NASA actually achieved that goal by solving one small problem at a time.  Coffee based procrastination As mentioned above, get the routine chores out of the way first – and quickly. You can then concentrate on what you want to do without feeling any guilt.
Don’t turn small things into big ones. A cup of coffee really is just a cup of coffee. It doesn’t have to be made with hand ground beans which you have to slow roast first. Yes, we know those people. We may even be those people. If you want a slice of cake you don’t have to bake it, you can just buy it. You know you are procrastinating when you actually start looking for those sorts of time-wasting activities. But it all starts with knowing that you are procrastinating in the first place. If you don’t realise you are doing it, you can never hope to stop doing it. If you have enjoyed this blog, or found it informative, be sure not to miss future editions by subscribing to our newsletter. Just click on the button below - and you can also get a FREE eBook for subscribing. But don't procrastinate - do it now.  Internet trolls! They get everywhere these days. They’re mainly to be found on social media sites such as Facebook and Twitter, but they can turn up anywhere. You’ll find them in the reviews section of Amazon and other retail sites (the 1 star end of the scale, naturally). They also appear on Goodreads and similar sites. It wouldn’t surprise me if a couple turned up in the comments section of this blog because, let’s face it, they’re not going to like what I have to say about them. I’m not sure if trolls attack authors any more than they attack anyone else, but let’s face it, if you are trying to do something worthwhile, someone will always try to bring you down, which is pretty much the job description of a troll. Some of them may not even think of themselves as being trolls. They just think they're "telling it like it is" (or similar euphemisms to justify obnoxious behaviour) It's easy to say “block them and move on”, but the hurt has already been felt the moment the words are read. And that’s what the trolls know. You can’t un-see and you can’t un-feel. It can leave you feeling low for the rest of the day and even longer. It can make you want to hurt them back, even though you are a nice person who wouldn’t otherwise dream of hurting anyone. It can even make you want to hurt yourself.  It would be nice if the social media platforms et al were to do something about them, but trolls are customers too, so they don’t take action. Not that the trolls spend any money, but the platforms do receive income from any ‘clicks’ they might make on adverts during their daily round of trolling. That was how I experienced my most recent interaction with a troll. I was doing an on-line book promotion for one of our authors, offering a free download of one of his books. I paid a certain social media giant to get that message in front of ‘interested’ users of the platform and, a few days into the promo I received a comment saying “You can’t reduce the price low enough for me to buy this book.” Not the greatest insult in the world, I grant you. Oscar Wilde, if he were still alive, would have no worries about that person stealing his laurels, but it didn’t stop it being a little bit hurtful for the author. "Yes, I actually paid to be trolled." The thing is, because the troll had responded to the advert, I had to pay the social media company. Yes, I actually paid to be trolled. So, I blocked him and moved on. Only I didn’t, did I? Because if I had, you wouldn’t be reading this blog. There are a couple of things we can guess about the person who made the comment. The first things is that he (they are predominantly male) hadn’t actually read any of our books. The second is that they probably don’t read books in the first place. Books enlighten and trolling is a product of ignorance. So, what motivates trolls? "So why do they do it?" It would be easy to dismiss their behaviour as the modern equivalent of the school bully. They do it because they can. But that shows a lack of understanding of bullies. Bullies do what they do not just because they can, but because it demonstrates their power over their victims, especially to those people that hang around bullies, desperate not to become victims themselves. Trolls don’t have hangers on like that, so what they do doesn’t demonstrate their power to anyone. Even those people who actually see the insult on social media won’t know the true identity of the person who posted it. So why do they do it? The real reasons are different and they are several. Trolls don’t all do it for the same reason. Dr Mark Griffiths, Professor of Behavioural Addiction at Nottingham Trent University, gave four reasons: revenge, for attention, out of boredom and for personal amusement. Yes, they find it funny, even if no one else does.  I wouldn’t want to disagree with Dr Griffiths (but you know I’m going to) but I think it runs deeper. I think that the lives of most trolls are so empty and unfulfilled that they can’t stand to see anyone who is living a happy, fulfilled life, so they try to bring them down in the only way available to them. They are similar to the vandals who trash parks, gardens and beauty spots. Their own lives are so bleak and lacking beauty that they can’t stand to see beauty anywhere else. So, you are a happy fulfilled person, expressing your views on Twitter or Facebook, celebrating your successes, bemoaning your minor failures or promoting your work. And they can’t stand your sense of wellbeing, your apparent success, the fact that your problems are quite small compared to theirs and that you are actually achieving things through your work. They can’t stand the fact that you are doing something worthwhile. So they set out to damage that sense of wellbeing. Well, what about the people who are suffering larger problems, like mental health issues, illness or bereavement? They get trolled too. "It gives them an even greater thrill." . Yes they do, but for much the same reason. It’s not enough for the troll that you are feeling low because of whatever is happening in your life. No, that just makes you a soft target. They can make you feel even worse, which is what they want to do. It is a form of sadism. It gives them an even greater thrill. Of course, they have nothing to feel good about. Their lives are still as vacuous as they were before. Their existence is still as pointless. If they are lonely, they will still be lonely. If they are poor and/or unemployed, they will still be poor and/or unemployed. If they can’t form proper relationships, they will still be unable to do so. If their boss is always on their back at work, their boss will still be on their back at work. But for a fleeting few seconds after they hit the key to post their nasty little insult, they feel powerful. In that instant they no longer feel like the losers that they really are. Of course, it doesn’t last. As I said earlier, there is no one there to see their power, so they can’t bask in the fake adoration of their minions. The feeling is so fleeting that they have to start looking for a new target almost immediately. Which is why most trolls spend so much time on-line in the first place. They are addicted to that fleeting moment of pleasure, because they can’t get it anywhere else.  OK, understanding what makes a troll tick doesn’t do anything to get rid of them. Is there actually anything you can do? The first and most important thing is DO NOT INTERACT. If you respond in any way they will know they got to you and that increases their feeling of pleasure. Even if they have sent you into floods of tears, they mustn’t know that they have had any effect on you at all. Report their behaviour. In the short term not much will happen, but if enough people report them, they will be banned from the site. Their IP address will be blocked, which means they won’t be able to re-register under another name unless they do so from a different IP address. Eventually they’ll run out of tech they can use and will have to resort to internet cafes, which cost money. The next thing you must do is block them (if the site has that facility). If not, use whatever contact facilities are available to you to get the troll blocked. On most platforms they won’t even know you have blocked them, but at least it’s one less troll for you to worry about (until they open a new account with a new username). If enough people block them, it will help the site to decide if they should be banned.  Don’t post on-line that you have been targeted. There’s a good chance that the troll will see your post through the feeds of other people, especially when some people share so indiscriminately. It also encourages other trolls that may see your post. You will be helping them to identify you as a ‘victim’ and trolls love victims. Nothing is private on the internet. You have to assume that your post will be seen by trolls as well as by nice people. If the abuse is really bad, especially if it is racist, homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic or similarly harmful, report it to the police and contact the platform owners using a more direct route than the simple reporting tools that are available. Somewhere there will be a corporate email address or phone number you can use – so use it. Make sure that they understand the emotional impact the trolling is having on you. Make them take responsibility for the bad behaviour of the users of their site. "But we all need to think about our own behaviour" Now all I can do is wish you a happy and a troll free week. But we all need to think about our own behaviour, too. Any of us could be considered to be a troll simply because of the language we use. There is a simple rule to follow: ask yourself if you would say it to someone’s face. If the answer is ‘no’, then its best not to say it at all. Or rephrase it in a way that would allow you to say it to their face. Other than trolls, hardly anyone ever sets out to be offensive, but it’s very easy to cause offence by accident. If you have enjoyed this blog or if you have found it informative, be sure not to miss any future posts by subscribing to our newsletter. Just click on the button below. We promise not to spam you (or troll you).   I have been reading books by Robert Fabbri for several years, following his series about the rise of the career of the Emperor Vespasian. This led me to this book, “Alexander’s Legacy: To The Strongest”, the first in a 2 book series about what happened to the Macedonian Empire after Alexander the Great died. Well, quite a lot happened and this book tells it in an exciting fashion. To give you the backstory, if you didn’t already know it: Alexander has conquered his way across the Middle East, Central Asia and into the northern limits of India. He returns to Babylon where he succumbs to illness. Some say he was poisoned, some that he died of natural causes and some say he died of wounds suffered in his final battle in India. You can make up your own mind about that but given the ambitions of several of the people around Alexander, poisoning can’t be ruled out.  Alexander the Great On his death bed Alexander is surrounded by his seven bodyguards, the men who have followed him loyally across continents. They have only one question on their lips: who is to succeed Alexander? This is not a question Alexander wishes to answer, probably because he doesn’t want anyone to eclipse his achievements. Instead, he replies enigmatically “The strongest”, passes his ring to Perdikkas, one of the seven, and then dies. Perdikkas sees Alexander’s final act as an indication that he should take up the reins of power, which puts him in a minority of one. The other six will only accept the authority of a named successor. Alexander’s natural heir is his half-brother, Phillip, who is mentally incapable of ruling without someone to guide him. This starts a rivalry over who that someone should be.  Ptolemy - founder of a dynasty Alexander also leaves a pregnant wife, Roxanna, and if her child is a boy, he becomes heir, but he would also need a regent until he comes of age. Some of the bodyguards have lesser kinships to Alexander which might allow them to claim the throne, others see themselves in the role of regent, either to Phillip or to the unborn child. Throw into the mix Alexander’s exiled but power-hungry mother, Olympia, who sees Alexander’s death as her opportunity to retake her place at the centre of events and this sets the scene not just for this book, but for the series. The seven bodyguards vie for power and eventually agree to divide the empire between them, controlling large swathes of it until Roxanna’s child (if it’s a boy) comes of age or until some other solution presents itself. In Macedon itself there is Antipatros, the Regent left there by Alexander to govern in his absence. Ptolemy* takes Egypt, with ambitions to expand his satrapy to the west. Perdikkas retains control of Babylon and various smaller tracts of land are handed over to the remaining members of the bodyguard. Also, each has an army, but no single army is capable of seizing control of the empire.  Then there is Alexander’s body. Whoever gains control of that also has a stronger bargaining position. While Perdikkas has the body in Babylon he is in a strong position, but can he keep control of it once he sends it to Macedon to be buried? Meanwhile, Eudamus, Alexander’s Greek secretary and, more recently, a general, knowing he can never inherit the throne of Macedon, sets himself up as king maker, offering his advice and support to whoever makes him the best offer. He isn’t known as “a sly little Greek” for nothing. If you don’t know what happens next (I didn’t) then you won’t want me to spoil the story by saying anything more. The story is told using several different viewpoints, with several of the main characters taking turns to tell their own part of the tale. No doubt is left as to which point of view is being seen at any time, as the chapter headings make that clear. I highly recommend “Alexander’s Legacy: To The Strongest” The plot is engaging and trots along at a nice pace and for fans of Greek or Roman historical fiction I would say that this is a good read and well worth getting into. The research (as far as I can tell) is solid, though the author admits to having to take some small liberties. But he doesn’t purport to make this anything other than a work of fiction, so we can allow him some poetic licence. The wealth of ancient Greek and Macedonian names provides room for confusion; Krateros and Kleitos kept me guessing on more than one occasion. But these were real people once upon a time, so their names can’t really be changed. If you are a feminist, be prepared to get angry because, with the exception of Olympia and a cousin of Alexander’s by the name of Adea, they are seen as a means to cement alliances, no more. Even Adea, who is quite a feisty type, is set only on snagging herself a husband in order to gain power. But that was the nature of the patriarchy in the 4th century BC and it can’t be changed now. I have one adverse comment to make about the book, which is unusual for an author with Fabbri’s track record. The editing is quite poor. There are jumps in the timeline that are made without any sort of signpost, so one character will be engaged in a scene with another and then suddenly a third character appears without warning or introduction. Or there are time gaps or changes of location which take time to work out as they aren’t signposted in any way. In one sentence the characters may be in the throne room and in the next they are apparently somewhere else, without seeming to have moved. There are also numerous typos and punctuation errors. Whoever at Corvus Books was responsible for that really needs to take a fresh look at their work, because it is quite shoddy in parts. However, those are technical issues and shouldn’t deter any reader who wants an enjoyable Ancient Macedonian drama to get their teeth into. I highly recommend “Alexander’s Legacy: To The Strongest” by Robert Fabbri. To find out more about the book, just click on the cover image at the top of this blog. * Ptolemy was the founder of a dynasty of Macedonian-Egyptian Pharaohs that ended with Cleopatra and her famous suicide by asp bite. And if you would like to become a guest reviewer for the Selfishgenie blog, just go to the contacts page to communicate with us. There are just three rules:
If you have enjoyed this blog, found it entertaining or informative (or all three) then be sure not to miss future editions by signing up for our newsletter. Just click the button below.  Yes, it's come to pass at last. You have reached the final episode of An Alternative Christmas carol, by Robert Cubitt That sound you can hear is Charles Dickens whirling in his grave, so our apologies to him. Now read on. Christmas Night - around 10 p.m. Smooge sat in front of his roaring fire, a fat cigar in one hand and a snifter of brandy in the other. On the chaise longue a naked woman slumbered peacefully. On his return from his nephew’s house he had been delighted to find that his local brothel was not only open for business but also offered a take-out service. He could only dream of the day when Deliveroo arrived so he could order from home The gas lights flickered and dimmed and smoke whirled from the fireplace. Jacob Harley entered the room through the wall, on his arms he had his two demonic companions. Today they were dressed from head to toe in shining leather. In their free hands they carried whips which hissed and crackled and sparks flew when they flicked the tips of them in time to their walk. “Ah, Jacob. So nice of you to pop in. I do wish you would go easier on the special effects, though. All this smoke is ruining my décor.” I had a bet with myself that you would disregard your visitors. You disappoint me. “Why, thank you Ebenezer.” The two women detached themselves and went over to admire the form of the sleeping woman, allowing their whips to gently caress her naked body. “I understand that you heeded the warnings of the ghosts.” “I did indeed, Jacob. And I have to say that I have enjoyed this day immensely.” “I had a bet with myself that you would disregard your visitors. You disappoint me. I thought you were made of sterner stuff.” “I am, Jacob. I am.” “So what changed your mind?” “Several things.” Smooge took a long pull at his cigar and blew a series of smoke rings into the room. “The first is that Elisa deserved a day off from ministering to my baser needs. I have no desire to push her into the arms of some randy haberdasher. Besides, Scratchit would have had no idea how to cook that goose. Secondly, I couldn’t bear the thought of Tiny Tim dying. After all, who else could I exploit when I eventually have to pension Bob Scratchit off? Not that he’s getting a pension, of course. Thirdly, Christmas is only one day. There are three hundred and sixty four other days of the year when I can cheat and rob like any other self-respecting banker. Finally I succeeded in ruining Christmas for my prig of a nephew and that holier-than-thou wife of his, which gave me enormous pleasure. I look forward to doing it again next year.” Jacob threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I knew it. I knew you would never change. Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you down below after all.” “Do I have long before we meet again?” “Only the good die young, Ebenezer, so be assured you have many a year left in you before we meet again.” He turned to his female companions. “Now come along girls, leave the hooker in peace. We’ll get back just in time to find out who won I’m A Celebrity.” The two women cracked their whips over Harley’s head, producing a cloud of sparks as the trio faded from view. In his comfortable padded armchair, Smooge contemplated the start of the next business day. If things went to form he would open his doors to a flood of borrowers, crippled by the debts created by their own over indulgence. He smiled his cruellest smile and took a sip of his brandy. He wished himself the Happy New Year that he knew would be his anyway. In many ways he wished it could be Christmas every day. THE END So that is that. If you are looking for a moral to the story, it is probably that leopards are more likely change their spots than bankers are to become nicer human beings. The only time they have charitable thoughts is when they are tax-deductible. We're taking a break until January, so if you want to be sure not to miss our next blog, sign up for our newsletter so we can remind you when we post it. And if you have enjoyed this little story, why not find out more about Robert Cubitt's books. He usually writes more serious stuff. In fact, why not use some of the those Amazon vouchers you're going to be given for Christmas to to give his books a try? Just click the button to go to the "Books" page of this website to find out more. May we take this opportunity to wish all our readers, both of our blogs and our books, a very merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Christmas Morning, about 10 a.m. Smooge struggled awake, the warm blankets encouraging him to return to slumber, if only for a moment. He shook his head, trying to clear it, wondering if the dreams he had experienced were real or just his imaginings. Perhaps he had suffered from indigestion, and all those ghostly visitors had simply been a manifestation of that ailment. Smooge shivered, wondering where a draft might be coming from. He glanced across at the window and saw it gaping open, a pool of melted snow on the floor beneath it. He knew he had closed that window before retiring the evening before. On the far side of the room something caught his eye. Was that a laurel leaf? Perhaps some part of a ghost’s head dress? And there, on the floor, was that not golden glitter which might have been dislodged from a ghostly girl’s chest? And where was his gold watch and chain? So it had been real, apparently. Smooge climbed from his warm bed and approached the window, meaning to pull it down, but he spied an urchin trudging through the snow below him. “Hey, you there, boy.” The urchin stopped and looked up at him. “Oo’ are you callin’ boy, you old fart?” “Tell me boy. What day is this?” “Well bless me guv’nor. Don’t you know it’s Christmas time at all?” But thanks for the Sovereign.” Christmas. Of Course. That was what his nocturnal visitations had been about. “Wait there boy.” Smooge’s head vanished from view and returned a moment later. Gold sparkled in the air as he threw a coin down to the boy. “Ouch. That hurt. You wanna be careful, old man, or I’ll ‘ave the law on you for that. I’m entitled to compensation.” The boy raised a filthy handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood from the gash on his head. Dropping to his hands and knees he searched the snow for the fallen coin with his free hand. “Now, boy. I want you to hurry to Mr Fortnum and Mr Mason’s most excellent emporium and buy me the biggest goose they have.” “You’re a loony mate.” The boy shouted up, having retrieved the coin. “It’s Christmas Day. The shops are all shut and the first Asian mini-market won’t open for another hundred and twenty years. But thanks for the Sovereign.” He turned and ran away before Smooge could consider coming down the stairs to recover his money. Damn and blast, thought Smooge. Well, he’d remember that boy’s face. Now now, he chastised himself. Peace on Earth and goodwill to all men. Even dirty faced urchins. After closing the window he made his way into the kitchen and opened the door to the cold larder. There on the shelf was the fat goose that he had been planning to cook for himself and Elisa Scratchit. It would have to do. Quickly Smooge dressed and left the house. He made his way through the empty streets to his nephew’s house. His knock was answered by Tamsin, his nephew’s wife. “Well, here’s a sight for sore eyes. And how are you this fine morning Uncle?” “I am well. Now, yesterday, Justin invited me to share your festive lunch.” “He did indeed, in the full expectation that, as usual, you wouldn’t attend.” Her face fell as realisation dawned. “You are attending, aren’t you?” “I am indeed. However, I must first run an errand. I will return forthwith and enjoy the day with you. I’m afraid that I haven’t had time to buy presents for you or children. How are little Agatha and Brian, by the way?” “Priti and Boris. They’re fine. As they weren’t expecting a present from you they won’t be disappointed.” “I shall make restitution some other way, perhaps some small financial contribution may be appreciated. Now, I must go, but I’ll be back shortly.” “Don’t hurry yourself Uncle.” Tamsin responded sourly. “I’ll let my husband know you’re coming. He’ll be so pleased.” The sarcasm was lost on Smooge. If Smooge noticed the aggression with which she slammed the door he chose to ignore it. Instead he strode off through the snow to his next port of call. Under his breath he hummed a familiar carol. His knock was answered by Elisa. “Mr Smooge. Well bless me but we weren’t expecting to see you this morning.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not free till this afternoon, you randy old goat.” She hissed. “Now, now, children. No need to be alarmed.” Smooge beamed at her. “Fear not Madam, I haven’t come for my curtain fitting. I bring you this fine goose so that you may enjoy the festivities.” He held the dead bird up by its neck. Elisa's mouth dropped open with shock, but she recovered her wits quickly. “You’d better come in then.” Elisa stood to one side then ushered Smooge into the tiny, badly lit parlour. “I’ll tell Bob you’re here.” She said as she left the room. Seeing their father’s employer enter the room the children cried out with alarm and backed themselves into the furthest corner. “Now, now, children. No need to be alarmed.” Smooge gave them his warmest grin, which succeeded only in drawing fresh cries of alarm from them. “Now, why don’t you come over here to your Uncle Smooge. You. What’s your name little girl?” He singled out a child dressed from head to toe in shocking pink. “I’m Beyoncé” She stammered in fear. “OK, Beyoncé, why don’t you introduce me to the rest of your brothers and sisters.” Emboldened, the girl moved forward slightly and pointed at each child in turn. “That’s Dappy, he’s the oldest; Jagger, Britney, Elvis, Bono, Amy, Norton is the one with the frilly pink shirt, that’s KD in the boiler suit, Freddie, Ringo and finally Tiny Tim.” “God Bless us everyone.” Piped Tim from the back of the crowd. “Yes, alright Tim. Don’t milk it.” Said the one identified as Elvis. At that moment Bob Scratchit entered the room, brushing snow from his shoulders. “I must get that hole in the privy roof sorted.” He told the world at large. “Well, this is a surprise, Mr Smooge.” His face took on a worried look. “You haven’t come to sack me, have you? You did agree I could have the day off.” “No need to worry, Bob. I’ve just come to give you this fine goose for your lunch and to wish you the season’s greetings.” He handed the bird over to his employee. The children eyed it with open mouthed awe. They’d never seen so much meat in one place before. “Oh, Bless You Sir. Can I get you a drink?” “Why, that would be wonderful Bob.” Scratchit left the room and returned a few minutes later without the goose but with the bottle of beer he had been looking forward to enjoying with his roast rat. He offered it to Smooge, then ushered him across to the seat by the fire. The only seat in the room since the rest of the furniture had been burnt to provide warmth. Fortunately the Scratchit family had been unaffected by the recent rise in gas prices. You had to have gas for that to affect you. They sat in embarrassed silence while Smooge drank the beer. The children whispered together about the mystery of Smooge turning up with food for them. Smooge drained the last drop from the bottle and rose. Scratchit almost fell over with relief as he escorted his employer form the house. “Have the merriest of Christmases, Mr Smooge.” “Thank you Bob, and the same to you and your family. Please tell your lovely wife not to bother with my curtain fitting this evening. We can arrange it for another time, I’m sure.” “Why thank you, Sir. She will be pleased.” I won’t be though, thought Smooge. He wished someone would hurry up and invent the internet so he could download some Christmas porn. Instead he pasted a smile onto his face that succeeded in frightening a passing horse, then made his way back to his nephew’s house. As the door shut Smooge heard Tiny Tim’s voice. “God Bless us every one.” “Oh do shut up.” The other children shouted in chorus. That's the end of Episode 6. The 7th and final episode will be posted next Saturday, 18th December. Can you guess how it will end? If you want to be usre not to miss Episode 7, then why not sign up for our newsletter, so we can send you a reminder. Just click the button below. And if you want to know more about the books written by Robert Cubitt, the author of "An Alternative Christmas Carol, then click the button below to go to the "Books" page of this website.
 Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Yes, it's still Christmas Eve, but now about 3 a.m. After the two spectral visits, Smooge couldn’t bring himself to go to sleep again. Instead he pondered on what he had been shown. The visions were worrying. He wondered if he might be developing a conscience and, if he did, whether it might mean the end of his banking career. After all, who had ever heard of a banker with a conscience? The clock chimed three and Smooge sat up expectantly. Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen as the clock struck the quarter hour. After another five minutes a figure slouched through the wall and into the bedroom. Smooge noticed that this ghost was female. Her long raven black hair was streaked with bright blue. Small white protrusions were emanating from her ears and in her hand she held a rectangular device, with which she was deeply engrossed. The girl’s thumb rubbed over the device in strange, jerky motions. Her mouth moved in a rhythmic chewing motion, reminiscent of cattle at rest. “Wat you lookin’ at, you pervert?” “You’re late.” snapped Smooge. “Whatever.” The girl said without looking up. “Well, don’t you have some sort of message for me?” The girl gave a long, all suffering sigh and reluctantly slipped the small device into the pocket of her baggy cardigan. She fished out a card and read it, her lips moving slowly as she did so. Satisfied that she had memorised the contents of the card, she thrust her hands into her cardigan pocket and spoke somewhat petulantly. “I am the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. I bring you a warning of your fate should you not mend your ways.” The message delivered, the girl drew out the small device and recommenced her fiddling with it. She giggled at something and then started moving her thumb more rapidly. Smooge examined the girl more closely. Apart from the baggy cardigan she wore some sort of tight shirt, above which an expanse of chest sparkled with gold glitter and below which her belly button was exposed, showing a gold ring pierced through it. Her skirt was a strip of denim that stopped in a ragged fringe well above her knees. Her legs were encased in thick pink and green striped nylon stockings that had holes torn in them in a number of places. She wore shoes that went to a point at the toes but also had a heel that was at least six inches high. Were she solid Smooge guessed that the heels would make small holes in his hard wood floors. Smooge’s bunions started to throb in sympathy. “Wat you lookin’ at, you pervert?” The girl realised she was being examined. “Your clothing. I have never seen such strange garments on a female.” “I don’t follow no fashions. No one tells me how to dress.” The girl stated angrily. “I’m an individual. So are all my friends. We all dress like this because we're all individuals. Wat are you, my Mum or somefing?” Smooge wisely decided not to pursue the matter. “I suppose you have somewhere to take me?” “I do, but you’ll have to make your own way. My Dad will have to give me a lift 'cos I ain't got my licence yet and if he sees you with me he’ll think you’re some sort of paedo out to groom me.” The girl waved her hand and Smooge found himself flying over the town once more. He had to admit it was a very convenient way to travel and far less polluting than a horse drawn carriage. After a while he started to descend and was deposited in a field. There was nothing in sight in any direction. The girl appeared beside him. “Sorry ‘bout this. We’ve got a bit of a walk from here. They used Brianair for this trip so we couldn’t get no closer. I hope you only had hand luggage otherwise you’ll get a bill for the excess.” Smooge looked down at his empty hands, wondering what the girl was talking about. She turned and floated across the field leaving Smooge to struggle through the snow behind her. For some reason he was feeling the bitter cold this time. He wished he had dressed for the weather as his silk pyjamas and slippers weren’t up to the job. At last they arrived once more at Bob Scratchit’s house. Smooge counted the children and only managed to get as far as eleven. The house was dark and Smooge noticed a black wreath hanging on the door. “Who is this for?” He asked, already knowing in his heart. The girl didn’t answer, but waved her hand and the door swung open. In the tiny parlour the family were gathered. Bob Scratchit sobbed quietly and the children whispered together, casting occasional glances at their father. Smooge counted the children and only managed to get as far as eleven. He searched the faces to identify the missing child. “Tiny Tim.” He exclaimed. “Where is Tiny Tim?” “He is the one the wreath is for.” The ghost explained. “And Elisa?” “Oh Elisa.” Scratchit wailed. “Elisa why have you abandoned me?” “Run off with the man who provided her with curtain material.” Explained the ghost. “Before or after Tiny Tim’s death?” “About five minutes ago.” The scene faded and Smooge found himself in a windblown graveyard. Beside an open grave stood the solitary figure of a clergyman holding an open prayer book. As he muttered prayers he took occasional glances towards the gate of the graveyard, hoping that someone would come to mourn the grave’s occupant. “Whose grave is this?” Smooge asked the ghost. “Yours.” “Will no one come to mourn my passing?” “Wait.” The ghostly girl commanded. Smooge heard a murmur and turned his own head towards the gate. There he saw a sight that filled his heart with joy. “People are coming to pay their respects.” He said as he watched the growing crowd. So many people. It looked as though the whole town had turned out for him. “As if.” was all the ghost said, apparently reading his mind. The crowd gathered round the open grave. Smooge saw Bob Scratchit step forward to speak to the Vicar. “You better get the grave filled in, Vicar.” He said. “Why, my son. What is the need for haste?” The Vicar replied. “Well, we can’t start dancing on it until it’s been filled in, can we?” For Smooge the world went black. End of Episode 5. Episode 6 will be posted on Saturday 11th December. Click the button to sign up for our newsletter and we'll be happy to send you a reminder. And if you'd like to find out more about the books by the author of "An Alternative Christmas Carol", Robert Cubitt. Just click the button below to be taken to the "Books" page of this website.
Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Still Christmas Eve, but now it's about 2.00 a.m. “Oy, wanker. Hands off cocks and on with socks. Time for your next visitation.” Smooge sat bolt upright, startled awake by the uncouth shouting. “I beg your pardon. How dare you wake me in such a rude manner.” “Ooh, ‘ark at him. Anyone would think you were something special, instead of a greedy wanker with no mates. Now, come on, I’m on a tight schedule. There’s old ladies waiting to be mugged ‘cos I’ve been detailed to this. Know wat I mean?” “Do you mind telling me who you are first.” “Never you mind who I am. Just let’s say I’m the ghost of Christmas Present. That’s the ghost of now, not the ghost of the present you got last year that you didn’t like and don’t know what to do with. Do what I do and give it to someone you don’t like, you get me?” “So I guess I’m supposed to follow you then?” “That’s right, innit.” Smooge rose from his bed and went over to the window. He climbed through and plummeted to the ground below. Above him the ghost’s head appeared through the window. “Personally I’m going to use the door, but you know your own business best.” The ghost called down. Smooge thought he heard the word ‘wanker’ again as the head disappeared from view. Now, now, Tamsin my love. You should not encourage our children to think badly of their Great Uncle. Smooge groaned and pulled himself from the snowdrift that had fortuitously cushioned his fall. Beside him the ghost materialised. Smooge took a second to examine him. He was young, his face covered in volcanic pimples. He wore strange clothes. On his head perched a cap, the peak sticking out sideways as though his head had turned but the hat had stayed static. On its dome the initials N and Y were intertwined. Below that was a loose short sleeved shirt of bright red, emblazoned with the words "I'm not a gynaecologist, but I don't mind taking a look if it helps out!". At his hips were loose fitting trousers that sagged and barely clung to the youth’s buttocks. Every few seconds he would hitch them up to prevent them descending further. Finally there were the soft white fabric shoes he wore, a strange tick like mark adorning the sides. They were totally unsuitable for the deep snow in which they now stood. “Now, Bro, you gotta follow me. You get me?” The youthful ghost intoned, his head tilted to one side. The question was accompanied by a strange flick of the fingers of his right hand. “Er, yes, I think I understand.” Why the ghost needed to ask for confirmation of understanding all the time, Smooge couldn’t work out. The youth of today, with their strange language. The ghost rose into the air and Smooge found himself rising with him. “This is sick” The ghost shouted. “Almost worth being killed in that drive-by.” “I’m sorry you’re feeling nauseous.” Smooge sympathised. He’d had no idea the occupants of the spirit world could feel mortal discomfort. “What you goin’ on about dude? Never mind. We’re ‘ere nah, innit.” Smooge recognise the small, slightly shabby house of his nephew. The walls melted away to allow Smooge and the ghost to enter the living room. Within it were gathered his nephew, his wife and their two children. “Don’t worry, they can’t hear you or see you.” The ghost advised Smooge. “Now, Priti, Boris, just one more parlour game and then you must go to bed. If you don’t then I shall summon your Great Uncle Smooge to scare you to bed.” The children raised their hands to their face and shrieked in terror. “Now, now, Tamsin my love. You should not encourage our children to think badly of their Great Uncle.” “I’m sorry, Justin, but the old miser does nothing to earn either our affection or respect. I would encourage our children not to emulate him. Why, I would rather they were,” she paused for dramatic effect, “poor rather than that they became bankers.” “Uncle Ebenezer isn’t that bad, you know. Why, he may yet turn out to be a good egg.” “That is what I love about you Justin. So kind; so forgiving; so deluded. But your Uncle is a lost cause. He cares only for money. He will die alone and unloved.” “Much as I would like to believe differently, I fear you’re right, my love.” “In these times of trouble he does nothing to ease our plight, does he?” “He is of the belief that we’re all in it together, so why should he help us if he doesn’t help others?” “Yes. Well, some are more in it together than others, apparently.” The scene faded as the ghost took them away from the house and they drifted high above the roof tops . “Surely you wouldn’t burn the boy’s crutch.” Bob protested. “Where are we going now?” Asked Smooge. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, copper. Oh, sorry, I mean you’ll see in a moment.” Smooge blinked away the cold night air and when he opened his eyes once again he found he was in the tiny, dingy living room of Bob Scratchit’s house. Gathered around his clerk were the twelve children he believed were his own. “I don’t mean to be rude, Father.” The eldest boy was saying. “But haven’t you and mother ever heard of birth control?” “Now hush, Dappy.” His father said. “You know what joy you all bring us. Besides, if we had fewer children we’d lose our housing benefit.” “What’s housing benefit?” asked a small, shrunken looking child. “That’s money you get if you have too many children and can’t afford to pay your rent, stupid.” The oldest boy cuffed his sibling round the ear in a friendly manner, sending the small boy tumbling across the room. “Now, don’t be unkind to Tiny Tim.” His father intervened. “God bless us every one.” The small child said, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. “Yes, that’s right, Tiny Tim. Now, where’s your mother?” “Upstairs with Mr Grace doing a curtain fitting.” Dappy reported. “Well, who’d have thought that his curtains would fit our windows.” Bob beamed at the child. The child rolled his eyes at his father’s stupidity but said nothing. “Now, what is Father Christmas going to bring us this year?” Bob smiled around the circle of children. “A doll,” said a small girl who appeared to be addicted to the colour pink. “Toy soldiers.” Said a medium sized boy. “A hair dryer.” Said another boy, holding up a mirror and patting his hair into place. “A Set of plumbing tools.” Suggested a rather stocky little girl wearing a boiler suit. “World Peace.” Said Tiny Tim. “Ah, Tiny Tim, would that were true.” Bob ruffled the hair of his youngest son. “God Bless us every one.” Tiny Tim said. “Yes, Ok, Tim. No need to keep repeating yourself.” The front door slammed and Elisa Scratchit breezed into the room, buttoning her blouse. “Right then Bob Scratchit. What have you brought us for our Christmas Dinner?” Elisa demanded to know. “Well, my pay doesn’t go far, as you know my love, but thanks to Mr Smooge’s nephew’s benevolence I have managed to obtain a large, juicy rat. If I slice it thinly there will be enough for a piece each.” “Oh, father.” Tiny Tim exclaimed. “You are so good to us. It’s been ages since we last had rat.” “Well, you can all enjoy a little more. Mr Smooge has asked that I go around to do another curtain fitting tomorrow so I shan’t be here for lunch. Perhaps Mr Smooge may take pity on me and feed me a morsel from his own table.” “You work so hard, Elisa. There is so little I can do.” “Perhaps ‘do little’ should be your last name.” the woman sneered. “That would make me Mrs Doolittle. Mrs Elisa Doolittle. It has a nice ring to it. Wouldn’t it be loverly.” “We shall miss you Mummy.” “Do stop your whining, dear Tiny Tim.” Snapped his mother. “Now, where did you leave your crutch, we’re nearly out of firewood.” “Surely you wouldn’t burn the boy’s crutch.” Bob protested. “Of course not. I just want to send the little tyke out to get some wood from the yard. The older lads "accidently" broke one of the neighbour's fences today. We may as well make use of the scrap wood.” “Oh, that’s OK then. Off you go Tiny Tim.” The boy hobbled obediently to the door, his more able brothers and sisters sniggering behind their hands. Smooge turned to the ghost. “Will they truly eat rat on Christmas Day?” “Unless there is a miracle.” The ghost gave Smooge an inquiring look. “I knew I paid that man too much.” Snapped Smooge. The ghost gave his curious flick of the fingers and the two were immediately transported back to Smooge’s bedroom. “Now be warned Bro. The third and final ghost will be with you at the strike of three.” The apparition faded into the night, taking care to pocket a gold watch and chain as it left. End of Episode. Episode 5 will be posted next Saturday, 4th December. If you want to be sure not to miss Episode 5, just click below for our newsletter and we'll email you a reminder. If you would like to find out more about Robert Cubitt's writing, just click the button below. This will take you to the "Books" page on this website.
 Between now and Christmas we will be serialising the satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Still Christmas Eve - but it's now about 1 a.m. Smooge couldn’t be sure if what woke him was the chiming of the church clock or the strange green glow in the corner of his bedroom. Either way he struggled to consciousness and examined the light more closely. A thick fog drifted around it, making it difficult to see what was at its heart. There was a loud coughing and spluttering and the fog started to disperse to reveal a green clad figure waving frantically. “Sorry about that. Damned special effects machine’s on the blink again.” The apparition waved some more and Smooge was able to make out a large man with a bushy beard. Crowning his snowy locks was a garland of evergreen leaves, which his waving arms had managed to tilt slightly sideways giving him a rakish appearance. His fur trimmed green suit looked vaguely familiar, as did his shiny black boots, but Smooge struggled to place them, though he felt a sudden desire for a cold fizzy drink. “Who are you, and what the fuck are you doing befouling my bedroom?” Snapped Smooge. He supposed he should have felt fear, but for some reason felt only annoyance. If I wasn’t a banker I’d be the nasty judge on Strictly Come Dancing “Oh yes. I suppose introductions are in order. I am one of the three that was foretold. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. I come to you like the last stale sausage roll on the plate which no one will eat.” “Very nice for you, I’m sure. Now what the hell do you want?” “I come to remind you of the way things used to be, before you turned into the creature you are now, cursed and hated by one and all.” “That is an image I nurture and cherish. If I wasn’t a banker I’d be the nasty judge on Strictly Come Dancing.” “Be that as it may, but you weren’t always like that. Now come, follow me.” The ghost rose and walked to the outer wall of the bedroom and continued straight through. When Smooge didn’t immediately follow, he stuck his head back through the apparently solid bricks. “Come on. I haven’t got all night. I’ve indigestion to deliver to half the population of the Western world. Climb out through the window. It’s perfectly safe.” Smooge threw up the sash window and climbed through. He stepped gingerly onto thin air and found, to his surprise, that his weight was supported. The ghost grabbed his arm and pulled him upwards and over the roofs of the houses. “Where are we going?” Smooge shouted against the wind. He was surprised to find that he had no feeling of cold, despite the steadily falling snow. For some reason Smooge thought he heard singing, an annoying high pitched voice that grated on his nerves. Something about walking in the air, but he couldn’t quite make out the rest. “All in good time. Ah, we have arrived.” The ghost lowered them to the ground outside a window. The house was brightly lit, all the gas lights blazing and a thousand candles twinkling to add to the brilliance. Smooge peered through the open curtains at the festivities inside. Dancers swirled to the sound of music and there was laughter from a hundred throats rising above. “I know this place. It’s the home of my former employer, Mr Fizzypop.” “That’s correct. This is his house before you and Jacob Harley drove his business into bankruptcy and bought it back for a fraction of its true value.” There’s even rumours of a Peerage in the New Year’s honours list. “That’s standard business practice. I learnt it from the owner of a major chain of High Street shops. By the way, if this is supposed to be my Christmas past, where am I?” “Ah yes. Where indeed Ebenezer?” The Ghost grabbed Smooge’s arm and they drifted upwards and slightly sideways. “Now, look.” Smooge found himself looking through the window of what was obviously a bedroom. The turbulence of the blankets covering a large bed indicated that strenuous activity was being indulged beneath them. A ringlet adorned head popped into view on the side nearest to them. A second appeared further away. Both seemed to be gasping for air. “The Fizzypop twins. Such nice girls, and so enthusiastic.” A young male head appeared between the two females, handsome despite its dishevelled state and also gasping for breath. “And there I am. I remember it well.” Smooge leered at the ghost. “Do you recall what happened to them?” “On the night? I remember the noises they made. What a pair of wild cats. Their father nearly caught us. I had to hide in a cupboard. But after that? No. I seem to recall that I lost track of them. What became of them?” “Well, of course, when their father lost his business the whole family was thrown onto the street. Eugenie, that’s the nearer one, found herself pregnant. By you, before you ask. She gave birth in the workhouse and died of complications and bad hygiene. She should have gone private but they couldn’t afford it. Her son was named Oliver. He was given the last name of Twist. A term to do with financial trickery, I believe.” “And the other?” Smooge struggled to recall her name. “Bridget. She was called Bridget.” “Beatrice actually. She fared no better. In order to support her destitute father and mother she took to a life of prostitution. She died gin soaked and disease ridden. You passed her in the street once and didn’t even recognise her.” “That could hardly be my fault. Fizzypop was an incompetent fool. Harley and I did no more than any self-respecting usurers would have done.” “There is no need to be so defensive. No one blames you. Indeed old Fizzypop’s last words before he expired were ‘I don’t blame Harley and Smooge. They did no more than any other greedy unethical bankers would do.’” “Well, my friends in Parliament didn’t think we had done anything wrong. Had they done so they would have shunned us. Instead they allowed us to make even more profit. You know, it’s amazing what a donation to party funds, the funding of a private office or the sponsorship of an MP can get you in return. For a pair of Wimbledon tickets I can get a question asked in the House, you know and dinner at the Garrick Club will get me the ear of the Prime Minister. There’s even rumours of a Peerage in the New Year’s honours list.” “Yes, indeed it can get you a lot in return. I’m sure the Pope will summon you to be canonised as the first living saint. How many former MPs now sit on the board of Smooge and Harley?” “Quite a few, but that is mere coincidence. In fact that reminds me, it’s time we culled the more useless ones.” “Then I doubt it will leave many still serving you. Now, it’s time for us to leave.” The house faded into the night and Smooge found himself back in his bedroom, sitting on his bed. “When the clock chimes two.” The ghost droned, “You will be visited again.” The room filled with fog once more and the ghost disappeared in a fit of coughing and spluttering. Episode 4 will be posted on Saturday 27th November. If you can't wait until then, you can buy the whole book by clicking on the button below. And if you want to make sure you don't miss the next episode, why not sign up for our newsletter so we can remind you when we post it next week.
Episode 2 of Robert Cubitt's less than reverent take on the Charles Dickens Classic. Christmas Eve, around 9 pm. “Ah, Mrs Scratchit. Right on time. Are you ready for my curtain fitting?” “I am Sir.” Elisa unbuttoned her heavy Winter coat. As she opened it wide Smooge staggered in a mock faint, clutching at his heart. Elisa giggled as she removed the coat, then struck a pose. She was a striking woman. Her twelve pregnancies had left her with a figure that was best described as ‘statuesque’. Her curves undulated from her shoulders to her knees, shown off to their best advantage by the tight basque that she wore above white silk stockings. No burlesque dancer could match her at that moment. Smooge reached out to grab at the large parts of her that were thrust towards him but Elisa took a step backwards, wagging her finger at him in mock scolding. “Now, Now, Ebenezer. Food first. You know I can’t fuck on an empty stomach.” * * * Smooge lay back on his feather mattress and snuggled into the crisp, clean sheets. That had been good, and so inexpensive. He made a mental note to dock Scratchit’s pay to compensate for the small outlay to Scratchit’s wife. You give with one hand and take with the other and that’s how the world goes round, he mused. His eyelids grew heavy as he listened to the church clock chiming eleven. A muffled thud made him sit bolt upright in his bed. He craned his neck, trying to locate the source of the sound. He was pretty sure that it had emanated from the upper floor, not the ground. He relaxed slightly, satisfied that his fortune wasn’t in peril. A second thud came and the gas lights dimmed. The fire, already burning low, started to belch smoke into the room. He coughed and spluttered, wiping tears from his eyes as the fumes spread. Strange. That had never happened before, at least not to his knowledge. “Don’t be such an arse.” A voice said, A third thud, louder now, came clearly from the parlour. There was nothing for it, he had to go and look. Stepping gingerly from his bed, Smooge felt around with his feet, sliding them into the fleecy lining of his slippers. He reached into the fireplace and grasped the warm metal knob of the poker. “Who’s there?” He challenged the night. There was no reply. He crept slowly towards the door, the poker raised and ready to strike at the first hint of trouble. Using his finger nails he eased the door open, then swung it hard, crashing it back against the wall. “Ah ha.” He shouted as he sprang into the dim light of the parlour. “Don’t be such an arse.” A voice said, originating from somewhere near his chaise longue. Smooge peered into the gloom cast by the dying embers of the fire. There, stretched out on the chaise, was a figure. It looked familiar. It wasn’t alone. He crept closer. The gaslight flared, illuminating the scene and showing a man reclining. He wore a winding sheet around his chin and a suit that was ten years out of fashion, moth eaten and dusty. Smooge thought he saw movement within the threads. On the floor near the figure’s feet sat a scantily clad girl, while at the other end another almost naked girl sat plucking grapes from a stalk and feeding them to him. “As I live and breathe,” whispered Smooge. “Harley. Jacob Harley.” “The one and only. Your one time partner and now resident of the underworld.” “But you’re dead. I buried you myself.” “You did, and I note approvingly that you spent barely a penny on my interment. The plot you chose was the coldest, most remote in the cemetery, the stone you erected so tiny you can barely read my name. I congratulate you. I would have done no more had the boot been on the other foot.” “What magic is this that brings you to my parlour in the dead of night.” “No magic, Ebenezer. I have been sent.” “Who sent you?” “You would not wish me to break a professional confidence, would you?” Jacob Harley raised a disapproving eyebrow. “That is not the way of Harley and Smooge.” “Smooge and Harley. I changed the name the day I buried you.” “Ah yes. Of course. How is business these days? “Not bad. I plan to take on new partners; A Mr Goldman and a Mr Sachs. They tell me that there are shed loads of money to be made advising the government on privatising its assets then undervaluing them. We plan to start with the health service.” “That sounds very promising. However, I’m not here to talk business. I was sent to bring you a warning.” “What warning could you bring me.” “Change your ways Ebenezer. Change your ways this very night.” “And if I don’t?” “Then you will end up like me.” You’re a randy old goat. I was most impressed. “That doesn’t look too much like a hardship.” Smooge waved his hand to indicate the two barely clothed handmaidens. The one by Harley’s feet plumped up her pneumatic breasts in case Smooge hadn’t fully appreciated them. “Appearances can be deceptive. What you can’t see is that I no longer have any genitals and these two beauties have what I used to have, only twice the size and encrusted with hard scales. If you can imagine what they might do with those then you will get some picture of my torment, which I must endure throughout eternity. Or until Wales wins the Rugby World Cup, which is likely to take just as long.” “Ah, now I understand your warning. But I’m not fearful. I am righteous, I cannot go where you went. You lived a dissolute life, Jacob, whereas I am abstemious in the extreme.” “What you were doing to Elisa Scratchit could hardly be classed as abstemious. You’re a randy old goat. I was most impressed. Did she say how my children are?” “You fathered her children?” “Not all of them. Numbers three through five I believe are mine. Twelve is almost certainly yours by the way. The sickly one.” “So at least Scratchit fathered the others.” Harley choked on his laughter and would have died had he not been dead already. “Goodness gracious no. He is, perhaps, the father of the first. The others are mine, yours or of unknown provenance. Anyway, back to matters at hand. You are a greedy old lecher” Harley intoned. “You will be visited tonight by three shades. Listen carefully to them and heed their warnings. If you do not then you are doomed to join me in my eternal torment.” Harley faded out of existence, but the two girls stayed where they were, eyeing Smooge up as though trying to work out how much he would fetch at a fat stock sale. Harley blinked back into the room again. “Come on girls.” He hastened his companions. “Strictly’s on in five minutes.” Smooge shook his head to try to clear it of the vision of Harley and the two women. Hallucination, he concluded, brought about by indigestion, which in turn had been brought on by fornicating on a full stomach. He went over to the sideboard and dispensed a very large brandy from the decanter. He poured it down his throat, which he had to say was an insult to the makers of such a fine cognac. Noticing that he was still holding the poker he realised that maybe it hadn’t all been in his imagination. Smooge made his weary way back to his bedroom and climbed into the bed, though it now felt cold and clammy. He struggled to find sleep but eventually was able to succumb, but only after he had spent half an hour mentally evicting people from the houses he owned. Episode 3 will be posted next Saturday, but if you can't wait until then, you can purchase the whole book by clicking the link below. Or if you want to make sure you don't miss the next episode, why not sign up for our newsletter to receive a notification when it goes live. Just click the button below.
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