I drove to Radstock, the nearest town to here and they have a bakery…

I drove to Radstock, the nearest town to here and they have a bakery. Independent; part of no chain or franchise. The girls work hard at lunchtime as a stream of workers, mostly builders and other manual workers. The variety of lunch options is incredible. I opted for two traditional pasties and two custard doughnuts. They are my favourite option and selfishly assume that they are what someone else would want. Next door is a wonderful shop run by an Asian family and through the regular use of the shop I've got to know him a little and I believe that we respect each other. I usually buy three cans of the mighty polish Karpackie which comes in at a mighty 9% for the princely sum of £1.75. You can't argue with that. Pub drinking has been sanitised and is not within the scope of the lower working class. To get a drunk on comparable level it would cost about £20. More in London or Bath. So the frugal option of three cars is around £6. It's a no brainier. I don't drink every day like I did when I was working but enjoy a little night once a week, getting drunk and dancing to old music I still love. Recently I've been enjoying an imaginary early Specials reappraisal. The first album is a fantastic piece of loose ska with a punk edge. I was fortunate to see what I believe was their final gig and the first time they played what would be their final single; Ghost Town. The song made number one when the charts were still important. Every teenager watched Top of the Pops on a Thursday night. The song captured the mood of the country. In 1981, city after city rioted. Saint Paul's in Bristol, Moss Side in Manchester, toxteth in Liverpool and Chapelallertton in Leeds. You'd watch the six o'clock news to see where it was going off. Police cars tipped over and set ablaze. Shops smashed into and looted. The oppressed people of all races had had enough. Leeds, where I grew up had seen the police over stepping the line in the hunt for the evil misogynist and due to agreement that he must be caught the public submitted to the police approach. About four girls were killed in the north of Leeds. One, a girl I had seen around who was remarkably beautiful to a boy in the strange change of puberty. Jane Macdonald. He dropped his first on fields we played football on. He left another behind the arndale centre, a side road off the route we'd walk to headingley to watch the great rugby league team. To be honest in 81 a lot of the great team that won many honours were retired but as fans we supported them in their down times too. It was horrible growing up and seeing another woman senselessly killed. Another he dropped on soldiers field which adjoins Roundhay Park weirdly behind the flats were Jimmy Savile. At the time there was no connection though Savile did befriend him whilst he was in Broadmoor. The city had been the exciting leader of the north. Don Revies Leeds Inited were arguably the best team around the late 60s early 70s. But by 1981 they were o bitter feel now the glory days were gone. Instead the fans fought to be the best hooligans and were nearly banned from playing at all. Following a European cup final in 1975 the team was robbed of this highest honour by a biased referee. The fans rioted. Live on national television the Leeds hooligans tore out the seats from the stadium and through them on to pitch while fighting the French police. Leeds were banned from European competitions for a number of years. Sadly the team was on the decline and would not have qualified for such competitions anyway. In Chapeltown, close to where I lived the police continued to pester the largely West Indian community and they had had enough. I remember it becoming a no go area for police as the locals rioted. Building large fires in the centre of the streets, over turning police cars and setting them ablaze. Sutcliffe had been caught. He was from Bradford and came over to Leeds, curb crawling and hunting vulnerable women. Spencer Place was the centre of the red light area however the beast was killing any vulnerable woman he could. His modus operandi was to hit them on the head with a claw hammer before butchering them with knives and sharpened screwdriver:. So in this climate a protest group was formed called Rock against Racism. One of the founders was from Leeds. There was a protest march and a free gig in Potternewton park. If you read reports from the time the marchers numbered about 5000 and grew to 20000 people for the music. I went on the march that set off from Woodhouse Moor, walking to the city centre then onwards to the park the bands played. I remember feeling that this roughly 50% black and 50% white might go either way. Tensions were high and the National Front would sell their papers and try to recruit from outside Elland Road. Most Leeds fans had no time for them however they managed to recruit sufficient a number that Leeds became regarded as racist club. From within the fan base this was ultimately crushed and by the late 80s fans would take an e before the game, get loved up and go on to pubs and nightclubs . But in 81 the politics of the fans was confused. So there was a tension on that day. But it was a success. The two cultures of youths came together and the elders ensured that this stand against racism was a buoyant celebration of their stand against racism and also the unity in hatred of Margaret thatcher who had closed down the economically failing industries that had woven communities together.
I remember watching Aswad and other reggae bands that created a chilled atmosphere. As night fell the crowd waited for arguably the biggest band of the moment. It really was the Specials. After the Laid Back reggae the Soecials had a mental punk energy. They played the ska at a hard pace and the crowd loved it. The best band of the moment had come to Leeds to play for us. The 20,000 black and white in unity for this mental party. Apparently the National Front had organised a counter protest and attracted about 300. This pathetic group ended up fighting each other for god knows what reason. They missed out on a very special moment. Apparently there was tension in the band at this point and my memory is that they played more like the first album and their other number one Too much too Young. They also debuted what would be another number one. A historically important song Ghost Town which captured the mood of the time perfectly. The young people there were only just beginning to decide on their politics and anyone who had been confused now knew what was right. Apparently not only was it the first time they had debuted Ghost Town live. It was also the band's final gig. It was amazing. They were incredible. The crowd went wild together in a celebration of unity.
Rock against Racism was set up in response to two respected musicians. Eric Clapton had spoken to the crowd at his gig that he supported Enoch Powell whose infamous Rivers of Blood speech had suggested that unless the immigrants who had been brought in to rebuild the country after the war were sent back to countries most no longer knew, there would be trace war. David Bowie had spoken of his belief in fascism and his belief that Hitler was the first rock star. For most people Bowie is revered for his numerous persona changes. For me when he sacked/ abandoned/ split up with Mick Ronson, the man whose guitar sounded like no other. His string arrangements lifted a Bowie idea into something wonderful that is still played today. The sound of Starman, Life on Mars, all the young dudes; once Bowie dropped him to go on his cocaine fuelled fsdchistic persona his music is all crsp to me. This is no doubt a blasphemous statement but it is how it sounds to me. I was on the side against racism. It was in direct response to Bowie and Claptons hard right wing extremism that Rock against Racism was formed.
So today my Asian shopkeeper freind sold me three cans of Skol super 8% for just £1.50 a can. With my evenings beer safe I drove home.
My partner is very ill. I gave up my business. My vocation and something that was o large part of my identity. I was Michael Wainwright. Close freind of celebrated furniture maker Gareth Neal. The man who had made the prism chairs for Fred Baier. A man who was a hero of mine. They say never meet your heroes. But he is brilliant and I love his man. I believe the best parts of his work will be historic milestones. He is a simple and lovely man. But he is also a genius. When you look at one of his greatest pieces, and there are many, and you click on to the geometry and what he is doing his work is like no other. Currently Gareth is very highly regarded. He is considered to be the best of his generation. I'm so close to his story I can't judge how good he is. Again his work is in the V and A collection. The museum collection is of the most significant pieces of the time. They are both in there and deservedly so. I would have liked to have had similar success and believe my best work is on a par. Not with Fred. Current fashion in the design world is very conservative. I imagine Fred is way out of fashion and Gareth's probably got his finger on the zeitgeist but in a hundred years time I can see them looking back in amazement at Fred's work.
Anyway I gave up furniture making to be a carer for my partner and has emphysema and is also loosing her mind. I was worried to leave her alone but I needed to take Bentley to the vet. The drive there and back is amazing. Leaving Shepton I initially drop onto the Bristol road for a short while before taking a left that wiggle for a while before turning into Bolters Lane. This is a Roman road and goes completely straight for maybe half o mile. I first got to know it when I was hanging out with Kipper. He is the basis of my character Lipton in the stories I am Writing. It had been a place where travellers parked up for years. Small tribes would set up camp there and enjoy o few months while the eviction process went through. Kipper is a tough man who has always lived outside normal society. There should be a book about him. Two of his brothers are travelers but live in different groups. I don't know them too well. There is a fourth brother who they call the white sheep of the family.
Kipper doesn't give e fuck. As I write this I want to ring him to see how he is getting on. Maybe I will later.
Bolters Lane. As I drove up it I thought first of the romans that built these roads during their invasion attempt. Ultimately the cold wet weather maybe caused them to fuck off back to Italy where it's warm.
I thought of all the people through the ages who had used this road.
I'll tell a kipper story, I hope he doesn't mind.
As a young kid, maybe 12, around time my mother died I saw something that had always been there. Wells has its cathedral. X Glastonbury too. But the biggest structure where I grew up was a water tower. There is a subterranean reservoir which is topped by a grass pitch. By the water tower a large pipe about two feet in diameter comes out from the ground and leads into the base of the water tower. Surrounding the field and tower was a fence which was in cast iron. Three flat plates were pierced by long spears. These were about seven feet tall. Hidden within the woodland that backed onto it was a point in the fence where some brave strong adventurer had removed a spear. This created a gap through which us kids could squeeze through.
To get onto the base we would make our way along the pipe. About two thirds of the way along they had made a spiked deterrent. Again this was made from spikes that would deter most. Further rolls of razor wire had been wrapped around and anti vandalism grease. We'd struggle to get past this but once over it it was only another eight feet of pipe and we were on the base. I've written about this year's ago if you are interested in all its history and size.
From the base it was only the fear of heights. Some aren't bothered and I remember Carl walking on concrete struts only a foot wide. I've always had a thing about the famous photo of the builders sat in a line, completely fearless eating their packed lunches.
About halfway up there was an old air race siren. Once you entered the centre of the drum through which the spiral staircase continued through a hole like e huge doughnut. Once on the top which was a shallow cone that led down to a wall no taller than ten inches. In the winter when the leaves were off the trees you could see right across the city. It was kind of peaceful though you knew it was dangerous. No one was likely to get you if you were up there there were times in the summer when I slept up there .
Anyway kipper was parked up on Bolters lane with his troup of misfits in their various vans, trailers and buses. We'd already climbed various gas silos and other industrial architecture and I asked if he would accompany me and help me rescale the water tower that had meant so much to me when I was young..
I turned up at his trailer with a four pack of special brew and a few bags of heroin. He was addicted to both at this time and had been laid there in his bed rattling. First he drank about half a can of brew straight down. I was surprised that he prioritised the beer over the gear. Next he got out his works and after a hit he was himself again.
We got in my van and we drove up to Leeds. I popped in to see some friends and we got sorted and arranged for stay there. We had some fish and chips from o famous place that has been there since I was a kid.
Then we drove into a small dodgy carpark and took a ladder which proved crucial. Everything had changed. The perimeter fence had a bend over to stop idiots like us. This was topped with razor wire. The ladder got us up and we covered the top with a small tarp. Once on the top we had to pull the ladder over and then throw it back. We encountered another fence around the base of the tower which we did the same with. Then at the base. The pipe was gone so we could only climb. In one of those fortunate discoveries that day you are right to do this a huge cable spool that was taller than us. Our ladder was too short and the light was fading a little. We rolled the huge wooden spool to the base of the water tower which provided us with a method of climbing up. Kipper went first of course. He is a braver man than me. Once on the base nothing was there to stop us but ourselves. When I was young it was a spiral staircase that could make you dizzy. Instead there was a ladder and back scratcher. Due to my fear of heights I went first, kipper said he'd catch me if I slipped and we went to the top. I was just as scared as I was when I was a kid while kipper performed some dangerous moves. There's a little clip of it on YouTube.
There were many missions of a similar nature and kipper was always there the adventure even if he didn't get why I was so fascinated by certain things.
Now Bolters Lane has been banked up on the sides and travellers no longer get their temporary site.
I thought of the romans who had built these straight roads that were so unique compared to the English and how they wind and weave their roads. Such different mind set. I thought of the Romans and their take presence here. Not a popular posting I imagine. The only record about Druids comes from Roman writers who clearly knew little of the inner world and the twenty years training to become one. That's a serious apprenticeship. But the Romans killed most of them and the knowledge they had that wasn't written but passed down through word of mouth.
And since they left these roads ha been used by many people as cultures change. The road comes out on what is clearly another Roman road. But that area is blessed with many things that the ancients left us to figure out. I tried to find a circular burrow in a wood near there and you could see the effort that went into these projects. The men who built Stonehenge must have known that they would not see the project complete. They must have had the outlook of being a part of something greater. We have no care for the future and want to see our individual creations realised and appreciated. We have lost the view of being part of the human race and seeing the whole of us as being the important thing. The liberal movement values the individual. We have lost the knowledge that we are part of something greater and our work may not be for us but for the future people.
As I turned towards Leigh on mendip I saw through the trees that are without leaves and saw a huge single stone. I believe that this was left by the ancients. Why did they do these things? They were just like us, equipped with the same brains. I felt the urge again to go on these missions as I used to do with kipper. I saw a water tower I've never seen before that I must investigate. The feeling has returned.
Yet I am now a full time carer. It's a 24 hour job. I knew it would come and I knew was my duty to nurse her. But I didn't know how tough it is. Her mind was gone for a couple of days but I think she has returned to the real world. Incontinance and the wailing all day only broken by coughing bouts. My partners dad was ill for the last five years and her mum had to do everything for him. But who will nurse her into death? Going first has to be the best way. Now there is no one to take care of her. The wailing continues and cranks up the anxiety levels. She seems to be back in reality now but for how long? Though she is poorly. One of these times she will go.
After taking the dog to the vet I drove further, in to Radstock and as I came over the hill the full moon stood out in the late fading daylight. It shames me to say that being out was a relief from being the carer.

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How does it end?

Mostly we lie in different rooms now. For five days and nights I stayed in the same bed with her as it seemed to provide her with some comfort. I try to stay asleep or at least to appear asleep for as long as possible. Ultimately the dog starts frisking around. Scratching and yelping at the slightest noise. Telling me it's time to get up. So I do and we go out. He's become aggressive. When the three of us are behaving normally he behaves well. If she is ill he pushes the boundaries a bit further to see how secure the system on which he depends is. Then if I get ill too he pushes further. It feels like I'm holding it all up and that if I break we all do. Then we come back. I feed him. I make us tea. I try to get her to eat but she doesn't want to often. But I have to get her to drink and to keep up her blood sugar. She is constantly moaning and wailing. This is only broken up when she has a bout of coughing which causes her to urinate a bit and I try to keep things clean. I watch films on YouTube. Listen to audiobooks. Sometimes I can read when she can cope with the light. The constant wailing means she is always in my consciousness. She needs my constant attention. But I need a break so go try read. Between the coughing and wailing she will shout questions. She seldom knows what time it is. Never what day. There is no break. No moment to myself. I try to get her to the chemist and manage to by driving. A doctors appointment is missed as despite my attempts to get her to go she says she feels too poorly. She drifts in and out of delirium and becomes angry when I try to tell her she has something wrong. The doctors appointment is rescheduled for tomorrow. I've not been able to get out of her what time it is at. Tomorrow morning I will ring and find out. Then I'll try to get her there. I ask her what exactly is her main concern but she can't say. And lying here now I continue to listen to her cough and moan and wail. I feel selfish for wanting to know when I get some time. I know only that things won't get better. Maybe for a while but the direction is one way. I'm tired. But I know what I'm going through is not as bad as what she is going through.

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Chapter . Lipton

After the joyful feeling of being free from the mental hospital he'd been in for the last six months Lipton did not know where the fuck to go so he reverted to the lifestyle he was familiar with. He hitchhiked up to bridgewater for want of a better town. He went shoplifting at Asda and walked out with two large bags of shopping and a bottle of port. He even managed to lift a half decent summer tent. With his spoils he walked out of the town to the A road bypass and followed a trick he'd learned from Skree. He found a large roundabout that was covered in trees and shrubs and made his way to the hidden centre. It's a place few people go and a great place to pitch your tent and feel confident that no one will bother you. Once the tent was pitched Lipton stashed the food he'd nabbed and sat outside enjoying the sunshine on his face. Something he'd long been deprived of. Taking a few long swigs from the litre of port he realised that for the first time in months he felt properly happy.

There were a few hours of daylight left so he made his way to the edge of the shrubbery that protected the passing motorists from seeing his new home and waited for o gap in the flow of traffic and ran out to the grass that served as a pavement and walked the two miles to the town centre. He thought back to the events of the Noah destruction. How the Clun Druid witch girls had summoned up the writhing mass of conger eel demon hybrids. How the crazed ex copper had appeared in his tiny boat and fired his artillery of weapons that had blown a hole in to the side of the vessel owned by Rupert Bunsen. The well known entrepreneur. Once the spacecraft was breached the myriad of eels had flooded in with the sea water and eaten all the occupants. The sea had boiled and most of his crew of freinds; Druids, shamen and witches had been thrown in to the water. Only Brock had been smart enough to strap himself to the boat. Lipton had gone under as had Skree. Lipton had somehow managed to recover himself and climb back aboard the boat he'd stolen for the mission. Christ had taken a huge spray of the bullets from psycho cops automatic rifle. It had severed his body; decapitated The son of god who simply had no time to ask a favour from his father. In conversations Jesus had told him that he was on bad terms with his dad and he might not have saved him anyhow. Him and Brock had put the pieces of him in bin bags hoping beyond hope that he could somehow resurrect from this. Lipton remembered Brock lift his severed head with seemingly zero revulsion. But then the Druid he'd come to think of as a close friend since the bare knuckle fight they'd had at Bury Ditches massive illegal rave. He had robbed graves and even taken the heads of two ravers. Removed the brains from the skulls, dividing the hemispheres and carefully collecting the pineal glands for his witches. Compared to this a severed head was nothing.

After the demon eels had eaten all the wealthy people they'd dispersed. There followed a silence. He'd seen a few people who had not yet boarded the spaceship frantically make their way to the houses and the huge mansion that sat on Bunsen Island. Nevertheless they'd managed to kill a good chunk of the world's wealthiest people. This thought was uplifting but the price they had paid. The Druid girls were happy to be taken by the demons, after all they had summoned them up. Brocks brothers, and Skree! Liptons mood dipped ias he thought of his lost freind, his brother, his fellow shaman, all the missions and adventures they'd been on.

Brock had the binoculars to his eyes as Lipton scoured the area all night before having to leave. The survivors would have informed the authorities and their minions would soon be here. And they had looked too long already. There could have been no more survivors. He'd lost his brother and the journey back to the British and Irish islands was spent mostly in silence. Lipton had skippered the craft, Brock only speaking if he was offering food or drinks. The journey back was over 60 hours. On the way there they enjoyed a party atmosphere. The return was funereal. But they had done it. Their mission was always likely to be beyond dangerous. Two survivors, three if Jesus was who he thought he was. That was a result really. The waters were still as the Druid and the shaman slowly made their way across the sea. And at night they both saw clearer skies than they had ever seen.

They'd returned the boat to Porlock Weir in the early hours of the morning and no one bothered them. Brocks Land Rover was still there and they'd carried the components of christs corpse and loaded them in the back. Brock had offered him a lift but Lipton said he'd hang around Porlock for a while. This had been a mistake. Lipton had pestered the few pubs, drinking heavily for his lost friend. It was during a drunken night that the landlord had rang to have him taken away. His rambling about being a shaman, an archangel and lunatic stories of witch and Druid, lost on some imaginary expedition. He was sectioned under the mental health act. Not for the first time. But he was free now.

In Bridgwater town centre he'd sat and begged up £60 then bought some brown and white that he took back to his roundabout haven. Hidden from the receding traffic Lipton smoked the crack in a tin. Can bent and perforated to gather his cigarette ash. The crack was good quality and he enjoyed the rush that cut through his port drunk. Then placing his brown on the foil he chased it until the heroin softened his world. He had no mat or sleeping bag that first night but the alcohol and drugs were warmth enough for him to sleep in peace. A free man once more.

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Footwear

People who know me well will know that I have worn this type of boot for 15 years or more. They are robust. They are easy to take off if you are on site nipping in and out of caravans. Lace up shoes are ridiculous In such circumstances. You'd spend a good chunk of your day taking them off and putting them back on. The steel toe cap is solid protection if you are in the workshop and are handling heavy boards of timber. The heel loop has to be strong, leather in this case. I've had a number of makes that are priced anywhere from £30 to £100 and often the cheaper ones are better. I buy one pair a year and they hold out water for that long. Once they've let in water once they're done. It will happen again. Yet today a good friend gave me a pair of trainers. Native Americans have the philosophy that if you are to understand a man you must walk in his shoes for a month. So I'm going to where trainers for a month to understand the minds of the people in our society who wear t trainers or runners if you're reading this in Ireland. Trainer wearers are many. The design is much like toothbrush designs. In books no one looks down on you. In bright white trainers even the most polite people take a glance. It's only a month and it's for a good cause.

Chapter 5: The resurrection number 34

The resurrection number 34

Simon Whitaker or Diesel as everyone he now knew called him had always thought the bloke was a bit of a cunt. I mean who goes around calling themselves Jesus Christ? Arrogant arsepipe. He was always hitting on his girlfriend anytime he got the chance. Diesel wasn't the jealous type and Angie had a genuine dislike of the man but he still felt he couldn't trust him to be honourable. It wasn't particularly Angie that the bloke hit on it was without exception every bird on site. And what was beyond him was that his success rate was unreal. It was as if, rather than endure the perpetual pestering that continued despite rebuttal women seemed to give in. Just to get it over with! He knew a number of wankers who claimed they were Druids. Some girls claimed to be witches. One bloke even claimed to be the reincarnation of King Arthur. But Jesus fucking Christ! The sheer arrogance! But two months ago a serious looking man who had dark hair and even darker eyes had turned up. He carried himself with a presence that Diesel knew was something he had never seen. He claimed to be a Druid but he was nothing like the Glastonbury types who flounced about with a pretentious pompous air. This man was not theatrical. He spoke with a light Welsh lilt and said little other than he had brought his friend Jesus back. Diesel had a spare caravan used to store tools and engine parts. The visitor asked him to make a clear space on the bed. Diesel did as he was bid before being told he might prefer not to witness what was about to take place. Being his caravan Diesel rightly felt that he should be involved. The Druid raised his eyebrows but acquiesced. From a bin liner in a similar pile in the back of the visitors landrover he pulled out a human head. Diesel involuntarily vomited. Hair matted in dried blood he recognised the severed head of the man he knew as Jesus. At a workmanlike pace, ignoring the traveller's reaction, the Druid brought out the torso and limbs, one leg in two pieces and arranged the grotesque jigsaw in approximation of a man. Brock, the Druid looked to the other man in concern; 'you going to be alright son?'

Diesel could not summon words but nodded. 'Have you got a padlock or something? He's not a pretty sight and I've no more idea than yourself about how long it'll take him to get, you know, back to normal like.'

Diesel again nodded and fumbled through his tackle until he had found a clasp and lock to seal the abomination away from prying eyes.

'Well I best be on my way, lad. I know he's a cunt but can I trust you to let him do his thing? To be frank, despite my hatred of Christianity, he turned out alright. Just leave him be. He'll either rot or not. Make sure he's left to get on with whatever it turns out to be.'

Offering his hand to the traveller who was wiping vomit to respond in something like a civil manner. 'I'm Brock if you have a visit from a Skree or Lipton. Otherwise you haven't seen me at all.'

Diesel shook the Druids hand. It was quite clear from the baring of the man that he would submit to any request.

As he walked toward his Land Rover he nodded back. 'He's who he says he is you know. Believe it or not he's fucking Christ.'

For the first couple of weeks Simon Whitaker wondered if he was the patsy of some horrific murder. He mentioned nothing to Angie. If the shit did hit the fan he'd deny all knowledge and the fewer people who knew the better. Then on a sunny spring morning when he was left alone on site curiosity got the better of him. Carefully Diesel slipped the key he'd kept buried deep in his jeans pocket and felt the click as the u bend sprung free from the locks body. Pulling the clasp free he pulled the door an inch, no more, ajar. The laser like plane of light drew a line across what had been the component parts of a man. Somehow, by some miracle the parts were now fused. The skin retained the white, lifeless look of a corpse and no breath nor blood flow was evident. The shock was on a par with the horror of his arrival but something was changing. Diesel was a devout atheist and mocked his new age site neighbours. His mind had no compartment for what he was seeing. Hurriedly he fumbled, re locked the door and lent branches, tyres and other detritus to make it appear abandoned and empty. This was weird voodoo and he was fucked if he was getting any more involved than he already was. Fucks sake! Which was worse? Having the dismembered body parts of a man he only knew by his stupid nickname in his spare caravan and a good fifteen years if the filth, who had never taken a shine to him decided that he was the responsible one. Or the alternative. That all his understanding of science was just another story. That some sort of re animation was taking place. That life was bleeding into a corpse. That gravity had inverted. Or even worse; that the rancid, womanising, drunken, druggy who'd stretched his hospitality way beyond his patience was indeed Jesus Christ! It couldn't be possible. Diesel had no truck with the supernatural. All his life he had scoffed at the idiocy of astrology. Empirical evidence was the only measure of reality. The idea that a woman could be made pregnant by immaculate conception. That a man could come back from the dead. These were the imaginings of the gullible. Fairy stories for the weak of mind. So through the doubling down on his alcohol and drug consumption he managed to almost forget about the spare caravan and its contents. He compartmentalised it. Some days he didn't even think about it. And spring saw the green weaving of convolvulous, brambles and grasses and lichen patches disguised its appearance. Nevertheless the itch never left. There was no way he was taking a peep inside the thing and no one cared to do so either.

Some people find God from a mystical experience that blows open their materialist outlook. Some seek god to make sense of their apparently meaningless existence. Some people simply choose to believe finding it the most comforting option. And others have him walk right in despite every single particle of evidence to the contrary. For Diesel it came in the form of a filthy guest a Druid had dumped on him.

As resurrections went the one that had caused most repercussions was relatively painless. The so called mate Judas, so called best mate no less had proven a grassing cunt. After all the free wine he'd given the cunt over last few years as well. Jesus thoughts went back to the day. After the gang of homeless street drinkers both hung out with had been on a right old session most were crashed out. Empty and half empty wine bottles were scattered around the snoring heap of men and the whores they consorted with . Jesus was nodding off himself when he heard Judas.

'Jesus mate, I'm just popping down the all night garage. We're out of rizlas! You get a kip. I'll only be a few minutes.' With a furtive look Judas sloped off and Jesus thinking nowt of it fell sound asleep. Last he saw of that cunt. Next thing he knows….well you all know the story. Fucking Cunt! Jesus thought. It had been a painful death, four hours is a long time up on a cross. But bar the broken legs, nail holes and spear wound his corpse had been in relatively good nick. Obviously the numerous overdoses were easiest and since some genius had invented the hypodermic needle he'd had his fair share of those. But this had to rank right up there with the very longest. It was always hard to judge how long he'd been dead for but pulling aside the corner of the curtains it was clear that he'd missed the second half of winter. 'Result!' He grinned. After his birthday was over the long crawl through the first three months of the year has never been his idea of fun. Thirty yards away he could see a handful of people sat around the smoky embers of the previous nights fire. He recognised Diesel and Angie but the other three failed to spark any recognition. Of more interest was the crate of Karpackie 9% lager someone had kindly readied for him and better still it looked like an iPad was being passed round and there was nothing Christ liked more after a good resurrection was a few lines of Columbian marching powder.

Angie felt sure she'd seen the curtain twitching inside Diesel's spare trailer. The one he used to store all his junk for fixing cars and bikes, a skill he laboured over yet seldom seemed to get far with. A few weeks back she'd asked him if she could have a rummage through to see if any of her art materials were in there. Diesel had grown weirdly defensive and said that only car spares and tools were inside and firmly discouraged her from rooting about in there. Now there was undoubtedly some movement in the trailer.

Christ checked over his body, running his palms down his legs, flexing both. He pulled a few stretches to check all was working and began to look around for clothing. A heap of blood stained garments were scattered around him and soon he was dressed. Lacing up his boots and pulling tight a baseball cap he felt ready to roll. 'Ok mortals! I'm back!'

Two kicks and the door burst open and the glaring spring sunshine brought relief from the departing shivers of another death shaken off. Still a tad unsteady on his feet he unzipped his jeans, whipped out his cock and drained his bladder down the caravan side.

' When did that wanker turn up?' Angie asked her gobsmacked boyfriend.

'Er, he rocked up last night Ang! I forgot to tell you. It was late on and I didn't want to wake you.'

Bollocks! Angie thought and left the small band of crusties to let the boys get reacquainted. Last she'd heard he'd been off on some far fetched mission with his shaman mates Skree and Lipton. Word was they were all dead after some accident at sea. She was quite fond of Skree and Lipton. Just her luck that they two had snuffed it and the mysoginistic twat was the one to survive. Last time he was here he hung around for months, trying it on with her at any opportunity. She'd managed successfully to ensure she was not left alone with him for the best part of it until a night she'd regretted ever since. Fuck knows why she'd given in. He'd plied her with free wine. He always seemed to have crates of the stuff and once properly plastered he'd slipped her an e. She had to confess that it was in the loosest sense consensual but she wouldn't have given in had she had her wits about her. After the briefest of foreplay she'd succumbed to in her 34 years he'd flipped her round, bent her over the bonnet of Diesels escort and pummelled her face in to the paintwork. The shame had left a bruise on her psyche she'd never shaken off. Once he'd spurted his muck he'd swiftly whipped out his cock and wiped it on her skirt. 'That's better' he'd said as he walked away as though nothing had happened. Of course there was no way she could tell Diesel. It would have killed him. The first and last time she'd cheated on him. She just hoped this was to be a flying visit. Angie hated the cunt.

'This here is my old friend Jesus!' Diesel introduced the freshly resurrected dude to his traveller buddies.

'Nice to meet you brother!' The three mumbled. Nodding, two offering their hands to shake. Matty, the more observant of the group noticed the stigmata. A hole, perhaps an inch in diameter, clean through the new arrivals palm.

'I guess that's how you got the nickname' he offered nodding down at the palm he'd just shaken.

'Ah! Yeah! You guessed right.'

Christ couldn't be arsed with the palaver of telling the truth. In all the time Diesel had known him he'd never once noticed the holes through his palms. His world was slowly being turned upside down. He'd seen a collection of body parts that could not possibly have been alive, reform and now. After knowing the guy for a number of years he could see that both his palms had holes right through them. Was this really Jesus Christ? The son of God?

Downplaying it Jesus ran with Matty's misreading of the situation. It was, after all much less far fetched than the truth.

'I had a bit of a falling out with some people over a drug debt. Lucky to get away with my life if I'm honest. But not before the bastards nailed me to the floor!'

Jesus broke out in laughter with his story. 'Ever since I got the nickname Jesus! It's the cross I have to bare!'

The group cackled. It made a kind of sense. Not to Diesel but he was keeping quiet until he could question the man he thought he knew alone.

'Well so long as we don't have to pray to you.'

'Or worse still go to church!'

They all laughed, bonding as men do over jokes.

'I'm not being cheeky but can I trouble you for a can?' Christ asked looking at the crate of strong polish lager.

'Dig in brother!' Matty encouraged.

Offering the iPad his way, Ady, Matty's mate proffered a selection of the finely chopped white powder and a rolled twenty pound note.

' Don't mind if I do!' And the son of god hoovered up the largest line with a greed born of three months abstinence.

'Diesel mate, I have to ask but did you hear what happened to Skree and Lipton? They were the closest friends I've had in years. I became separated from them a few months back.'

Diesel shook his head. 'I'm sorry mate. No one has heard of them for months. I hope I'm wrong. I really do but there's very little chance that they are still with us.'

Christ bowed his head. Then something happened Diesel had ever even considered possible. A couple of tears fell down onto the iPads surface, one catching the corner of a powder line and instantly becoming absorbed rendering the cocaine, a substance more valuable than gold, rendering the drug all but useless. Ady quickly retreived the tablet to save the rest.

'No worries brother. I can dry it out.'

Sent from my iPhone

I lost a massive piece today

I'd written over months. I've no clue how it happened and I've checked through all recently deleted files. It was about Jesus Christ and described his resurrection following the events that concluded the last book. The second book written about Lipton and Skree or Peter, the same character that I posted about but left out the ending. If there are any readers that followed the story Jesus had bumped into the two urban shamans at Bury Ditches hill fort. In fact he joined up with them at the second hill fort (these are real places in Shropshire) and went on with the two brothers of different mothers to the great party where all the main characters amassed. Following the party they teamed up with some Druids and witches and hot wired a yacht at Porlock Weir. Meanwhile the super rich were boarding a spaceship named Noah to leave behind the planet their Ilk had plundered. They were being followed by a psychotic maverick ex policeman and a young man under the influence of strange new psychoactive drugs. I haven't as yet finished that book and while I believe it is unique and interesting it requires some serious rewriting and tidying up. There are many loose ends that need to be brought together though I know roughly how it concludes.

Recently I began to write the follow up and as yet we only know that Lipton survived. He has been sectioned for some time but has been released. A dark and secretive division of MI5 has continued the Witchfynder general and his cohorts and we have briefly met him. Then I wrote the long opening to the latest resurrection of Jesus Christ . He's back on the traveller site, much like in the bible, hanging round with the types who have abandoned work, wives and families in favour of homelessness and street drinking attracted by the free wine and convincing patter that Christ is known for. The sole surviving Druid who, contrary to his pagan impulses, gathered together the limbs, torso and severed head and dumped them into an empty caravan that was unoccupied. Here Christ gradually resurrected though the sweet stench of putrefaction was repugnant to the traveller community though finally he was his old self and emerged from the trailer.

Anyway, I don't even know if anyone has read the two books that are somewhere in the middle, around 2015 ish. I'd like to complete and edit and rewrite the second book and perhaps even the first one but I'd like to complete the third too. It may be no bad thing I lost what I did as I'm sure I'll make a better fist of it second time around and I can remember the jist of it.

If anyone is out there reading it, and I think there are about a dozen who followed the story, please bear with me. It will be worth it.

Sent from my iPhone

Side table

Are they called rectory tables. This one was cool. In a dark oak it had an arts and crafts feel to it. Maybe 10 feet long but only maybe 720mm wide it meant any side drawers would have to be not too deep. Losing a little from the overhang of the top a central structural rail meant they were restricted further. I discussed having alternative side drawers but not pleased with the asymmetrical look a sacrifice in function had to be made to preserve the look. Very shallow drawers too but they were only for cutlery and odds and ends. In one I made a drop in lining to form orderly divisions. A shallow but long drawer is the toughest to get to run smoothly; physics just isn't on your side. I overcame this by creating a double central concealed runners that stood underneath the drawers to prevent any annoying snagging that is common in long, shallow drawers. Again the stretchers weren't my ideal. I'd have gone for a simple version of the Barnsley hay rake structure that delivers an intuitive feel of security as all but the most inobservant people subconsciously succumb to the persuasion of. Our designers trade mark stretcher structure was indeed his own but there are reasons why designers have steered clear of this innovative triangular wheel. But in this context. A smaller side table or narrow kitchen main table would be perfectly strong and robust enough with no stretcher rails at all so we can forgive our designers shortcomings on this occasion. The legs were beautifully turned by Marley Wellings, a great designer in his own right who ended up knee high in shavings and dust each day because he was a great wood turner. Put the four legs together and even your vernier callipers struggle to find a difference. A remarkable craftsman. There were some decorative deceptions to make the side rails appear to run through the legs top but in truth these were appendages. The top was perhaps 22mm thick with breadboard ends. Another feature our designer was fond of and, to be fair they give a grounding fullstop. Table ends here. I made several of these but this was the first.
Now we come on to the chairs. Unforgivable was the verdict of my good friend Gareth. Indeed he was right. I was provided with silhouette paper templates of the designer and his wife's profiles. These I carefully bandsawed out they formed the backsplats for the two carvers. The chair was copied largely from a piece of vernacular furniture of French origin. It lacked some delicacy that might have been found on an English made chair of the arts and crafts movement though this was about 400 years old. The arms were tricky. Compound curves in free space are tricky but making its mirrored other hand takes a lot of free eye work with little to no datum to work off. The uprests hit under neath the palm hold of the arm and are secured with a split wedged dowel head. Otherwise pretty straightforward. But imposing your profile on the world on the back of your chair spews out an unnecessary pompous attitude that as Gareth accurately described as unforgivable.
In truth designers very rarely design pieces of furniture. Some do having spent time at the bench and still make the judgments one has to make by the myriad on a daily basis and quickly for the design to be commercially viable. But on the whole they do a drawing, a kind of styling. From here the maker picks up the baton and designs his or her way through all the problems and creates the reality with their hands. Usually there is some variation in opinion and the maker has to bring home the idiocy of what the designer sees as their free expression. And if you are looking to make this type of furniture where you genuinely are stood on the shoulders of giants it is important to recognise their wisdom as the giants speak, imparting their wisdom.