Maniacal Musings

Maniacal Musings of my Neurological Disorder on an Otherwise Ordinary Day

Chapter 1 - Lippy Dave


I’m staring intently at my shoes, in a room within a room, with seven other men, six of whom are also looking interested in their shoes, while the odd man out stares not at his own shoes, but at the spectacle of shoe staring men, underscored by a heavy atmosphere of silent tension and foot apparel appreciation. This is not a metaphor, brilliant as that would likely be. It’s a real life situation where I find myself forensically examining my black Caterpillar ankle boots (very comfortable actually, if you asked) whilst trying to ignore the industrial level pressure that is building around me, triggering the foul emotions of guilt, cowardice and to a lesser extent, embarrassment. Embarrassment at having what hopefully is just some mud, but looks increasingly obvious it is dog poop, on the left side of my right shoe/boot. The premise for this seemingly unique, yet unbelievably quite common situation is as follows. The puppet master of this footwear facade is Sergeant Kline. Team ‘D’ Skipper, of West End Central police station, Saville Row, London. First name David. Nicknamed - Sergeant ‘No’. The name on his badge states, Sergeant D. Kline. If I have to explain this Nickname any further, you are probably not going to enjoy this book. Please save yourself from further confusion, (because I promise you it will get vastly weirder) and just gift this to a friend you admire, or someone you see as your intellectual superior, perhaps a bus driver for example.

Of course it is not my intention to offend anyone in the pages of my ramblings. It is my intention to tell a true story of real events unfolded through the neurologically disordered interpretations of my mind, and in doing so I hope to share any offence in equal measure. Especially my self deprecating miserable self. As I do not intentionally discriminate anyone from being invited to suffer the scrutiny of my outlandish reason. If you feel yourself especially singled out and claim a larger portion of offence as your own, then congratulations, you have most likely diagnosed yourself as a professional victim. As I can promise you, it’s all about me. The following tales are based on real events. Some are embellished, some toned down. Some entirely made up, and some are as painfully facsimile as I dare to remember. All names, some places, and most timelines, have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, and the very shy figments of my imagination. The complicated meanings of my interpretations are representative of what makes sense to me. Therefore this is a work of pure ‘almost’ fiction

Sergeant Kline has pulled us all into his office, which adjoins our Muster room, as we were preparing to book off duty. And he is seeking two volunteers for a job nobody wants to do. The fact he has picked all the available men on the team to ask his diabolical question, is pure coincidence. Any accusations of sexism pointed at my esteemed organization, although probably warranted, does not apply in this particular situation. There are many female officers at our station, and some of them are actually quite capable. (pro rata to the amount of ‘actually quite capable’ men of course, what were you thinking?) There are usually three female police officers on my team, but on this particular day they have had the intuition to avoid the sergeants office at booking off time. Exceptional intuition actually, because two of them are off sick. The remaining healthy lady is the eternally optimistic Madison Baine. Who incidentally happens to be embroiled in a not so secret, secret affair with Sergeant Kline. She has been excused from this lottery, for some (almost certainly non-nepotistic) mysterious reason. In unwise confidence Madison told me, that despite popular opinion, the good Sergeant No, is often prone to saying ‘yes’, if the proposed scenario is affable to him.

Sergeant Kline is an artist of his craft. A small man in frame (and arguably, mind) but a giant in stature. Impeccably dressed and presented, which was a gift from his days of military service. A stern faced man of few words. Well, few pleasant words anyway, and a miserable anecdotalist, which we will explore at another time. Despite the aforementioned but un-described stature, he has fairly unremarkable features, except for a seriously impressive moustache (these type of men always have one) which is proudly adamant directly above his top lip. The definitive place for a moustache to inhabit. And it stands firm and confident as though a permanent salute in the face (Pun intended) of adversity. And I would damn well salute the magnificent little bugger right back, If I wasn’t currently victim to his psychopathic game. But perhaps had I been a voyeur to this spectacle, in some perverted viewing gallery overlooking this pathetic scene. I would do one of those, mock gasp, closed eyes, nods. The signature action some men do in appreciation of something they don’t quite understand, but pretend they do. Then I would turn to a fellow gallery ticket holder and annoy them into lying by saying “Did you see what he did there?” But back to the fox in the hen house, that is the black hearted sadistic Sergeant ‘No’ and his seven comparable dwarfs. As I might have said, he is an expert in slow pain delivery. Deceptively simple yet cunningly effective. All he did was ask the question once. Then waited in silence. No repeat. No clarification, or further explanation. We all heard the words. We all knew what it meant. Simple effective communication. Then he let those words linger. Echoing around the room, where they engulfed us like smoke. Hanging in the air like a guillotine, sharpened and poised above a trembling and confused French aristocrat’s gullet. All set within the confined stage of that claustrophobic little sergeants office, AKA, torture dungeon. Now, to the inexperienced casual observer, no big deal, right? Wrong, you cake eating fool. You weren’t there man! Everyone knows, You don’t say No, to sergeant No. Or so the ear worm of a song I will one day compose will immortalize. Q.E.D. Or QE2, as I sometimes say to deliberately confuse and annoy people. So we all stay absolutely silent, and contemplate our souls. Well, the soles of our shoes at least.

I will take you back in time, some two long minutes ago, to the start of this masterclass in manipulation. Sergeant No, having assembled his weary crew before him, waits for our attention, which is instant. Clears his throat and with heavy brow, looks like he about to speak, then pauses, as though he is searching to find some comfort to the awaiting but necessary difficult words. We all stand waiting for his wisdom, dreading the doom in his demeanour. Seven chins all start to slowly lift in anticipation of what is to come, as though being pulled towards him by invisible strings he controls. Oh yes, he is the puppet master indeed. The anticipation almost unbearable, I feel like I will fall forward and shatter this choreographed charade. Then as his words appear imminent…..yet another trick is sprung from his brutal bag. He pulls a ‘fake out’ on us. Saying nothing, he strides to the front of the room, straight through the assembled group of confused constables, and closes the door decisively. Sealing the hot diminishing air in the cramped room Perchance this paranoid police Sergeant fears an unwelcome eavesdropper may attempt to infiltrate our impromptu meeting. The plot thickens. As does the sergeants moustache, The humidity is instant under this pressure, and as strange as it sounds, in my head at least, his moustache has now birthed a personality of its own. And in honour of that mystic event, I have christened him ‘Lippy Dave’. Back at the now closed door, Sergeant No, with Lippy Dave happily snug on his lofty perch like a vigilant Kestrel, waits for one silent beat, like he is grasping for the strength to go through with this, then turns deftly on his heels and strides back to his starting position. He stops then twirls back around on his mightly loafers to face us, but now with his head looking down. But not quite to his immaculately polished leather shoes. This is his game after all. Another beat is counted, then he snaps his head back sharply and makes fleeting and precise eye contact with every man now sweating in the hot dense room. By God you have our full and undivided attention now you clever bastard. Nine and three quarter hours into a ten hour shift, and the die has been cast. This is the undeniable confirmation that this will NOT be good news.





Chapter 2 - Siren Shoes

The question Sergeant Kline touted us earlier, if you have not already guessed was, “I need two of you to stay on and deal with a sudden death”. That was it. Short and ……well certainly not sweet. Except maybe for the Reaper of the poor harvested soul, en route for a final boat ride down the River Styx, or whatever smelly River supplies the underworld with corpses. But where be the final destination for this body? No one can be sure. But If it’s me forced on that shout today, I will definitely have my own opinion once I have had a right good look at them. I’m no official judge of mortal consequence, you understand, just an enthusiastic amatuer. But as no volunteers are forthcoming, the game of choosing the two reluctant heroes who are to be posted to this lengthy process on this Saturday Summers afternoon is underway. Cup Final day no less, where a team in red will play a team in blue, which I myself have no real appetite for, but Im assured by my colleagues its for a substantial prize. Sergeant No walks slowly around the room, inspecting each man keenly. Searching for the breakdown signs he knows instinctively will come. In this diminishing game of pressure and time, he who makes the first involuntary sounds will bring himself to notice and effectively volunteer himself for the mandatory overtime on offer. The inevitable crack will come from someone. And that crack will fissure into a full on tear. Then this laughing Policeman will have his latest metaphorical kill. So two officers will be chosen from the Seven praying for mute invisibilty. The odds not great for me to escape, but if there is weakness to be found and exploited, then that efficient little sadist will rip it out. Where will the cracks appear and who will be taken down the river with it.

Now Sergeant No, could just make that decision himself and choose two officers, and that would be that. Delegate this job and dispense with these tribal sports. But this is not a man who subscribes to common sense And he can’t be swayed by anything as mundane as loyalty or fairness. He does not curry anyones favour, or keep any favourites close. Well except in adulterous circumstances anyway. So the cruel copper will let his men choose for him. Like some sick glacially slow gladiatorial battle played out for the sadistic entertainment of a Roman…. peasant made good. (It would be laughable to compare this man with a Caesar, so the metaphor has been downgraded) So time creeps slowly forward and the room seems to empty of sound. Sergeant Kline has impeccable patience (which seems to be typical of the moustache’d) and no doubt willing to go the distance in this high stakes game of statues. There is the disturbing sense that he may elicit a morbid pleasure in what he is doing, egged on no doubt by Lippy Dave, that hairy sentinal nesting betwixt his unremarkable nose and lips. Now that the game is underway my senses tighten and every small thing becomes incredibly loud. A normally silent and unconscious swallow is magnified ten fold, and now sounds like I am trying to gulp down a whole apple in one choke inducing battle. Ridiculously loud. I fight to suppress all bodily function noises, but it seems to make them worse as I amplify all internal sound outward and draw my enemies close. They definitely heard that! I imagine Lippy Dave using those fine hairs to interpret the sound waves in an improvised sonar to direct his evil master to my location. And sure enough out of the corner of my eye, a moustache shaped shadow moves towards me, honing in on my freakishly loud sounds of terrified saliva removing guilt. I have been betrayed by my own body. A Judas swallow. Then in a move I honestly never saw coming, my own cowardly heart joins in with a booming beat adding to the concerto of thunderous gulping, by thumping out a rhythm against my chest. Drumming out some sort of cardiac morse code. ‘PICK ME… PICK ME’ it beats disloyally. Oh the irony. Stabbed metaphorically through the heart by my own actual beating heart. Well that’s new! And I find it relatively upsetting because It’s not the first betrayal this week. But I scheme my revenge on this ticking trickster, and make my most outrageous threat yet against my so called ‘Hearts’ calloused chicanery. I maliciously remind myself to binge eat plenty of cholesterol laden food for the next few weeks and teach that cheeky half-hearted traitor a hard lesson in duplicity.

Then I feel the hot breath of my inquisitor upon me. Inches from me, come from nowhere the sneaky pair of creeping ‘home life’ assassins, appear to my side just on the edges of my peripheral vision. Trying to intimidate me. Willing me to break and fire the lingustic pistol of my own execution, and declare the words he wants to hear. Commit four extra hours service to his carefully accounted overtime budget spreadsheet. All for time and a third. Well I won’t give him the satisfaction so easily. Suddenly I sense there is a shift in the dynamic and I instinctively now know that Lippy Dave has taken charge of the proceedings. The sergeant reduced to a mere vehicle for this treacherous nose dress. To transport him around the room and look straight into the watering eyes of these shoe weary husks of former men. Reduced to suffering the vicious conceit of a sadists moustache. His bird of prey sent in for the final kill to do his dirty work. How typical of that boring coward that he doesn’t have the guts to face me himself. He has to send that … thing… that monster. And to think I was the one to name him. Bring him to life. Give him a soul. Like a disturbing version of that Christmas favourite, The snowman. And now he takes my gift for granted and turns on me like Frankensteins monster. Well, It will be some time before I will get over this betrayal. My own ‘Hearts’ cowardly attack on me earlier, giving me away in a Poe-esqe melodrama was bad enough, but now I have to suffer this deceit at the ‘Handlebars’ of that double crosser, Lippy Dave. A product of my very own creation. This treachery sucks the marrow from my bones. And I vow revenge against that well groomed bogey carpet. Mark my words Lippy Dave…..There will be a close shave coming for you. I realise that metaphor doesn’t really work for a mortal threat, but I satisfy myself I have made my point and Lippy Dave seems to retreat slightly with the confidence knocked out of his wind famished sails (Nautical but Better) However it seems I have been chosen as first reserve for extra service. For in this childishly brilliant game, no confession is needed. The loudest decibel counts, and now I need a miracle. Then I hear the saint like sound of a reprieve. Another large swallow booms from across the room. Another weakling has rung the dinner bell on his precious time. I don’t see who the sacrificial ham is but….My Oh My… how it echos off the walls and feeds my fading hope. The grotesque sound trumpeted by the defeated man would bring the demons out from hell as he summons them to all bear witness his own slaughter. I have no pity for whichever of my colleagues has cashed in from this nasty game we have been forced to play. In these grim scenarios, it’s survival of the fittest that counts. Mother Nature does not weep for the decaying fodder of weakness. However, I always imagine, must be completely bemused by the fact people allergic to nuts still walk the earth despite her best attempts at their genocide.

But man, what a gulp that was. No mere backed up wad of saliva went down in that explosion. It was a proper ‘Shaggy’, from Scooby do fame, moment, Like, every time he was confronted by a ghost. The sound Jaws would have made swallowing the beautifully voiced, but treacherous radio smashing, shark hunter, Quint. I wonder what has triggered such a rapturous sound. I felt its vibrations from where I stood. I chance to break my shoe staring vigil for a moment and quickly scan the other frozen men. Then it becomes obvious, and the only rational explanation. Clearly insanity has taken hold of the fallen man. All that time staring at his shoes, has sent him delirious with madness. He has literally stared into their Sole’s and has become enchanted by them. For a Shoe keeps the soul of a being forever, as the old witch’s tale goes. Have you ever looked at someones shoes, without their owner present in them? Wouldn’t you say they looked, a little sad, and ….. dangerously angry?. Think about that the next time you are passing anywhere that shoes are casually left unattended, such as a bowling alley, trampoline centre or a mosque. So driven by his lunacy the first man to crumble, in this shameless banishment of dignity, has clearly confessed his devotion to one of those siren shoes and cast the other aside. Proving this act to be true and eternal to the chosen shoe, must involve destruction by indifference of its competing twin.

You would perhaps presume that a pair of shoes are natural allies. How wrong you would be. They are in fact mortal enemies. Always moving in opposite directions trying to get away from each other. That’s why it is easier and quicker to walk in shoes than being barefoot. The opposing action of the competing shoes act akin to an electric bicycle, pushing you along slightly, using the harnessed power of your own shoes disgust for each other. They absolutely can’t stand the sight of each other. For no love is lost between a pair of old shoes. Why do you think shoe shops only display a single shoe on their shelves? Prevents shoplifting? Haha hardly. No, if they were displayed together in their prime with their full powers, they would drive everyone insane. Constantly bickering with each other and consuming the minds of procrastinating customers who dwell too long on their beauty. (See R v Clarks - regulations of shoe sales - 1983) Why do you think you always receive such poor service in a shoe shop? What is more likely? That, One - The staff are under paid students or career incompetents, devoid of empathy and have no pride in their work nor heart to look at customers feet all day, or Two - They have all been possessed by their own stock by varying degrees depending on intelligence, and are reduced to mindless zombies desperate to escape the siren call of their heartless sinister tormentors. Hmmm….. I wonder. In an experiment commissioned back in the 1980’s to test this very phenomenon, Six members of the SAS were chosen to work in a branch of Clarks on The Old Kent Road. As part of their vetting to be assigned this secret mission, all six men were either former Butlers or had training as maitre de’s in five star Hotels. (OxBridge alumni have a fairly narrow career window when you think about it) Not only were they cold efficient killers, but they could clean up the remains of their despatched victims to a regal standard. So at the branch, with the shoes displayed in their most dangerous form, both out of the box aside each other and as yet unowned, they opened for business at 9am sharp. Unfortunately the ‘White Coats’ conducting this experiment had vastly underestimated the impact that the previous skill set of the newest sales team of Clark’s South London would have in this cauldron of pressure. Because by lunchtime they had all brutally killed each other. Deranged to paranoid madness by the cacophony of murderous screaming 'sharpies' (shoe harpies) Their domestic skills seemingly abandoned because the place was a fucking bloodbath. The government of course covered this all up and some Irishmen were rounded up and imprisoned for a couple of decades for a crime they didn’t commit…..Again! Not a single one of those shoes were destroyed. Clarks were facing bankruptcy at that time and sold those shoes on, thankfully now displayed in their docile state. Michael Jackson’s Thriller album had just been released and some whiz in marketing suggested a tie in, and their blood splattered shoes were a surprising hit, and postponed Clarks ultimate downfall. You know that ‘new shoe smell’ people go on about? That is actually a chemical shoe suppressant, added after production that pacify's the shoes from their mischievous machinations (Much the same as a beekeeper smokes out their bees before their heartless honey burglary - incidentally, Beekeepers have an unearned reputation as kindly, ethically virtuous earth saviours. In truth they are sadistic tyrants, who take great delight in tormenting their bees, or Honey-Slaves as they call them, by continually pretending to burn their houses down in a psychological torture designed to strip them of their sweet gold. Like they are some Chicago crime syndicate boss shaking down a small business owner. Disgusting people) But once you get your smelly old feet in there a few times, they soon turn into Joan ‘Oxford’ and ‘Booty’ Davis. But of course on the plus side you will notice a slightly quicker walking pace.

Thankfully this is all quite uncommon. But still a very real possibility handed the perfect set of circumstances, and can take any highly stressed individual to demented despair. Unfortunately in this case, with my colleague, who turned out to be an arrogant young man by the name of Cairn McGee, (who was overdue being knocked down a peg or two, to be honest) the process begun, can’t be stopped and the only way the victim in this cruel and unbelievable episode can demonstrably show the neccesary level of commitment to the proceedings is by the cold and viciously thirsty act of sacrifice. And therefore, and I can’t believe it has come to this, but…He must eat the chosen shoe. Unthinkable you object, but I will wager you have never faced the ‘Sophie’s Choice’ lamenting pain of choosing a favourite shoe to become immortally chained to your soul. So he made the majestic and heroic decision that he must consume it down inside him, to entomb its beauty away from the preying eyes of all those jealous potential thieves coveting his prize. Then he may but dream of that one true perfect shoe until time and mercy afford him happy reunion. As in all good tragic love stories there must always be the hapless loser The shoe cast aside is left alone and weeping, dying in lonely solitude. Such is life. So he has favoured one and left the other useless and alone to rot unloved in the stinking piles of abandoned powerless single shoes, that you may still find in strange and lonely places. Not having witnessed the actual finale, I assume it happened in this crafty way. The stricken ‘Romeo’ under the spell, would have had but one chance, rallying his senses for one quick move. Waiting for the suspicious sergeant and his despicable face-hound to be distracted by their close scrutiny of another man, takes his chance and has flipped his chosen victorious shoe up with a flick of his foot, sending his precious cargo flying through the air. Then like a seal would land a fish, catches the trusting and grateful shoe mid spin in his mouth, gulping it down like a ravenous gull, in abstract comparison of that classic children’s adventure book, Toe-by dick. Beautiful yet disturbing. The fraudulent sacrifice for love is made and the manipulation complete. The show is over.

Constable Cairn McGee is slowly regaining his conscious worldly self back. But in a barbaric unjust callous act, his defeat in this hellish tournament is announced directly to him by none other than the dastardly cad, Lippy Dave who whispers in his ear the words he can’t bear to hear. As he sinks to his knees weeping I swear I see that vile pubic lice farm, actually smile. As McGee lays crumbled on the floor the swaggering sergeant and his egregious accomplice walk off, and his amused tone can be heard in the cheery voice calling back to the group, ‘The rest of you,…… you’re dismissed’ Then they are gone. However in a heartwarming act of solidarity The 5 pardoned men clap their hands together and half hearted cheer. They are just grateful to escape unscathed in this never again spoken of dreamlike farce. You could have mistaken these actions as sarcastic mockery, but I have chosen to paint a different picture for now. I have enough enemies to deal with for the moment, including my own internal organs. But as I somehow knew all along and now know for sure, the second man fitted up for staying on at work, is me. I am somehow supposed to shake off the dark and disturbing memories of what has occurred these last 5 minutes, and then go out into the streets of London and do actual professional police work. Well, now you know what really goes on. I will probably be the only voice who will dare share these machiavellian secrets of the Metropolitan Police, but disbelieve me at your own peril, for one day you will catch glimpse of what I have warned. And it will be too late.

Thankfully I have not disgraced myself like the younger man, who has finally picked himself off the floor and is needlessly trying to hide the tears already stained down his pathetic face. So I am to accompany PC McGee to a sudden death knowing that he has just suffered an equally upsetting tragedy, which still brews inside him. So I’m probably going to have to do all the work myself then, typical. And as if I don’t have enough to deal with, to add to my woes. Now that I can afford closer inspection, Yes, this is quite definitely dog shit on my shoe. I only thank the heavens quietly that I had not been hypnotised by the wicked games of the mystic spirits this afternoon, as knowing my luck I would have eaten my own shitty shoe. But as is evident to see, you don’t have to be the best. You just have to be one step ahead of the worst. And as you will soon see, PC Cairn McGee is definitely the Worst. But oh the humanity, why do men play these savage and duplicitous games of love and war and compelled humiliation. When will we learn?



Chapter 3 - Cabbage

You will never forget the smell of death. It is a very unique pungent odour that always stays with you. Im not being poetic, it literally stays with you because it sticks to you. The smell is so heavy it clings to your clothes even after you have left the premises where it occurred, walked home through a storm, took off your clothes and washed and laundered them and then later put them back on the following week. They will still smell of death. I offer no scientific explanation for this but it seems ironic that the smell of death is somehow alive and floats through the air around the corpse, and it seems to deliberately seek out the living, lands on you, and is so enamored by you that it sticks its barbs into you and attaches it’s stench fast to whatever it can. It’s definitely a minimum three wash smell. If I knew any mortuary attendants they would tell me that it is a smell that you can never get used to, no matter how many decades you have been messing about with the dead. It is the one smell that forbids familiarity. It you are Morbidly curious (Another pun) and would like to recreate the closest thing to it without actually committing or aiding and abetting a serious crime, then I can share a recipe later in this chapter. Be warned though. It is so realistic that if the smell were to escape the small pot ,that I implore you to contain it in, and waft around your home, for waft it certainly will. Then you may risk your door being kicked in by a concerned neighbour, who is guaranteed to become pretentiously authoritarian, and giddy with excitement at finally doing something that at minimum will earn them a solid anecdote.

So I am driving the response car to the address of the reported 'Sudden Death', call sign Charlie two-zero. McGee claims to not have a driving licence, which does not surprise me as I have seen his attempts at eating. He is so uncoordinated that the food ends up all over the place. Down his face, down his shirt and mostly anywhere but his devious mouth. (Probably why he is so skinny. And you can check this on the official website at the office of national statistics, but fat people are on average, five times more trustworthy than their skinny counterparts) So if he can’t even handle a plate of pasta what chance is there for manoeuvring the narrow streets of Central London. It would be carnage. Pedestrians strewn all over the place , just like his penne. He seems unfazed after the events back at the station and is back to his normal self. Unfortunately for me that means he is back to being an insufferable know-it-all twat. Within seconds of me driving off, he attempts to manufacture a challenge to my seniority and exercise his self importance. He looks back over his shoulder and makes a feigned gasp of fear, intimating that the car, about 50 metres back in the road that I have just joined was too close to safely make the manoeuvre That somehow I have just ‘cut him up’ and endangered us all. Obviously I don’t rise to his childish attempt to be assaulted by me, and I completely ignore it. He follows it up with some quip about ‘the car having to SLAM its brakes on’ and this is equally ignored. I just calmly concentrate on driving, and not on pressing his seatbelt release button whilst accelerating two-zero at speed, directly into Primark on Oxford Circus. (When interviewed later at the station about why I deliberately caused him serious injury, I think I would say “Just for once I wanted to hear how his real scream compared”)

TBC