Here it is!

The novel, that is: presenting A Guide To Reading. Please remember that this is a rough text and nowhere near edited into perfection. Comments and suggestions welcome.

Well, the basic slog is anyway...

...I've only just got the chance to start reading through what I've written, and what is glaringly obvious to me is the need to edit it thoroughly. This is something I always tell my students when they're doing academic assignments - first you've got to research and prepare and take notes, then you produce your work, then you check it through. Now I have to take a leaf out of my own book, as it were. Rather than post the remaining portion on here, however, I'm going to set up a blog for the novel itself, so that you may read it in comfort and leisure.

Done!

50,843 words in 28 days. Done! normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

uurrrgghh.

I'm feeling deeply tired, and I'm in the middle of a lesson. So far, this week has been thoroughly crap, work-wise; all my best-laid lessons have failed to buggery thus far. As for the novel, well, I'm still on target - I should hit 40,000 this afternoon, and then have only another 10,000 to go. I'm not going topost any more of it now - you'll have to wait until it's finished.

part nine.

more drivel for your delectation.

To read the entire story of someone else, it is necessary to become that other person in their entirety, from beginning to end � is this possible? I would suggest it is not: In which case, each person, apart from, possibly, ourselves, is essentially unknowable. Do not, I beg of you, place me in a pigeonhole; I flatly refuse to conform. Accept only this: that I am having fun doing this as I write, and I hope I have set you an interesting maze of ideas in which to play. Of course it is limited: haven�t I just said I am fallible?

Fifteen: Back on track?
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awaken.
James Joyce
In which our drinking buddies try to negotiate their ways through a Reading that has suddenly become a more sinister place, both bereft of and gravid with meaning and connotation; they saunter into the next watering hole, wondering if they have arrived at the correct place; they encounter more high weirdness.

You could tell that evening was drawing on apace � more and more the streets were drained of normal people and being replaced with either the drunk, the weird or the weirdly drunk. A pack of twenty-something lads, in tight casual trousers and shirts, came blaring and charging past, heading towards Jongleurs; in their wake was another hen party, this time all done up in Bunny Girl costumes, aiming for the same place; a tramp was pushing along his dilapidated Asda trolley, stopping at each bin in search of either food or particularly interesting specimens of the day�s flotsam, which he would add to his mobile mound. We strolled past Smelly Alley and its fishy reek again, casually observing the unrolling scene of incipient riotous partying.
�Where do you reckon The Wood Of Suicides would be, anyway?� , I asked.
�Not sure � according to Weirdo, it�s probably along here, somewhere. Let�s think � looks to me like we�re headed towards somewhere pretty lively � does that sound like a suicide-prone place to you?�
�Only if you�re a Billy No-Mates.�
�There must be somewhere along here that is filled with an empty, bereft, lonely atmosphere, somewhere you�d rather die than own up to drinking in��
�Taylor, I think the answer�s just ahead of us.�
There was the picture of a military man in a solar topee, blowing upon his wind instrument; A neglected, sorrowful bar on a corner:
�The Bugle. This must be it.�
We went in through the low door into the low-ceilinged room of a bar that had died about twenty years previously. There were a few locals inside, who were instantly hushed by the presence of strangers in their midst. The carpet was mostly held together by spilt beer, fag ash, and most probably sputum. The atmosphere within had probably not been changed since the previous year. It was a ghostly, rancid, unloved hole. A middle-aged bar woman with a bubble perm and large glasses stopped wiping pint mugs and composed herself in front of us, one hand on an ale pump, and her face frozen in a semi-welcoming, semi-threatening rictus.
�Good evening, what can I get you?�
This was, I noticed, the first time all day that any one in a bar had actually asked me what I wanted rather than wait to be told.
�Two pints of best, thanks.�
�We don�t have any.�
�No bitter at all?�
�None.�
�OK then, two pints of lager?�
�Sorry.�
�What have you got?�
�Cider or gin.�
�Nothing else?�
�No. We�re having problems with the suppliers. If you don�t want those, you�ll have to go elsewhere.�
�No problem, we�ll have two ciders.�
�Do you want ice in that?�
�Er, no, I think we can live without it, thanks.�
�That�s just as well,� she said, �as we don�t have any ice either.�
I gave her the money, which she took with a vehemence that surprised me, then slammed the change on the bar. Taylor and I took the corner seats near the window, facing onto the street. A very large man with a dark beard and a mullet haircut stared down at us, silently threatening us to challenge him over what was indisputably a pint of bitter in his large mitt.
�No doubt we�re in the right place,� I muttered to Taylor.
�It would appear so.�
�What next?�
�I don�t know. I don�t think we�re meant to do anything. If something�s supposed to happen, it just will.�
�Then how the hell do we know that we�re doing whatever it is that we�re supposed to be doing. Fuck it, Taylor, this is bollocks!�
�Yes, but interesting bollocks, don�t you think?�
�No, it�s bloody not! I don�t mind doing the pub crawl thing, but I never expected, in my whole lifetime, that I�d end up in the sodding Bugle!�
The large man at the bar growled. I mean, he actually growled, like a large dog or bear. He obviously didn�t like me denigrating his favourite watering hole.
�The point is,� I continued, somewhat more quietly, �there are more salubrious places to go than this. Is there any point in following round some mad whim? It�s not as if we really know the story, anyway. C�mon, let�s neck these and go somewhere better, eh?�
Taylor was only half-listening to me. He had his fingers to his temple and was trying to squeeze a thought out.
�From what I recall, don�t Dante and Virgil end up at the very centre of Hell, on a frozen lake where all feelings die? Where do you reckon that could be?�
�Oh, Christ knows! Anyway, it�s sodding July! And Reading is not noted for its ice-skating facilities! Come on, let�s go!�
�Yes, Go!� roared the large man. �Get out of my pub, since ye find it so offensive!�
He lowered his pint and lurched over towards us.
�We don�t like newcomers here.�
�That�s right,� piped up someone else. �Piss off.�
�So why don�t you drink your drinks, RIGHT NOW, and get out of here. Leave us be.�
The barmaid said nothing, but judging from her stance and the look on her face, she was about to order us out anyway. I took a quick swig of the cider, then decided to forget it.
�Come on Taylor, this isn�t it.�
�I�m inclined to agree with you,� he said. �Good evening.�
So we beat a hasty retreat from there.
Back on the street, all of a few minutes after we�d left it, there was still the steady stream of incoming revellers. There was also the Weirdo, across the road from us, looking very pleased with himself, and jotting something in his notebook. He caught sight of me and legged it down towards the junction of Friar Street and Station Road before I lost sight of him behind a crowd of people.
�I saw the bugger again!� I said.
�Me too,� replied Taylor. �He was looking very content � do you reckon we were in the right place for his mad little scheme?�
�But nothing happened!�
�Perhaps it wasn�t meant to.�
�Ah shit, Taylor, I can�t handle this crap. Can�t we just go back to discussing my miserable life?�
And I was feeling miserable as well. On top of the alcohol, on top of Taylor�s �metaphysical disquisitions�, I was now trying to deal with what the Weirdo had said, and it was doing my head in. We came to the junction, filled with bustling crowds of all sorts of people, some dressed in weekend finery, others more mundane, and some in strange, canivalesque get-ups. The splendid Victorian baroque brickwork of the shops and offices that lined Victoria Street was lit up, something that Taylor pointed to, fascinated by the extravagant amount of work that had gone into it. Suddenly, rock-solid, red-brick, dumb old Reading had become something else, something I didn�t quite understand. Taylor was game for traversing this strange maze; after all, not having been here before, it was all new for him � what the place was, and what the place meant, were one and the same thing. As for me, it was my home town, and that meant tedium, boredom, sameness, mundanity. But now it was as if it was trying to escape that set of definitions and become something rare and strange, as exotic as a far-flung desert city, a fabled Samarkand. Either it was changing as I moved through it, or I was being transformed under the influence of Taylor and the Weirdo. These were the thoughts going through my head, I swear: I tried to express this to him, but all I could say right then was,
�My head is feeling fucking weird. I think we need a proper drink.�
�Lead on � I follow your bidding.�
�Let�s try the 3 B�s - it should be clear of pensioners by now.�
We walked towards the town hall, another confection of whimsy in brick, past the glut of bars at the end of Friar Street with their slowly increasing queues and shaven-headed bouncers. The sound of music from the various places was gradually increasing, a series of heavy thudding beats that contested with each other for dominance of the street in a grand cacophony that underscored the shouting, yelling, laughing and yelping of the partygoers. From the town hall itself came the noise of a band, along with cheering and applause.
�They must have a live set on tonight.�
�Let�s see.�
There were a couple of bouncers on the door, but it was a free event � according to the poster on the wrought-metal gates, a �blues and boogie night�. We went through, and were immediately hit by the heat � a terrible, humid fug, composed of sweat vapour, beer, and copious cigarette smoke. The place was absolutely heaving. In the tiny stage area next to the front windows, a blues and rock combo were thumping away, and their lead singer, an early middle-aged woman in a tight leather dress and wild, straw-blonde hair was blasting out a version of a Meatloaf song. We squeezed our way through the crowd to the bar. Everybody was clearly feeling the heat; people were waving theirs hands in front of their faces to try and cool down, or tugging at their clothing. Next to us, three guys were having an animated and very noisy discussion as they waited to be served.
�Yeah, well, fuck God,� said one of them, a lanky boy of about eighteen. He puffed at his fag, and brushed some ash off his clothes. �It�s not as if he exists, anyway.�
�You wouldn�t say that if He struck you dead, would you?� said another. �It�d be the other way round!�
�Yeah, like fuck,� lanky snarled. �Look. Come on, God, here I am, take your best shot! Twat! See? Nothing.�
� I bloody hate God-botherers,� said the third kid, a short, dark-haired and spotty specimen. �We had some of those Jehovah�s witnesses, or something like that, banging at the door the other day. You�ll like this � They�re giving me all the old chat about being saved and joining them and all that shit, then they ask me if I believe in Jesus. You know what I told them? I told them �I believe that Jesus and Peter were fucking bumchums�. That shut the fuckers up. Then I start telling them how I�m a Satanist and I�m cooking a couple of babies at the moment, and would they like to come in for the orgy? And so on, till they fucked off.� He looked on triumphantly as his mates hooted with laughter.
�That told �em Chas,� said the second character. �Ere, Bri, what do you do if you get any coming round?�
The lanky one said, �I feel like punching the fuckers, but I�d tell you what I�d love to do � this�d be funny � have a pair of devil�s horns, you know, the type they sell at Halloween � and a pitchfork ready by the door, then when they come, I�d put them on, open it and say,� and here he put on a deep, satanic voice, � �Yes? Welcome to Hell!�� The others laughed at him. Coming on after all that had been said over the past hour, it made me feel edgy, even though I knew that these were a bunch of eighteen-year-old prats breathing teenage rebellion and defiance. Somehow, Taylor had managed to squeeze his way to the bar and, over hands waving money and bellowing orders, get a couple of drinks.
�Come on, let�s move away from this squeeze,� he said. We carefully threaded our way towards the stage, where there was at least a little bit of standing room. No one was paying any particular attention to the band � rather, they would reach the end of a song and reap a bit of cheering and applause before launching into the next. I watched them rip into a cover of a Tina Turner number, absently tapping my foot as I listened. The number came to an end; cue clapping and whoops.
�Someone�s waving at us,� Taylor said. He nodded towards a table in a dark corner. Sitting there were two figures � one was on the large side, and wearing, of all things, some ridiculous confection of a hat, something like an oversized trilby. His companion, who was waving in a limp way, was shorter and slightly less fat, with receding blonde hair and a diamond earring that must have been big, considering how it glittered. The latter pointed at us and waved us over. It was only when we got nearer I realised who it was.
�Hello Dan, long time no see, hun,� he said.
�Hi, Simon! Well, bugger me!�
�Only if you insist, love.�
Simon More, quite possibly the gayest person in my class at school, years ago. A man so camp, you could have put scouts on him and called him a Jamboree. He hadn�t changed much, apart from a few extra pounds and the hair. He had never been my favourite person, but we�d got along OK, and I hadn�t seen him since then. We shook hands, and I introduced him to Taylor. He introduced me to his partner, who so far hadn�t said a thing.
�This is Oz. Ignore her � she�s being a terrible old queen tonight and not speaking to anyone. Not that you�re the most talkative, are you?�
Oz grunted.
�Never mind, he�s a sweetie, really. Hasn�t long been out of jail � he was a terribly naughty boy, weren�t you?�
Another grunt.
�Sooo,� he said, turning back to me and raising an eyebrow, �what are you doing here? The last I�d heard, you�d run away to foreign climes. I thought you�d have stayed there, away from this dump.�
�Yeah, I was, for quite a while. I�m back for now. Taylor and me travelled together quite a bit.�
I filled in a bit of what I�d been up to, to which Simon listened politely, but without any real interest, a typical and depressing reaction that I�d gradually grown used to over the past few months.
�What about you?� I asked him eventually.
�Well,� he began, sighing theatrically, �I�ve stayed here, in good old Reading. I�ve got my own place now, a little flat in the ab-so-lutely appropriate Queen Street near the canal. I work for the Prudential, in their IT department.�
�Do you still see any of the others from school?�
�Oh yes, all the time!� And he proceeded to fill me in, in excruciating detail, on who was doing what and where. It seemed that almost all of them had stayed here, married each other, worked in almost identical jobs and lived in identical houses. As I listened, I said a silent prayer of thanks that I hadn�t ended up like them.
�You must come and join us at our next meet,� he gushed. �We�re all getting together next week at the Gardener�s Arms for Richard�s birthday. Look, here�s my number,� he continued, scrawling his phone number on a beer mat, �give me a call and say if you can make it. It�d be great to see you � they�ll all be so interested to see you again.� I took it, but I had no intention of hooking up with them. Most of the people he mentioned had been smug little arseholes while we were at school, and I didn�t particularly feel the need to reacquaint myself with their lives � especially if conversation would revolve around children and mortgages.
During all this, Simon had ignored Taylor completely, but this seemed to suit the latter. He silently smoked his cigarettes, drank his beer, and looked around the bar. At one stage, he was watching the band with what appeared to be a deeply mournful, pensive air; the next he was grinning at nothing in particular, perhaps at just a sudden thought. I drained my own pint.
�Move on?� he said.
�Let�s boogie,� I agreed.
We said goodbye to Simon, me promising to stay in contact, and Oz grunting a farewell, then we got out into the relative coolness of the night.
�Well, I don�t know if we�re still on Weirdo�s course,� said Taylor, �but that was hot enough to be Hell.�
�You�re not joking.�
�Dan, what the Hell is that?� he exclaimed suddenly, pointing at a gleaming metal drum, somewhat taller than either of us, that had risen from the ground next to Queen Victoria while we�d been in the 3 B�s.
�That,� I announced, �is Reading�s contribution to town centre, late-night sanitation. It�s a pissoir. It rises from the depths late at night in order to stop revellers slashing over the queen.�
�God, so it is�, murmured Taylor, going over to inspect its gleaming steel surfaces. Someone had been busy with a knife or a key ring or something; scratched into the surface were phrases like �poof parlour� and �gay bar�, and, deeply and determinedly gouged, �I FUCK ARSES�.
�That�s actually a good idea. Are there any more?�
�No, that�s all.�
�I�ll use that on the way back. But for now, where to next?�
�Christ, I don�t know � which way do you reckon?�
�Well, how about back this way again?�
He pointed towards Market Place once more.
�Didn�t you say there�s a good pub up here?�
�The Coopers? Yeah, alright, let�s go for that.�
So we staggered round the corner and towards the Coopers. As we were going in, I saw a few women in front of the cash machine outside Barclay�s. One of them was smashing it with her shoe, which she had taken off, and was aiming the heel directly at the screen.
�Give � me � my � fucking � card � back � you � fucker!� She screamed, while one of her friends was doubled up laughing.
�Leave it be Leticia,� shouted another, �I�ll lend you some.�
�Fucking machine!� screeched Leticia, before slipping her shoe back on and tottering off with her friends.
�I will say this for Reading,� said Taylor, �you�re never at a loss for entertainment, are you?�

Texts
Where ru?
In da 3Bs innit
How ist?
Gr8 U comin?
L8r U wit NE1
Me & Chas & Bri. Wot bout U?
No 1 @ the mo. U stayin there all night?
No goin to Ice L8r @ 10
Ok M8 cu @ Ice
OK cu l8r bye

Sixteen: Reading is Heaven
Oh beautiful world!
Oscar Wilde
In which the Author, well pleased by the fact that his characters appear to be back on track, goes into another ramble, this time about the joys of reading.

So Dan and Taylor have made it to the Cooper�s, meaning that they have completed one circuit of the town this evening. I thought at one stage they weren�t going to make it. I have to say, however, that the whole Dantean conceit thing is starting to go a bit awry; In theory, they should be riding the monster Geryon down to the Eighth circle where fraud is punished, and their next stop should involve panders and seducers. How that�s going to happen I haven�t a clue. Well, I�ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it, I suppose. Of course, by now they are both pretty drunk, so whatever they do now may make no sense whatsoever; However, I think I�ll follow them some more tonight and see what happens. I think their pace is beginning to lag somewhat, and who can blame them? They have, after all, been on the go since two o�clock this afternoon, and now it is coming towards ten, with another four hours of boozing ahead of them � plus a late-night kebab and how to get back home. Of course everything�s going to be on the woozy side. Dan has already commented on this � the suggestion that Reading is slowly turning into something unrecognisable as the evening progresses. Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn�t.
The observant, interactive reader may have already enquired to him/herself as to the validity of using two voices in this story: Mine as Author, and Dan as narrator. Why on earth two voices? Why not one? Why not many? Why don�t we hear an interior monologue from Taylor, for example? Who knows what mysterious, wonderful worlds of thought are going on in his head? Then again, there could be nothing at all. Therein is a problem with any given character, a subject that we touched upon earlier; the eternal presence of The Writer, making His voice known through His mouthpieces. Just as the setting of a tale tells us something about the interests and preoccupations of the Author, so what the characters say and how they say it, or rather how skilfully they are made to say it, reflects the writer�s psyche, concerns, hopes and fears. Too often, the silent character is an empty one, a pawn waiting to be activated at the appropriate point of the tale. What story arc do characters follow when the spotlight is not on them? This is, of course, a question Stoppard asks in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. But have you ever applied the same question as you have read a novel? When the plot follows one set of characters, what are the others doing? Are they left to, as it were, lay in the dark, in the same place as they were left, until they are needed once more? Do they live outside the plot? Likewise, have you ever considered this of the people you see and meet every day? Do they have an existence outside the narrative arc of your own story? Your nearest and dearest do, yes; perhaps also the man in the corner shop, or your work colleagues. But what about the woman who sat opposite you on the bus into work this morning? How about the young local couple you once saw when you were on holiday that time, the two of them strolling arm in arm along the beach? What about the lonely, sad-looking old lady you spied sitting on the train platform? Were they, are they, real? Day after day, we encounter thousands of people, some more, some less; they enter our personal stories for perhaps a brief moment, like glimmers of light on dark water, and are gone, as if they never existed. Yet exist they do, and each has innumerable stories within them, countless tales that you are unlikely ever to hear. The interactive reader, however, can infer tales and myths from everyone and everything he or she meets; For the world itself, our mundane, plodding world, is glittering with unread stories, just waiting for the right person to come along and understand. And hence the title I�ve given this interlude � Reading is Heaven.
Now, just as in a previous chapter I said that the real, brick-and-mortar Reading that our heroes find themselves in is not Hell, so equally it is not Paradise � I don�t think anyone in their right mind would ever claim that. Besides, descriptions of heaven are notorious sketchy; consider that the Divine Comedy loses steam the minute the Pilgrim and the Poet climb Satan�s shaggy flanks and leave Hell. This is because we are immeasurably better at imagining the worst possible things that can befall us than thinking of the best. No, despite claims to the contrary, Heaven is not a place on Earth. But reading can be heaven, or as near as it is possible for us to imagine. When we pick up a book, the minute we open it to the first page, we enter another universe, another cosmos, created for our pleasure and delectation. It may be limited in scope, breadth or vision, but it is still complete by its own terms. And if the whole of anything is good, how can it be anything else but Heaven? And just as the physical world we move in is both replete with and devoid of meanings coiled within meanings, so can a book, and as such is a potential source of endless pleasure; and that, I think, is just about as close a definition of paradise as is available to us. You see, unlike Dan, or even Taylor, you don�t even need to travel beyond the confines of your armchair in order to see what there is beyond � a good book and a readiness to read in an attentive way are enough.

Seventeen: saints and slappers
There is no such thing as society.
Margaret Thatcher.
Oh Fuck off.
Most right-thinking people.
In which our two chums take a well-deserved opportunity to relax in a quiet corner; they chew the fat in a way only the terminally drunk can; things seem to get stranger.

After the heaving scrum of the three B�s, the Cooper�s was a quiet haven in comparison. It was still quite full, but not so bad that we couldn�t get a seat. It was a relief, to be honest; I was feeling the strain of the day, and just for a few minutes at least, I just wanted to be somewhere relatively calm and relaxed. We got a couple of beers and took up seats near the wide open windows so we could enjoy the balmy night air, filled with the scents of petrol fumes, cheap colognes, vomit, and people shouting at each other.
�I used to come here a lot before I went abroad,� I said, apropos of nothing. � It was pretty good then � bikers, punks, Goths, and lots of noisy music on the juke box, as long as you could handle �Bat Out of Hell� and The Doors being played at least twice each evening. Then they tried to change it into a winebar, with a smart clientele and bouncers on the door. Thankfully, that fucked up, and now it�s starting to get back to what it was.�
�Looks pretty old.�
�yeah, I think it�s one of the oldest buildings still standing in the centre � then again, I think all this timber is probably all mock Tudorbethan crap.�
Taylor pulled out his pack of fags, and dropped the last two on the table. We lit up, and gazed blankly out into the night.
�This view�s not a patch on Beirut.�
�No.�
Three men sprinted past the window, going hell for leather, closely followed by a police car with its siren blaring. In the background, someone, possibly some remnant from the old Cooper�s days, had put on The Door�s �The End�. I looked around the bar; a couple of sad-looking fat blokes were propped at the bar itself, smoking roll-ups; a girl was crying in a corner, being comforted by her friend; the barmaid was discussing something earnestly with a couple of people in a language I didn�t recognise; four office workers were roaring their heads off and slopping their drinks over the table; and Taylor was still looking, somewhat sadly I thought, into the night.
�Dan, have we changed?� He asked suddenly.
I shrugged. �I don�t know. Don�t think so, not really.�
�yet we do, don�t we?� he continued. �Look, this afternoon, I saw you and thought how miserable you looked, how weary of this world. Now we�re here, and I already notice awkward silences. Why?�
�It�s �cos we�re pissed, mostly,� I replied. �We�ve drunk far too much. Besides we haven�t seen each other in four years, and that�s a long time of travelling in different directions, you know. I�ve been my place, you�ve been yours. And we shall tell each other what we have done and what we have seen, the minute we can speak and think coherently. But we haven�t changed, not really.�
�Places change people,� Taylor said, slowly. �They, well, they impinge upon them. If you stay in one place all your life, you stay as one kind of person, thinking in one kind of way, having one set of opinions. But when you travel, then something alters, something in the soul.�
I considered this.
�Not necessarily,� I started. �I reckon it depends on the person. If you want your eyes opened, then they will. Perhaps you don�t need to travel for that, but then again that movement is the key to it. You know, what you said earlier � change perspective and all that.�
�Thou hast said it�, he grinned, then flashed a smiling look at me. Suddenly, he was reanimated. �It�s perspective that�s the thing, then. You�re down because of what, exactly? Just being here?�
�Well, yes. No. I don�t know.�
�I�d say that it�s all down to what you see this place as � from what you said earlier, I reckon this is your jail. Am I right?�
I didn�t say anything, but I didn�t need to.
�Well, let me give you my view. I travelled by train early on this morning, travelling through landscape that lay under a sultry haze, through a landscape that gleamed silver because of being chalk land. The train arrived in the outskirts of this town, and I had to wonder, because it seemed like a Midlands industrial city and I had come too far north. But no, I then saw these fine buildings over and around the river, and towards what I now understand to be the centre, and a phrase from Daniel Defoe�s tour of England came to mind. True, it wasn�t that promising, especially being greeted by that grey lump of a building opposite the station, but definitely no worse than many other places I�ve been. Having found a bus that would take me to Emmer Green, I had a pleasant lunchtime ride up, crossing a river full of life and heading towards a place that, at first sight, seemed to be a forest with a few houses interspersed. Oh yeah, it�s not like that for real, but at a distance that�s how it seemed. The same happened after I�d met you and we were coming back down; I looked into the bowl that holds this place, and saw a city mainly composed of trees.�
�Try seeing it in winter, then,� I muttered
�But I didn�t, and probably never will, and just saw this place on a bright warm day, when it is possessed, even superficially, of beauty. And now, staggering round here as we are, I see that this town is stark, staring mad � it�s full of drunk eccentrics and people who not only wish they were somewhere else, but also that they were someone else. That�s why they indulge in houses that are too extravagant and cars they can�t afford. I quite like it. And now, to add to the mad fun, we have your fucking weirdo, insisting that we are in Hell, and that all this is some kind of metaphysical concoction for our pleasure. So far, you must agree, we�ve been massively entertained, and apart from the ale, we haven�t paid for any of it�.talking of which�.�
He lumbered to his feet before I could even begin to frame a reply, and headed for the fruit machine, which someone was just walking away from with a look of resigned disgust on their face. I realised that Taylor must have had his eye surreptitiously on the guy for a while, and was waiting to pounce. He was talking arrant balls, of course, I thought, then rapidly unthought it. This was still old Taylor, my friend, and his discursive, argumentative, inquisitive ways. Alright, he could be seen as a bullshitter, but that was only in a certain light � the same that cast a dreary, judgemental light on where I lived. Was he right? Was where I was having an effect on what I saw and perceived?
Just then, I got an image of Beattie in my head, and my heart and guts lunged with desire for her. I realised how much I missed her; seeing Taylor, and knowing that he�d actually talked with her only a matter of fourteen days ago, triggered everything off : You know, all that maudlin clich�d crap, of first meeting, going out, the last time I saw her, and so on. The fact is, we never quite got it together, for one reason or another; We always wanted to, but work commitments and circumstance always prevented us. The truth is, I�d begun to doubt her feelings for me, even after the last time we�d met, but Taylor�s appearance and comment had renewed hopes and feelings I hadn�t felt for months. She was still thinking of me, still had feelings for me. I clung to that idea like some lovesick teenager � but that�s the way I felt! It was, on the face of it, somewhat ridiculous, and I told myself so: we were on opposite sides of the planet, after all. But so what? I had begun to give up hope of ever meeting someone again after my first marriage, done and finished while disastrously young, and the catalyst for my travels abroad. Then I had met her while at a particularly low point, and it was as if the sunlight had pierced a fierce gloom of cloud. I lost myself in a reverie of her now. I found a last cigarette in my own pack, lit up, and looked out into the street. People were walking along in various stages of inebriation, shouting out instructions to go to this place or that, or laughing, or doing nothing much more than a slow amble. And in the midst of them all, standing under the market obelisk, was The Fucking Weirdo. He was grinning at me, and giving me the thumbs up. I gave him the finger, but he carried on grinning, and pointed to his left, towards the town centre. He mouthed the words �keep going�, then moved off himself. I put my head out the window, but he�d already disappeared into the gloom. Now that was another thing; his insistence that we were in some kind of story. Well, from a philosophical viewpoint, I could kind of understand that. From the point of view that he was in some way manipulating my actions and I had bugger all to do except follow on passively, speak only when required, move only when desired, that was unacceptable. Who the fuck did he think he was? It was glaringly obvious he was following us around and backfilling a story for us wasn�t it? Then again, in my drunken state, I started pondering how many people had watched us today, how many sets of eyes and street-corner cameras had been trained on our movements. Indeed, I�d noticed the unobtrusive CCTV cameras in this pub, and grew, I admit, somewhat paranoid about who might be watching me even now. My nervous train of thought was broken by a triumphant �Yes!� from Taylor, and the merry chinking of money from the fruit machine. He scooped up his winnings and came back over.
�Look at that,� he said, �I reckon that�s our evening nearly paid for, along with what I got earlier. See � chance favours the well-prepared mind.�
�Good for you. The Weirdo�s back � I saw him outside while you were unburdening that thing.�
�Fuck him, who cares? More beer?�
�Let�s make it a short, and get out of here. And fags.�
�Of course.�
He went to get some cigarettes, just as a group of lads more or less fell through the door, shouting and laughing. They picked themselves up, and rushed for the bar, yelling for beer.
�All right, all right, don�t panic!� the bar manageress said curtly. �You�ll all get served � who�s rattled your cages then, eh?� She poured them beer, while they continued their conversation at full volume.

and another milestone!

...I've just gone through the 30,000 barrier - 30,104 to be precise, so I'm slightly ahead of schedule right now. No time to paste it up here; will do so later.

just over halfway!

Yay! Over 25,000 words now, and back on schedule.
We hurried through the alley and came out on Southampton Street, where traffic, lighter as evening came on, chugged and flowed back down towards the IDR and the town centre. The air felt more humid and polluted than before, and more oppressive. Taylor leaned against the wall outside the church, and lit another cigarette.
�No need to hurry, is there? And this fag will get that horrible fetor out of the back of my throat.�
I sat down and lit up too. Taylor looked up Southampton Street, then back down towards the centre.
�Enlighten me,� he said. �What am I looking at, and what direction am I squinting in?�
�That�s the town centre more or less ahead of you, and you�re facing north, or thereabouts,� I replied. �There�s the flyover for the IDR, the ring road we crossed on our way to the Turks. That ramp takes you on the northwards route, going towards Caversham and Emmer Green where we started. Straight ahead is the road towards St. Mary�s Butts, and no jokes about arseholes please, it was where they used to practise archery. Just to the right is the Oracle..�
�Ah! We must visit her!� he muttered, and grinned.
�and beyond that is St. Mary�s church,� I continued. Further on is Broad Street and Friar Street, then the station, from which it is possible to escape this bloody town.�
�You really must learn once more to stop being so pessimistic and negative, Dan. It doesn�t suit you.�
�There are also lots and lots of pubs we haven�t visited yet. I once calculated that if you tried to drink one beer in every pub within a few hundred yards of the station, there�d be a good chance you�d be dead of alcohol poisoning before you�d reach where we are now.�
�How many have we visited so far? Four, isn�t it?�
�Yes. Plenty more ahead, though. Come on.�
And we carried on sauntering down the hill. As we came towards the roundabout, there was a great roar behind us, and an enormous old car, some ancient American monstrosity, appeared, belching a great plume of exhaust smoke. It pulled up at the traffic lights. It really was quite incredible, and really quite ridiculous. It was painted black, with red and orange flames along the wings; it had white-walled tyres, but not real ones � instead someone had painstakingly painted them, but done an awful job. There was plenty of chrome and tailfins and the thing�s hood was down. The trouble was, it was all out of proportion, as though someone had tried to nail two completely different cars together. Most absurd of all was the little man driving. He was in full early-rocker uniform, which was too big for him, and complete with jet black Elvis-style quiff and DA. He looked awfully pleased with himself. He flicked a cigarette into his mouth, or rather tried to, as it hit the side of his face instead. He bent down to retrieve it, then sat back up, this time with the hair having slid sideways over his bald pate. I burst out laughing at this sight, as did Taylor. This obviously pissed off Bald Elvis terribly, because he tried to roar away from the lights in a haze of tyre smoke; Instead, he bunny-hopped the car and stalled, making us laugh even more as we crossed the road in front of him. Doubled up, we entered the Oracle by the car park entrance and found ourselves by one of the bridges. There were traffic cones across it, and a horsey-looking man directing people away. On the bridge were men with large nets, and in the water were a couple of really bad-tempered looking swans. Other men were on the bank, also with nets and long poles.
�sorry, if you could just go that way please, that�s right, thank you,� said the equine-faced man to a woman, then to us, �and where are you going?�
�We just wanted to pass through,� I said. �What�s going on here?�
�It�s these bloody swans,� answered the man, �they�ve turned into a right pair of nuisances, pestering people for bread and so on. It�s gone too far today now. They attacked a little kid for her sandwich and drew blood, so we�ve got to move them on, but they�re being a right pain in the arse to catch. If you want to go into the centre, please use the other bridge.�
We walked by the bank, and watched the somewhat chaotic attempts to catch the errant swans. This involved one man with a pole poking the thing hopelessly at the swan , while another tried to catch the animal in his net. This only served to piss the swans off even more, as they fluttered and splashed around and generally evaded the capture attempts, much to the merriment of the gathering crowds on the banks. We walked up to the mutiplex, then crossed over on the footbridge.
�Right, where shall we eat?� asked Taylor, as we passed the various restaurants and diners on this side of the Oracle.
�Let�s just grab a burger,� I said.
�Fine by me.�
So we went into Macdonald�s and ate their sad excuses for food, along with dozens of others enjoying their fare. Well, they must have been enjoying it, as they weren�t evincing any signs of disgust, like vomiting. Once we�d finished, we went into the Shopping centre itself and up the escalator. I pointed out the now-empty information booth.
�There�s your Pythian oracle, Taylor � looks like she�s buggered off.�
�Never mind. Let�s get out of here ourselves. I hate these places at the best of times, but they get creepy in the evening.�
A few wan faces passed through, and a few groups of party goers. Here and there were people gazing into the now-closed shops, hungry for the clothes and goods on display.
�It�s like some vestibule for ghosts, isn�t it? Look at them, drifting along into oblivion.�
�This is Reading. It�s a commercial town. Take away the opportunity for commerce, and the inhabitants feel lost. It�s why, for example, there are hardly any old buildings � there�s always been new money coming in, and new money always wants new buildings. The attitude of the typical Redingensian is �What�s in it for me?��
�A commendable attitude for the literal-minded capitalist.�
�Everyone wants cash, but that�s about it,� I continued as we came outside and crossed Holy Brook before it plunged back under the ground, �Look around at all the flash cars and new flats. It�s all image, and all built on tick. Come a financial crisis, and most of these buggers�ll be joining the beggars.�
�You�re hard on them, which suggests you�re being hard on yourself � who knows exactly what they want? Chances are it�s a nice house and a decent wage and the chance to be a bit happy. Don�t blame a cannibal for living in a cannibal culture � it�s all he�s known, so of course he�s going to act like a cannibal.�
�I guess you�re right,� I grumbled as we walked up Chain Street, past Heelas, now renamed John Lewis, and St Mary Minster.
�Where are we headed, anyway?� asked Taylor.
�I thought Friar street, then we�ll head up that and round again. A cheap beer in a Weatherspoon�s, anyway.�
We walked across Broad Street and into Union Street, known to one and all as Smelly Alley, due to it once having been where all the butcher�s shops and fishmongers were situated. Only one fishmonger and one butcher remained now, everything else having been taken over by an eclectic mix of different businesses. There was still a faint tang of fish in the air despite the shop having closed a couple of hours before, adding to the clammy and uncomfortable evening air. Stepping over a few stray pieces of old vegetable from the greengrocer�s that had been left to rot in the middle of the alleyway, we came out onto Friar street. A few cars and buses cruised lazily down the road, weary from the day�s heat; small groups wandered languidly, aiming for the various bars here and there. A thought struck me.
� How much have we actually drunk?�
�How many had you had before I walked in the door at the White Horse?�
�I�d just started on my second.�
�Let�s see� there was that pub on the way down, we had a bottle each there, then the place with the two philosophers in, one there, after that, two in the Hobgoblin and two in the Turk�s. That�s eight for you and seven for me.�
�So why aren�t I feeling as pissed as I should?�
�Probably because it�s coming towards eight o�clock and it�s hot.�
�Probably. Another one?�
�Why not?�
And so we walked into the Hope Tap.

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That�s what it said, so it did, right up until I heaved me load over it, sure.

Twelve: Cheating bastards
Bought my first real six string, at the local five and dime,
Played until my fingers bled, twas the summer of sixty nine
Bryan Adams
The Author sticks his oar in yet again; He offers further unwelcome pontification; he wonders exactly where he�s going and how he will contrive to get his characters into the desired place for the next section.

Alright, I own up. You�ve got me fair and square. I put my hands up and confess, guv�nor. You�ve got me bang to rights, and all those other tiresome clich�s. As it must be glaringly obvious to even the dimmest of my readers, I have totally stolen my story from the embrace of another. In short, it is as Socrates bellowed earlier � this tale is no more than Dante�s Inferno applied to two blokes on a pub crawl. It�s painfully obvious really, isn�t it? Dan Thompson, or Dan T.; the use of a dead poet, in this case Samuel Taylor Coleridge, shorn of his first name, spouting metaphysics, and made to be a pretty cool dude; Taylor�s command to Dan at the beginning to follow him in order to sort his life out; their descent into Reading and beer after beer. You�ve got to admit, though, it�s all pretty clever � I�ve tried to keep various analogies going, and our two heroes are following an admittedly rough clockwise spiral. If you don�t believe me, go back and check � see? Good, isn�t it? Eh? Eh? Even Beatrice, or Beattie, gets a look in. But now I�m a bit stuck � they�ve deviated somewhat, and I�m in a quandary as to do to put them back on the right track next. But more of that later.
Yes, yes, I know you�re probably all quite upset; I can see you rendering my book unto the floor, shouting in disgust and then taking this back to your local bookseller, demanding a refund for having been mislead, or possibly turning away in horror from the web page this is pasted on, but please, BEAR WITH ME. Let me explain. The fact is, most writers are so lazy that they can�t be bothered to invent a plot � instead, they just crib from someone else, or bodge two different tales together. Why else do you think there are only seven different story archetypes globally? It�s because no-one can be arsed inventing new ones. Now this particular tale is essentially the �wandering hero, discovers wisdom/ secret of fire/ eternal life/ a sticky end at the end of his travels, returns home with it (or not, in the case of the sticky end scenario, in which he might come back in a box. Or a bag)� type thing. Simple as that. Do you think Dante had the copyright on that? Of course not. He nicked his idea off someone else, and added a bit of orthodox catholic Christian imagery to it. What he did do, though, is work out an intricate scheme, plot and timeline before he got down to the weary, dirty business of scrawling. Since I don�t have the luxury of that, my task being to get fifty thousand words done as quickly as possible, I have taken the liberty of, ahem, liberating his plot and butchering it as I see fit.
And why not do it? Everybody does. It�s even given literary gravitas in the Islamic world in the form of something called the nazire, which is essentially a courtly poem that rips off the theme of another. Books generally refer back to other books, tales, legends and myths. They may claim originality, but the vigilant reader, which I hope you are becoming (indeed, you must have seen the Dante thing way before now), by judicious flaying of the story�s skin and paring its muscle down, will easily discern the bones of a far more ancient legend lying underneath, just as surely as being able to track down the author�s mind, as I have mentioned before. All I�m doing is making it easier for you here. I hope you don�t mind. This tale is, in short, a bad parody of a Christian story, allegory and vision of Hell. This, by the way, is no time to comment on the real Dante�s apparent profligacy when it came to bedding anything with an orifice. Rather, we could comment on the imagery of the Pilgrim and Dan. Are they in any way similar? So far, no: Dan does not appear to react to the various situations he finds himself in, nor does he appear to grow in realisation. Then again, his tendency not to really notice what�s going on around him has been commented upon. All he grows is increasingly drunk. Likewise, Taylor doesn�t seem to do much but chunk out metaphysical musings. So he�s exactly like Virgil, then. As to the story: why is it being written? Why is it a parody of a Christian Fable. I�ve already provided an answer, but as the Author, you know that I am possibly unreliable; perhaps there�s another reason. If so, it�s up to you to dig it out, and good luck to you.
To return to my point about books talking about other books, here�s an image for you.
There�s a type of party game that�s tremendous fun to play when everyone�s drunk. You get everyone in a circle, each person facing the back of the person in front, and holding them by the shoulder at arm�s length. At a given signal, everyone sits; Lo and behold, they are sitting on each others� laps. Each person supports the weight of someone else without being crushed. You are then supposed to waggle one foot and a hand in the air and go �wooo!�, but this is optional. Don�t try it with both feet. Anyway, this is the image I have of books and tales and authors; a great ring of people supporting each other, whispering into the ear of the one in front.
They�re not waving a foot in the air and going �wooo!� though. Except for Charles Dickens.

Now what am I going to do with the two heroes? At the moment, they are beginning to stray. It is, as Taylor pointed out, nearly eight, and they have another six hours of drinking ahead of them. If we are to follow the Dantean plan, they should now be entering the equivalent of the wood of suicides and profligates in the seventh circle. Yet I can�t see it happening. In fact, the whole Dante theme was quite accidental at first, but has solidified as I�ve written � now it threatens to break down once more. Well, let�s see where it goes. After all, I�m just as at the whim and mercy of the tale as the characters and you, of course.

Thirteen: Dead souls.
Blah Blah Blah.
Iggy Pop et al
An amazing intervention; everything is scuppered and suddenly all bets are off.

There was a whiff of stale carpet, cigarettes and spilled ale as we opened the door into the Hope Tap; In the corner by the entrance were the Terrible Drunks, a group of old and pissed up Irish blokes, singing contrived songs about the good old land; one of them was looking dazedly at a poster for something or other that seemed to be covered in puke. The rest of the clientele was a mix of different types � students, office workers who hadn�t managed to get home, separate groups of young men and women starting their evening out. Also at the bar was The Fucking Weirdo, and he was staring directly at us.
�Look, Taylor, it�s him again! The weirdo from the bus � I�m sure he�s following us. He was in the Turks earlier on as well.�
�Are you absolutely sure? It could just be coincidence.�
�No, I�m sure � I�m going to have it out with him.�
But before I could approach him, he came up to us, waving his hands like an idiot.
�No, no, no! You shouldn�t be here!�, he shouted in desperation.
Taylor looked as surprised as I did.
�Why the fuck not, and who are you to tell me where I should be?� He demanded.
�Sorry, sorry, but you shouldn�t be here, isn�t it obvious?� he pleaded, obviously in some kind of distress.
�What the hell are you going on about?� I asked, holding down a sudden urge to laugh at his forlorn appearance. He came closer, and whispered,
�Hell is exactly what I am talking about. That is where you are.�
Taylor and I both said �What?� and laughed, as did a few people at the bar who�d been eavesdropping.
�You are in Hell!� he insisted, �or rather you would be if you�d taken the right direction.�
I could only gape in amazement at this bloke.
�What are you on, and where can I get some?� Taylor asked.
Listen to me - please listen,� he said, gripping my arms. �You are not where you should be � the plan, you have to follow the plan � look!�
He let me go, suddenly scrambled in his pocket, and brought out a tattered paperback, filled with strips of envelope, torn-out bits of notebook, and diary pages. I swear there was also a used cotton-bud. He also produced his notebook and a rough kind of map, showing something circular. I wasn�t sure whether to laugh at him, pity him or punch him one. The barman looked over at us, unsure as to what to do.
�It�s very simple, don�t you see? You � you are Dante. And you, Mr. Taylor Coleridge, are the Virgilian figure, guiding your charge towards a greater sense of self-awareness. You..�
Taylor suddenly erupted in fury, something I�d never seen him do.
�You cheeky, mad little fucker, you have been following us! What�s your bloody game, you weirdo? Who are you?�
The figure drew himself up in a ridiculous show of pride.
�I am the Author. You are my characters, and you will return to the plot laid out for you!�
We both burst out laughing at this. Someone piped up, �and if they�re characters, I take it I�m one and all?�
�No,� replied the Fucking Weirdo Author, �You are irrelevant, because you are one of the Damned in my story. I mean, you are just a metaphor, or analogy.�
This elicited, �I�ll analogy you, twat features!�, and things would probably have got ugly if one of the bar staff hadn�t come round the bar and gripped the Author by the arms.
�Right you, out! I don�t want another word, and I won�t have you upsetting my customers, come on with you!�
There was a smattering of applause from the Terrible Drunks, to which the barman replied, �Carry on and I�ll have you buggers out and all!�
The Author was still trying to shout to us.
�No! You must return! You should be in � in circle seven, ring two - the Dolorous Wood with the Suicides and the Profligates! Turn back right! Turn Right! Keep turning right! I�ll be waiting!�
And the door closed on him.
�Bugger me!�, I said.
�Not right now,� replied Taylor, �I could do with a drink first.�
�Do you think he will be waiting? If he is, I�ll fucking deck him!�
�Nah, he wouldn�t be that stupid, to show his face to us again.�
We got our drinks, accompanied by some staring from a few punters and an apology from the barman, and found a corner of the beer garden that wasn�t too sticky. It was a beautiful, but humid, evening now. Dusk was drawing on, and the garden was already pretty much in shadow. Taylor and I sat in silence for a while, smoking yet another fag and, I suspect, sharing the same thoughts.
�Do you have any idea at all as to what that was all about?� I asked.
�Nothing. I really don�t know,� replied Taylor. �You were right though � he was following us. Maybe just you. Have you ever seen him before today?�
�Never.�
�Perhaps he fancies you.�
�Ha ha. Could just as easily be you. How did he know your name, anyway?�
�That�s not so difficult � he must have overheard me in, what was it, er, the Blagrave?�
�True, but wouldn�t we have seen him?�
�Might have been sat down with his back to us or something.�
I mulled it over.
�He seemed very worked up about us being in here- and what was that about Hell? What was he going on about?�
Taylor smiled.
�Now I�m sure of it. He must have been in the Blagrave when Socrates and Plato came out with that crack about Dante. You said earlier about how he had his nose in a book; Odds on it�s a copy of Inferno. His feverish little imagination�s got the better of him, and now he�s convinced that we�re some pair of allegorical figures.�
�Yeah, I guess you�re right. And anyway, it�s not as if any of that stuff in Dante has happened to us.�
�Have you read the Divine Comedy?�
�Me? Well, I know of it, of course. Can�t say I�ve read it per se. Why?�
�Nothing. Well, maybe something: I�m just mulling something over.�
�What?�
�Me. Taylor Coleridge, name of a poet. You, Dan Thompson, or Dan T. You, in your mid-thirties � about the same age as the fictional Dante in his poem, at a crossroads in your life, wondering where to go. I show up, we go on a journey � and did you notice the word �Hell� on the bus stop? And we went downhill from there! And we met two guys named Socrates and Plato � hmmm.�
Taylor stopped, lost in amused thought. He was obviously thinking things through.
�I don�t really know the story myself, but I can understand where the guy was getting off. That�s why he yelled about turning right � if I recall properly, Dante and Virgil keep turning in a clockwise spiral.�
He got his cigarette packet out, tore the back off it, and put the piece of card on the table.
�Shame we don�t have a map,� he muttered. �You got a pen? Cheers. Now help me here�where did we start off?�
Over the next half hour or so, we tried to work out exactly where we�d been so far, and draw a map in proportion. We wrote down what we�d drunk, who we�d seen and, as far as possible, the topic of conversation. I drew a rough map of the streets of central Reading, and continued onto a few beer mats to show where Emmer Green was. The end result was not so much a clockwise circle as a wobbly straight line, coming down from Emmer Green, into Caversham, then over the bridge and so on. It did, however, show a tendency to move to the right. Taylor racked his brains for what parts of the story he knew, and sketched in the words �Limbo� over the Blagrave, and the words �Styx?�, �Acheron?� and �Phlegethon?� over the rivers Thames and Kennet.
Lastly, in Friar Street, he wrote �Wood of the Suicides � where?�
�That�s what he said, wasn�t it? Something about turning right, and we should be in circle seven.�
�That�s right � but was he?�
I admit, I was starting to get a bit freaked by the whole thing � blame the amount of booze I�d already had, and being stalked by some weirdo. Taylor laughed.
�Of course he�s wrong � just a rather sad bloke who got a mad idea lodged in his head. However, this is quite cool, don�t you think? He�s suggested that our trip tonight is somehow pre-ordained and planned. He�s also opened up a set of metaphysical doors, as it were, and made us characters in some kind of re-telling of Dante�s story. Think of it like we�re in a kind of labyrinth � one with no walls and dead ends as such, except the ones that are part of the real, physical town. All the dead ends are in our heads. I just wish I knew the story more.�
�Why, so we could follow it?�
�Maybe, maybe not � in a way, it would be fun to find out. Equally, it would be fun not to follow his crazy set of rules and see if he turns up again, waving his hands and his map. Then you could deck him. Let�s face it, it could make the whole evening far more entertaining.�
� So what do you reckon then?�
�Well, let�s finish these, then turn right and see where we end up next.�
As he said, we didn�t have anything to do apart from get drunk, and as it didn�t really matter where we did this, we could go where we liked; why not play along for ourselves and see what happened? We went up to the bogs before moving on. Washing our hands, we looked out of the windows down on to Friar Street. Sainsbury�s was just closing up and the last few staff were locking the doors behind them; A few people were waiting for buses heading towards Caversham; And small knots of revellers wandered along, shouting. One group were dressed as cavemen and women. Taylor watched the scene attentively.
�Is Reading always like this?�
�Every Friday and Saturday night, yes,� I said. �It has a reputation for high weirdness. Even hardened Londoners who come here by accident tend to just shake their heads in disbelief.�
Coming down the stairs, we passed a woman in her twenties labouring up, and extremely drunk. She winked at us as she passed, and put her fingers to her lips.
�Sh-shh,� she said, �Say nuffink. I ain�t here, right?� Then she tip-toed the rest of the way up, stopping only to say �Sh-shh!� to her reflection, then giggling.
�Time for some fresh air,� said Taylor, and we pushed through the now-heaving bar into the hot evening street.
�Right then, left or right?� I said.
�Let�s follow the game,� said Taylor. �To the Right!�
�To the seventh circle!�
�To the wood of suicides, whatever that is!�
�Just wish I knew where that was.�
And we turned right.

Fourteen: I am not who you think I am
�idle men and the like, who seek stories and fairy tales�
Rumi
The Author is distinctly upset; He bewails ingratitude and discourses upon the fictive and the real.

Or not, as the case may be; I have said I am unreliable, and so I have shown. The summary has very little to do with this interlude. In no other way have I shown my unreliability than in my sudden appearance as a character at the front of the stage, as it were. Now, you may think that that was a highly odd thing to do, and perhaps you are right, but think on a bit more, dear reader: I have already expressly and frequently said that this is a mere fiction; that it is mine, and mine to do with as I will; and that I can and will appear in it. Now think on � what purpose does my intervention have upon the two characters? Suddenly, they have a purpose of sorts; not only that, but they are aware of it. They have also expressed ignorance of certain facts � they don�t know much about the journey sketched out in Inferno. In fact, if you go back to when they were crossing Reading Bridge this afternoon, you may have noticed Taylor�s comment about the Thames and its being perceived as the river Styx. Of course, being perfectly accurate, the river Acheron should have been mentioned here to follow the allusion to Dante. However, this all goes to show that the characters are perfectly fallible in what they do and say; They get facts wrong, as we all do; they exaggerate, over-elaborate, and lie, as we all do; in fact, the infallible character is untrustworthy, and that goes for the Author as well � it is an act of dishonesty. Now, consider this: By thrusting myself so firmly into the spotlight, I have conclusively shown my nature as a fictional creature, and a sorry sight I cut as well, it must be said. As such, it therefore follows that a) I cannot be the author and b) Dan�s first-person account is also fictive and therefore unreliable. It then raises the next uncomfortable idea: If you can�t trust me, being fictional, then who? Not only that, the characters are now aware of the story arc, albeit dimly; What does that imply? As to my identity, all I can say is, I Am Not Who You Think I Am.
For a start, no matter how much I would love to be (and who wouldn�t?) I am not the Omnipotent, Omniscient God of this particular microuniverse that happens to be this story. As I explained at the beginning, I don�t have a clue as to what is going to happen next. Your guess is as good as mine, although if you have a spare copy of Inferno to hand you might find it useful. Very well, then, am I the Story itself, desiring to be written, wishing only to view its own outcome? Possibly, but that still does not account for the fact that I am being written by someone. It may be that Stories exist within the mind; However, they have no real strength or influence until they are shared, passed on, written down � that is when the Story of the Wandering Prince, or the Third Son, or the Discoverer of Her True Destiny, takes on power and is disseminated across a thousand different cultures.
No, I am the author, but just as I appear in one way on these pages, so I have another existence outside of it. Consider this, though � in these interludes, I often appear as something of a smug smartarse, showing off what I already know and indicating what may occur next. In the story itself, I am not much to write home about, am I? Now look at yourself, dear reader. Go on, go to the mirror, and take a damn good look at yourself. What do you see? How do you read the book of the self? I�ll wager you don�t read it the same as someone else. It�s like the difference between someone sitting down into their favourite armchair to read a favourite, well-read tome, and someone picking up the same book, but this time it�s unfamiliar to them. It�s alien territory, to be scrutinised or ignored as the reader sees fit. And just as a book has many pages, so you show a different page to your reader according to how you see fit. Imagine a party full of people who know you: They may all have different opinions of you, simply because they have seen differing pages of the book that is your soul. So please, dear reader, do not presume to judge me on the paltry few leaves of myself I have so far displayed.

and another bit.

So far, so good, but I'm still about a day behind my own schedule - I'm going to carry on until I've brought it up to, and beyond, where I should be - current count is about 19,500.

Nine: A drink in the Turks
And did those feet in ancient times walk upon England�s pastures green?
William Blake, Jerusalem
In which Dan and Taylor manage to stagger up London Street and into the old coaching inn; They see something interesting; then they drink more, and the world begins to dissolve into metaphysical forms. That, or they�re beginning to feel the effects of the booze.
We crossed the bridge and the IDR, but not without some diversion. First off, another beggar came pelting hell for leather over the bridge, waving a can of Park Bench Special lager and shouting his head off. I thought he was coming at us first all, but he dashed past (with a helping shove from Taylor) and jumped into the pile of beggars we�d just gone by. Then he went thug on them, flailing with his fists and feet while they scattered. He was so angry that he seemed to be literally foaming at the mouth, and he was incoherent � just cursing and making enraged noises. We continued: On our right was the edifice of the Oracle, with the Kennet flowing sulkily through its centre. The IDR was a slow crawl of hot, tired, home-going traffic, heading from the flyover towards Queen�s road. The metal walls of the shopping centre�s car park bulged outwards, frozen grey sails gleaming dully in the dusty sunlight. We waited for the traffic lights to change, and watched three women, about twenty years old, across the other side of the road, bellowing their heads off � God knows why. They were loud enough to be heard above the sound of the traffic. Fuck, they could have stopped the traffic, they were so ugly. They were swigging from Bacardi Breezers and tagging the side of the Central Reading Youth Provision building, under the mural of black history. As we watched, though, a police car came hurtling westwards, lights and siren on, and they scattered. We finally managed to cross, then we went up the hill to the Turk�s.
It was quiet at that time of day: Being July as well, the uni crowd weren�t there. A couple were sitting on the bench outside, and within there were no more than ten or twelve, scattered around the deep sofas in the low-ceilinged front room, or playing pool at the back. I bought a pair of ales and some crisps, then we put our feet up on the sofa next to the fag machine. Another football match was playing on the telly in the corner, but no-one was watching it. From behind the table in front of the window came a deep, content snoring. A pair of feet were attached to it as well.
�I am starting to get very drunk, I believe�, I said.
�Good. Crisps were a good idea, though � they�ll soak it up a bit�.
Taylor ripped open a pack and started picking through them.
�Why can�t pubs in this country do proper bar snacks? You have the choice of crisps or bags of peanuts, or, if they�re really posh, bowls of peanuts on the bar which are covered in piss from people not washing their hands properly. It should be more like Spain � lots of tapas and stuff. I don�t want to eat a full-metal dinner when I�m on the razzle, I�d rather snack.�
�Turkey�s good for that, too � mezes and things. And raki. Have you tried that? Like arack, but smoother.�
Taylor frowned, trying to recall.
�Mm, yes, I did, when I was going through Cappadocia during a freezing cold winter. It was some restaurant, had a strange name�.the SOS, that�s it. We ate something delicious involving bits of lamb and chillis and rice from a big kind of wok, and drank raki. Bloody good stuff, as I recall. And the restaurant! At the end of a row of shops, all closed for the winter. There was mein host, who was working as boss, waiter and chef; While he cooked, he came out and in a frantic mix of Turkish, German, French and English, he�d tell us about the food and give us platters of bread and bottles of wine from his own vineyard. The place was kept warm by a huge wood-burning stove in the middle of the room, and there were those incongruous posters on the wall � you know, vast alpine scenes, crying gypsy children and boss-eyed kittens. The tables had cheap plastic cloths with a red and white check pattern and cigarette burns. The food was damn good.�
�I think I know the place � in Goreme, yeah? You know, the village in the middle of a valley of giant rock cocks which people used to live in? And the owner � round and bald with a big dark mustache, and chain-smoking.�
�That�s the guy and the place, not that I got much of a chance to look around � I was back on the road the evening afterwards. When did you go there?�
�Not long after you and I went our separate ways. You know, I worked my way northwards until I hit the Black Sea, then I kind of followed it back round to the Marmara, then on to the Mediterranean.�
�We must have missed each other by a bit then, because I was there not long after we�d split up, too.�
I felt suddenly energised.
�Ah, man, that�s incredible! We both end up at the same restaurant in the same village in the middle of nowhere � we probably just missed each other by a few days! That�s some coincidence.�
�Well, it isn�t really, not if you think of it; after all, we missed each other, and Goreme, despite its size, is a big tourist draw.�
�Just our luck then, that we didn�t meet.�
�Hell, what does it matter now? Here we are, together again.�
We supped our beers.
�So, what did you think of it?� I asked.
�The place? Well, I didn�t see giant rock cocks as you put it. Travelling through it was weird � a landscape of fists and fingers with caves dug into them. I walked up to this place with a big kind of castle literally dug out of this one great knarled hand of stone. From the top of it, you could see for miles, and the land looked like a dreadfully lined and wrinkled pair of hands.�
An image of the weird landscape of Cappadocia came to mind then � a place of deeply gouged valleys, seemingly arid but incredibly fertile, dominated by a volcano on the horizon.
�I still imagine it as Valley of the Phallus, though.�
� Well, perceptions alter from person to person, don�t they? Let�s take this place, Reading. How do you see it?�
I was slightly nonplussed by this.
�Um, well, it�s home�.my town. It�s OK, I guess. Pretty boring, if anything. Reputation for being a bit rough in the evenings. Not the prettiest of places either.�
� Do you remember when we were in Cairo that time? How did you see that?�
I thought for a moment.
�Seething. Fascinating. Ancient. Crazy streets and mad traffic. Great food.�
�How would the average Cairene react to Reading, do you think?�
�OK, I see your point, Taylor � but they wouldn�t find it interesting.�
�Maybe, maybe not. But they would look around, see an infrastructure that works, electricity and water that work all the time, and jobs and opportunities galore. And that�s pretty much Heaven for some poor bastard from some of the places we�ve visited. It all depends how you see where you are, doesn�t it? And that, Dan, is where you�re having problems at the moment � you�re in a trough, a bad pocket. Yet what you�ve shown me so far has been good, even if it has been limited to bar interiors.
�Try living here through the winter. Try to get an affordable house. Hell, Taylor, I lived better abroad.�
�Were you worried about housing then? Of course you weren�t,� he said. �So perhaps that circumstance has changed. If you don�t like it so much, why are you here?�
I had absolutely no answer to that. I shrugged and carried on puffing on a cigarette. He carried on, saying something about the reason why he hadn�t decided to come back. Good friend though he was, Taylor could also be incredibly annoying with his general, Zen calmness, something I�d forgotten. I half-listened to him, nodding as necessary, and looked round the bar. The pair of feet were still snoring happily; the couple from the bench walked in, arm in arm, gazing at each other; and there, in the corner by the fireplace, was the Fucking Weirdo from earlier on. He still had his nose in a notebook, but briefly glanced up and caught my eye. He grimaced, then went back to his perusal. I wondered whether he was actually following me, but decided that he probably wasn�t. After all, I couldn�t have been the only person at a loose end on a hot Friday afternoon in July in Reading, could I? I zoned back to what Taylor was saying.
��but if and when I return for good, how I see what I�m doing will be important. Am I in a cage or out in the open? Free or stuck? You know what I mean, Dan, you�ve seen it as often as I have. People run away abroad under the illusion that it�s somehow liberating, that they can escape all their problems. It just happens to turn out that what they�re mostly trying to run away from is themselves. And that,� he gulped down his beer, �is impossible. Oh, you can find yourself in an Ashram in Delhi, or up the side of an Andean mountain, sure, if you�ve been so bloody stupid as to lose yourself in the first place, but you can equally do it in Milton Keynes. The location acts as a nice backdrop for the metaphysical adventure, that�s what I�m saying.�
�Yeah, but I�d hardly have done what I�ve done if I�d stayed here, would I?�
�I wonder � for its size this place is remarkably cosmopolitan. No, the physical landscape is inextricably linked with what�s going on in the soul. Perceive where you are as a dour, miserable, wet place, and you�re likely to be dour, miserable and wet. But if you see that what is around you is exotic, mysterious and filled with peril and opportunity, then what happens to your perspectives? Reading can be every bit as exotic as, say, Bangkok; It depends where you�re coming from.�
�If I hadn�t been in Delhi when you were, we�d never have met.�
Taylor picked up his glass and motioned to me to finish mine. He smiled.
�True, that was serendipitous. And it would have been a tragedy never to have met. But then, think about all those others you�ve never met and never will. Another one?�
He sauntered over to the bar and I mulled over what he was talking about. I got the gist of what he was saying, and realised that he was, in his own way, trying to buck me up. The truth was, I realised how much I�d missed his perspective, and how much I needed someone to bounce ideas, problems and worries off of. It was true; while I had a few other friends here, I�d effectively isolated myself for the last few months ad become enveloped in my own introspective gloom, hating what I was doing, where I was, and even myself. Taylor had come like a little gleam of light showing through black clouds.
The snoring had stopped, and I saw the feet shift. A hand slowly appeared, reaching for the back of the bench. The fingers reached it, gripped, and hauled into view a vaguely-familiar, pale-faced man of about fifty, with long strands of white hair and a few days� growth of grizzled grey beard. He propped himself so that I could see most of his head and torso, then rubbed his face vigorously, as if to scrub a stain off it. His clothes were deeply rumpled, covered in crisp crumbs and stained with God knows what. He caught sight of me, beamed and half-bellowed,
�Alright! Are ya winnin�?�
�Alright, mate. How are you yourself?�
�Not bad, not bad, all the better for me beauty sleep.� He gave a harsh, sour-breathed laugh that I could smell from where I was sat, then clambered up and staggered off towards the bogs. Taylor was coming back with a brace of pints; the man smiled and half-bowed as he went past.
�Christ, what is it with old blokes in this place? Don�t they do anything but drink?� Taylor demanded when he sat down again. �That one could have done with a bath or ten as well. Do you know him?�
�Don�t think so, although something rings a bell.�
�I�ll tell you, Dan, I didn�t think I�d miss this country much while I was away, but ale is one thing I started craving after a while.�
�Yeah, that and curry. And beans. And Fish and Chips.�
�And Marmite.�
�All that stuff. I�d thought I�d gorge myself on it all when I got back.�
�But you didn�t, because now you can have it whenever you want.�
�Well, Metaphysics are all fine and well, but they can�t beat an empty stomach. Hunger proves what reality is.�
�Is the hunger real? And if so, is what you eat real?�
�Oh balls, Taylor � is our increasing drunkenness real? Is our booze real? Course it fucking is.� And I proceeded to demonstrate our current state of reality by taking a gulp, and therefore make us increasingly real in a world that was starting to look wobbly. The old guy, meanwhile, wobbled back to his bench, slopped another beer onto the table, and resumed his recumbent position.
�I still hold by what I said earlier. Where you are should have no effect on who you are, but it generally does. If you�re down, try to look at your position in a different light.�
�Yeah, but you�re also dragged down or pulled up by whoever you�re with. You can be miserable anywhere, anytime when you�re with the wrong person.�
�But isn�t that my point? Now look at those two over there,� he said, gesturing to the couple with yet another cigarette, �do you think they are looking at this bar in the same way and with the same attitude as us? Of course not; they have eyes for themselves and the place has become immaterial. Now let�s fast-forward a few years. They�ve been married a while, and intimacy has stripped them of illusions. They come here again; Do they see it as they did on this day? Again, no.�
�Well said, sir!�, barked the man. He waved his glass at us, spilling some of the contents, then wiped his face again. �Metaphysical disquisition in a pub, that�s the stuff! And my kind of conversation, too.�
Taylor looked at him with a kind of weary amusement. �So, are you real, or just a product of my over-worked imagination?� he enquired.
The man laughed his fetid laugh again. �I may ask the same of you � I know I�m real, at least; And since I have been a regular here for more years than I�m too dishonest to admit to, while you seem to have magically appeared, as it were, I�m inclined to think it�s you as is the spook.�
His mentioning that he was a regular made me suddenly realise who he was � Blake, the Turk�s Head�s resident alcoholic, who I hadn�t seen for years. When I�d returned, I�d assumed he was dead, as it always seemed to be on the cards. It was well-known that his intention was to drink so much that, come his death, there�d be no need to embalm him, and he hoped his body would be allowed to be propped in a corner of the pub somewhere.
�It�s Blakey isn�t it?� I said. �How�s it going?�
�It�s me indeed, sure as I�m sure of anything. Still in one piece. Still drinking. Heh!�
And he raised his glass once again.
I explained who Blake was, then Taylor said, �So, do you live here then?�
�Explain �here�,� muttered Blake over his glass, before putting it down and belching loudly and looking pleased with himself. �Whatever. This here�s my bench anyhows. And you two? I don�t believe I�ve ever had the pleasure before, but then I�m not so sure of anything, what with my brain mostly bein� on holiday with my liver.�
�Dan here�s a local man. I�m travelling through; He�s my host today.�
�What is it, a pub crawl or something of its ilk?�
�That�s the way it�s turning out,� I chipped in. �We started off in Emmer Green and we�re working our way round the town.�
Blake huffed. �God, that�s too much like hard work,� he said. �Why move on, when you�ve got yourself nicely settled?� He turned to Taylor. �And you say you�re a traveller? Other countries and stuff, I suppose.�
�That�s the measure of it, I guess,� grinned Taylor. �Call it an extremely extended pub crawl�.
�Nah, you want to stay in one place. Why should I get up an go elsewheres? It all comes through here, eventually. What I can see with my imagination is enough, and sometimes more than enough. What I can�t see, I got telly for.�
�But don�t you want to go and actually see other places?�
�What for? You ever been to Spain?�
We both nodded. �Well�, he continued, �I once went there. Torremolinos. That was back when I was married, way back in the seventies. Anyhow, I�d saved for ages for us to go. It wasn�t like it is now � getting on a plane to Spain was like going to the Jungle in Africa must be like now. Anyhows, I�m saving and saving and all the time I�m thinking what it�ll be like � you know, exotic food, paella and so on, and unknown drinks, guitars and flamenco and all. I was dreaming of it every night. And what happens when we finally get there? It�s the bloody same as this place, but with more sunshine � fat blokes in vests drinking Watneys, egg and chips and bacon for breakfast, and your bloody neighbour in the apartment next to yours. And I hardly saw any Spanish, except for waiters. I was so disappointed that I came back and I�ve never gone back again. If I want an holiday now, all I do is pack the suitcases up here in me head, and I�m there. Bloody cheaper too!�
He drained his glass, then continued.
�Mind you, I heard what you said about how you see where you are � think I understood most of it. Now, I do like me beer, as perhaps you�ve noticed, and it, I think, makes the world a happier place. Many�s the time, coming from here late at night, I swear I�ve seen angels sitting in the trees and on the rooftops, whispering and rustling their wings; That, and demons crawling from the sewers. Mind you, I�ve also seen a bin bag turn into a talking dog and back again.�
He sighed, looked into the depths of his glass and belched again, the look of enormous self-satisfaction crawling across his face once more.
�Anyhows, I think I need another doze. Nice to meet ya,� and so saying, he slipped down out of sight once more, and before long the contented snore resumed.
�If we don�t get any food soon, we�re going to end up like him,� commented Taylor. �How about after we finish these we go and grab something quick to eat?�
�Fine by me,� I said. �we�ll head back towards town.�
We watched the football match for a bit, then lurched out of the door for the next part of the evening.

A diary entry
Another day. I�m itching to get going, to move, move, move, yet I can�t. Feel like I�m stuck in a coffin with a fire inside, eating all my insides. I want to hand in my notice at work. I�m fed up with all the shit that Dave fucking Pullen keeps coming up with � today, he had me stuck in the archives all day � really boring. It�s all really boring. The only good thing is that it�s Friday � the weekend! Bad thing is, it�ll soon be Monday again, and again work. I want to leave.
I�m seeing Jack again after I finish this and get myself ready. I don�t know why. He�s already put me through so much shit. After the bastard stood me up �cos I was playing football. Sorry babe� , I thought about dumping him, but what will I do? If he had even half an inkling of what he does to me�.mmm. But he�s still a bastard. My bastard. He�s promised to be down at Bar Med, but I�m still going to phone him, make sure. At least Leticia and the girls are out and all, so I�ve got them as back up if it all goes pear-shaped. If he does �forget�, that�s it. I�ll dump him, and see how he likes it. It�s not as if there aren�t other blokes around. Mark from Claims was eyeing me up today. He�s pretty fit. Put it like this, I wouldn�t kick him out of bed. Of course, Jack would get so bloody jealous if he caught me just eyeing up another bloke. Bloody men, why are they such kids? I thought they at least grew up a bit. Tonight I�m, going to wear the red dress and these gorgeous boots I found in the Oracle � fifty quid, but worth it! I�ll give Jack a right eyeful�and if he doesn�t turn up, I�ve half a mind to let someone else have a right eyeful, and more.
Right, time to get ready. Wish me luck! X

Ten: Smoke and mirrors
Last night I met him on the stair, the man who wasn�t there.
David Bowie, the man who sold the world
More Authorial interruption.
I knew the previous mini chapter would draw you in; that�s why it�s pasted there. There is something incredibly tempting and salacious about somebody else�s diary, or private letter, some woman�s bedroom musings; Why else was Richardson�s Pamela such a hit when it first came out? Epistolary novels, or ones in the forms of a diary, are always going to be best-sellers; people are curious about that first-hand view, the way a character thinks and feels in a way that is alien to our own experience; we get the comfort of riding within another�s mind, seeing the world through a different set of eyes, and the transformation of the mundane into the magical. This is what the average reader yearns for � a kind of escape. However, as Taylor so astutely noted earlier on, it is impossible to escape oneself � there can only be temporary refuge. Now, the novel is possibly a more wholesome and less expensive shelter than drink, drugs or moving abroad, but it is only ever a temporary respite from the mundane � eventually, we must all re-enter this world, that, by mutual acceptance, we call reality. The Author�s job is to make this escape as satisfyingly �real� as is possible, but any careful inquiry will reveal that even the best laid structure is immensely fallible. Now, here�s me in my clown�s cap, waving at you and reminding you that what you�re reading is no more than a story. Take the first person narrative we�ve chosen for Dan, and compare it with the diary entry; When push comes to shove, which is really the most plausible? Honestly? The latter, of course, but even then, it�s still fictive. For a first person narrative to be truly convincing, it would need to be:
a) so full of action, sensation, flashes of insight, moments of introspection, lack of thought one moment, concentrated bursts, snatches of conversation heard and bits of this here, there and everywhere, plus frequent thoughts of sex if it is a male narrator and shoes if it is female, that it would be utterly impossible to follow a plot, or
b) Reduced. To short, snappy sentences. With little sketching in of what people said or did. Cut down to the bare minimum. Badly.
The fact of the matter is that life is not linear, it does not follow a story arc. The Author�s task, as well as having a satisfactory plot structure, must also tease out a comprehensible storyline, a tenuous thread with a beginning, a middle and an end. This is difficult if you don�t know where you�re going. As a character in this creation, I absolve myself of all responsibilities for character and plot development � I�m just the spectator, jotting it down.
Let�s take another example of implausible story structure � Emily Bronte�s Wuthering Heights. The whole thing is supreme contrivance from start to finish, and as a book, it should only be taught to those who already understand what a book should look like. For a start, it appears to consist of two immense diary entries, or letters, handily titled �1801� and �1802�. If they are diary entries, what else did Lockwood do for the rest of the year? �1801. Later. Went to the coaching inn and felt lonely.�? If they are letters, who to? Whatever they are, they show that the narrator, Lockwood, seems to be possessed of an almost supernatural memory for dialogues and situations, as does the narrator within the narrator, Nelly Dean. Not only that, but everyone can mimic Joseph in exactly the same way; observe Lockwood�s copying of his speaking style, through to Nelly�s (who, obviously, is Lockwood copying Nelly�s copy of the original), and finally to Isabella�s , which is Nelly, telling Lockwood some sixteen years after the event, copying Isabella�s accent copying Joseph�s, which in turn is Lockwood copying Nelly, as written by the real author, and is then interpreted by us. That�s Joseph at five removes � ourselves, Bronte, Lockwood, Nelly, then Isabella � and still we keep a perfect copy of his bizarre accent? Then there is all the weird and coincidental stuff � the dog being strung up on a washing line, the visitation by Cathy�s wraith, Nelly keeping a letter for twenty years, presumably always on her person, just in case some morose southern milksop gentleman comes to pay her a visit one winter. In spite of the absurdities of its structure, however, Wuthering Heights works, though God knows how: Given the distinctly (even for its time) old-fashioned structure, it still manages to entertain, keep the reader enthralled and the Yorkshire moors full of Japanese tourists. Another example is the utterly ridiculous Dracula, which has to rank as one of the worst-written popular novels in history. Bram Stoker clearly just gives up on the individual diary structure halfway through, and has a single voice instead, even though it sounds exactly the same as Harker�s, Van Helsing�s and all the others. And the story is saturated with the author�s character, worries, fears and obsessions. I personally regard it as almost unreadable, save for the fascination and fun to be had in delving into the writer�s personality.
Dan doesn�t strike me as being the most alert of characters, so how is it possible that he has managed to recall so much of his day with Taylor? It must be recall, after all; He�s clearly telling a tale � we�re not even experiencing this first hand. As such, it is all smoke and mirrors, but while you�re enjoying it, who am I to complain?

Eleven: on the brink
Sumer is icomen in, lhude sing cuccu!
William of Malmesbury, written in Reading Abbey ca. 1265
Our two heroes stagger back towards whence they came; They search out food; an encounter with the Oracle.
We came back down London Street. Taylor was alert, paying attention to all the houses and shops and businesses that lined it.
�So where next, Dan?�
�Well, let�s just head back into town and grab something there, shall we? Needn�t be much; just a burger or something, yeah?�
�Sounds OK to me�that�s quite a funky little house..�
This was said about an old Tudor beamed cottage, twisted by age, just by a restaurant and an alleyway.
�What�s down the alley?�
�Dunno. I�ve never been down there.�
�Shame on you, Dan � this is your stomping ground, and there are things you don�t know about it? Come on.�
He led the way down it. Graffitti and tags were sprayed on the walls, and a few spliff butts lay scattered on the ground. It opened up into a small road with an old, regency-type building on the right and a more modern terrace of houses on the left. There was a church more or less directly ahead.
�What church is that?�
�I think it�s St. Giles.�
We ambled towards it, Taylor taking in the spire, the building and its attendant graveyard.
�Now this I like � it�s as if a bit of the countryside moved to town.� He frowned suddenly. �Except�what the hell is that bloody stench?�
�Smells like Blakey�s been having a party here with some of his less salubrious mates�.
It really was a gut-churningly foul smell, and I was probably right in my surmise. Closer inspection of the graveyard showed that it was littered in cider cans and bottles, cheap gut-rot whisky, food wrappers and splattered with vomit. The whole place had been mired by alkies. Someone had tagged one of the graves with the word �Nestor�. What had appeared quite a pleasant little churchyard was, in close-up, appalling.

The next bit.

Well, the story is flowing along, but I'm about a day behind by my reckoning - I'm going to try chunking out more later on today.

We paid for our coffees, and stood up to move on. As we did so, one of the local beggars, a man with badly-shorn short hair, tangled beard and with a hound on a string walked towards us and muttered something.
�I�m sorry?� said Taylor.
The beggar muttered again and stretched out his hand.
�I don�t understand what you�re saying, but the answer�s �no� anyway�,� he answered. Then the beggar, as far as I could see through his beard, went red, then clenched his fists before stomping off.
We wandered into the dark and stale interior of the Hobgoblin. Taylor went off to the bogs, and I got the drinks in at the tiny bar. Apart from the darkness, the whole place was sticky from the floor up, the testament of years of Real Ale drinking and copious smoking. The ceilings were a thick yellow. The air was a comforting fuggy mix of stale beer, staler carpet and ashtrays. The bar consisted of a few tables and chairs, all in dark, cracked wood, then a row of tiny cubicles that gave the place an air of antiquity, although I knew that it had only been done up like that in the 1990�s. A few office workers were perched on the windowsills and bench outside the front; Inside, the noise level was beginning to crank up as people started to leave work and come for a beer or ten. In one corner, some guy who�d obviously decided to give up for the day at lunchtime, judging by his red, sweaty face and the way he was swaying, was chunking his money into the fruit machine and cursing half to himself. He gave the start button slap after great slap, and thumped the machine each time it swallowed a pound without giving a return. The nudge buttons flashed, and he�d stand on tiptoe to peer into the bowels of the machine and try to work out which symbols were on the reels, then crouch down and look upwards for the same purpose. All his concentration was fixed on trying to win, most likely just the money he�d already put in the thing. Taylor came back, and we got a seat next to the window. We supped our beers in silence for a while as we watched Mr. Gambler get more and more infuriated with the machine. He ran out of cash at one point: He put his last thirty pence in it, then slugged back his beer and went to the bar. He slapped a twenty pound note on the bar.
�I�ll have another, thanks. And can I have the change in coins?�
One beer and a handful of metal later, he fed all the money into the machine and began his frenzied squinting and slapping again. Taylor smiled over his beer at this.
�Fruit machines are bloody stupid.�
�Only if you�re the mug playing them.�
� True. Look at this poor bastard here � he�s so obsessed with the idea of winning, he doesn�t even notice that he�s already lost.�
Gambling Man was clearly getting angrier and angrier. He scowled, he patted, he coaxed, he cursed. But it made no difference.
�You�ll see, he�ll give up, then someone�ll come along, put in fifty pence or whatever and clean it out. Then he�ll be back another day, and the same thing will happen.�
�Hope springs eternal�.
�There�s a difference between being optimistic and just being a fucking idiot�, retorted Taylor. �This bloke just doesn�t know when to admit defeat. That�s the problem with luck, I guess; Never comes when you want it to, and when it does, it�s never exactly what you expect�.
�So was it luck you found Beattie, then?�
Taylor paused, had a drink, looked straight at me, and smiled.
�Of course it was. It wasn�t as if I�d specifically gone off in search of her. There�s a phrase, something about how chance favours someone who�s well-prepared. You ever heard something like that?�
I hadn�t. He waved his hand, and continued.
�Whatever, you mentioned in one of your last emails that you thought she was in Indonesia or Malaysia or something. I knew what she looked like, and I knew she worked as an English teacher. You see � I was prepared, in a way, and chance happened. I was in Bangkok; I was walking through Khao San Road, where, as you know, most foreigners and would-be teachers congregate; and I was walking past a bar, when we both know how much English teachers drink; and there she was. The lucky meeting happened in part because of preparation.�
�Now that�s clever, Taylor, and I�d have done the same, but I wouldn�t have come across her, given the same circumstances.�
�That�s because, right now, you�re looking through the glass darkly. You don�t expect anything good to happen to you right now. You don�t think you�re going to find the crock of gold. And you know what? That hurts. Here I am � isn�t this something good?�
And he opened his arms and grinned broadly.
There was a sudden, loud �FUCK!� from Mr. Gambler as his money finally ran out. He finished his beer, then waddled off to the toilet.
�Watch this�, said Taylor, and he went up to the fruit machine and put in a coin. He pressed the start button a couple of times, then pressed the nudge buttons, then he gambled, and started grinning broadly. Two minutes later, he pressed collect, and out clunked twenty-five pounds.
�See? Fortune favours patience and preparation. Someone puts twenty quid in � hell, it�s got to be worth putting the pound in, even if you just get that back. Well, that�ll pay for a few more beers.�
At this point, Gambling Man, returned, got another beer and lumbered back to the machine.
�I�m not going to tell him�, Taylor said, gulped his beer, and we both lit up our fags.

We watched the late afternoon crowds slowly change composition, from mothers with young children and older people, all dressed in casual clothes, to people in suits and formal wear tottering into the humid streets from the rarefied air-condition climes of their offices, then heading towards home or bar. Friday night was coming, and time to play. The pub crowd swelled and spilled onto the pavement, a swarm of relaxed post-work nattering, and there was the choppy susurrus of talk and laughter. The street echoed with the clatter of footfalls and the sound of passing traffic heading towards the Oracle and Castle Street.
�Now notice him�, Taylor suddenly said. He gestured towards a far corner, where sat a guy of about the same age as us, alone. He was counting his money, then looking at his pint, which he was gripping for dear life, then looking at his money again and sighing.
�Now he is the antithesis of our fat chum here�, he continued, �too damn frightened to let go and enjoy himself or spend his money at all.�
�He might just be skint.�
�He�s sat there since we came in and has had two sips of his beer, and he�s got enough on him for another. He opened his wallet and counted what he had a few minutes ago.�
�So he doesn�t want to spend.�
�Exactly! He�s a tightfist. Why else is he on his own? He�s done nothing but sit by himself, stare at his solitary beer, sigh and count his cash. If you have money, spend it �that�s what it�s there for � but don�t throw it away. Fat machine man just made me twenty quid richer, and now I�m going to spend it sensibly, on alcohol.�
�Good idea. Another one here, then move on?�
�Why not?�
As Taylor went to the bar, Mr. Fruit Machine erupted again and gave the thing a thump. He stomped around, and lurched for the bar, but was evidently a bit too pissed, because as he negotiated round the crowd he thumped into the tightfist�s table, not only spilling his drink but also scattering all the coins that he had carefully been stacking on the top.
�Oh shit! Sorry mate!� The beer had spilled all over the guy�s crotch. He leaped up, clearly furious.
�Look what you�ve done! And me money all over the floor!�
�Sorry�what was it you were drinking, eh?�
The tightfist subsided into grumbles and whines, but was eventually placated by a pint of beer � in fact, I�m pretty sure it was a more expensive beer than he�d had previously. It was gradually getting warmer and more humid inside, and the beer was flowing easily by now, as was the talk. Taylor and I chatted about our travels, about the various bars we�d been to and with whom � easy flowing banter, charming and pointless in the warmth. Eventually, we hauled ourselves out.
�Right, which way now?�
�How about the Turks? I haven�t been there for a while. It�s that direction.�
We crossed the street to The George Hotel, then down Kings Street, past Mothercare and Burger King, then we turned into Duke Street. A welcome gust of wind took the edge off the heat, but scattered dust and litter and old newspapers. Walking towards the bridge, we saw a small group of beggars, huddled into the porch of the old Ship hotel. A couple of them were just lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling: three others were sitting and drinking and bickering fiercely with each other. One of the supine, an utterly miserable looking woman, was mouthing silent words into the air rhythmically and repetitively. Her arguing companions were obviously covering some very well-worn topic, something concerning who had taken what from whom and done what to somebody else, and each of the three had taken entrenched positions. They gestured and shouted, then fell into glowering exhausted silence, then reiterate what they had just said. They�d probably been going on about the same thing for months.

LETTERS
Reading Evening Post, July __, ____. Send letters addressed to the Editor to the Reading Post, Richfield Avenue, Reading. Emails must contain a name and address, which can be withheld on request.

Letter of the day
Regarding Councillor Knotwood�s suggestion for a new hostel for the homeless in Silver Street, I feel I must speak up. I am not one to write to newspapers in general, nor am I one to complain, but I have to stand up and be counted on this issue. We do not need a homeless hostel in the centre of Reading, and certainly not in Silver Street where I and many other elderly and respectable residents live. It is not a case of �not in my back yard�. I would not want to inflict this home and its crime-prone inhabitants on anyone living in our town. There are enough beggars as it is. They are a shocking sight on the streets and are frequently aggressive and dangerous. No wonder businesses look elsewhere when they want to set up headquarters, and it is little surprise that we have so few tourists.
If we must have homeless hostels, why not put them on former military bases, which are far from our town centres? Then they would get a job soon enough.
Mr. Bob Gouge
Silver Street
Reading
Swimming in memories
I would like to say thank you, Evening Post, for printing the old photograph of the King�s Meadow Lido (June 30th). It brought back many happy memories for me, especially as I can be seen in the far left of the picture, wearing the striped bathing costume. I and my friends, Dolly Watson and Margery Toodod, who have both sadly passed away recently, spent almost every day of summer there when we were children. It is such a shame it had to close � but perhaps now it will be restored to its former glory, instead of the vandalised shell it is. Thank you.
Dorothy (Dot) Mathersley
Mander Court
Reading
Hunting rage
I, along with many of the citizens of Reading, enjoy the traditional pursuits of fishing and hunting. They are rights that all English people are entitled to, through centuries of fighting for them. Yet I feel I speak for the silent majority when I say that this government has gone far too far in pushing for a total ban on hunting. I was one of many who protested outside the House of Commons on this issue, and I was shocked by the behaviour of our police forces. I always thought they were there to enforce the letter of the law, not trample on our freedoms. Our protest was friendly and civil, yet they treated us as though we were the worst kind of anarchists and revolutionaries. First this government sells us to Europe, and now it is creating the absolutely worst kind of socialist dictatorship to oppress all right thinking people. I know, and am sure, that the people of Reading will speak as one voice and vote this government out at the next election.
Sue Stout
Councillor, UKIP
Highdown Close
Emmer Green
Reading
Loopy idea
Has the Borough Council gone stark raving mad? I refer to their scheme to make the Inner Distribution Road a one way route. Not only would it make the already terrible traffic situation worse, it would also add forty-five minutes to my journey to work during the rush hour. Come on, council � do something right with my council tax money for once. How about widening the roads?
Nigel Chadwick
Via email
Thanks a ton
I would like to say a big �thank you� via your letters page to the lady who helped me to my feet last Friday. I was carrying my shopping through Smelly Alley when I stumbled on a loose paving slab and fell to the ground. As I am quite a large lady, and am on disability benefit because of my size, I could not lift myself up, and lay there in some distress for several minutes, while people walked around me. Fortunately, there are some Good Samaritans in Reading, and the lady in the floral dress with short blond hair helped me up. Bless you, and I hope your back is better.
I also think the council should do something concerning paving slabs.
Name Withheld.

Stop knocking our town!
Alright, we all know that Reading isn�t the most beautiful or exciting city in the whole wide world, but is that an excuse to always be making fun of it? I find myself getting increasingly annoyed these days at those who think it�s fine to rib us or put us down. So we have terrible traffic � so does London. So we have drug abuse and related crime � show me a place that doesn�t. So we don�t have much in the way of picturesque and historical buildings � isn�t everywhere the same these days? So our idea of entertainment is either snooker at the Hexagon or getting drunk for the whole weekend � tell me how that�s different from other towns in the region. So the centre is virtually hostage to teenagers and hooligans every Friday and Saturday night � what�s new?
Look at what we do have � enviable transport links, easy access to the capital, and picturesque countryside just outside the town, as well as the Thames and Kennet � and, of course, the wonders of the Oracle shopping centre itself. So come on � let�s stick up for Our Town, and tell the jokers where to go!
Bill Laud
Kendrick Road
Reading
Eight: Reading is Hell
Fowler�s ministry did not last long, for he had many enemies among the Anglicans, one of whom called him �the author of most of the evil in the town��some years later he was succeeded by the Rev Thomas Juice�.
Daphne Phillips, The Story of Reading
And so Dan and Taylor creep towards the Turk�s Head in London Road as the sun begins to set. I am actually creeping at some distance behind them, hence the reason why Dan hasn�t seen me for a while. When the breeze blew, it flung the above part of the newspaper at me, which I have decided to include. It�s interesting, isn�t it, how the letters page of a local paper tells you so much of the people of a town. An outsider, reading this, would conclude that the citizens of this fair town are parochial, suspicious, elderly, overweight and very slightly mad. They would, however, not be entirely accurate. Reading a newspaper is a whole different kettle of fish from reading a novel, and the letters page in particular is a very odd fish indeed. For one thing, all papers have an agenda of one kind or another, depending on who their proprietors are. The Guardian, for example, is well-known for its left-wing, liberal-leaning views and opinions. The Daily Mail regards itself as the paper of sensible Middle England, although reading it actually resembles watching a barely tolerated uncle dying of an apoplexy. The Sun makes no apologies � it is smutty, chatty and up for a laugh, never truly serious about anything. Then you have to consider what kind of person would actually be so worked up about something that they feel the need to write to their paper. And remember, the nationals only print a selection of the printable each day. The need to write to a local paper in the hope of changing something: well, it generally smacks of a quiet, futile despair. No, in order to read a newspaper well, first one must negotiate the torrent of evasions, half-truths, exaggerations and downright lies that flood out of each page. In short, one must learn not only to read between the lines, but also to consider the significance of what is written. Hence my title: Reading is Hell.
Yes, I knew you thought I was going to start making fun of the town, but I�m doing that already, thank you very much. Rather, in this latest absurd interlude I wanted to think about the challenges that face the reader who wants to be honest and engage the text actively, rather than lazily letting the whole lot wash over one unchallenged. It is hard; to actively read requires a difficult leap of the imagination and mental courage. Most people passively accept what they are told or what stares up at them from the page. Such are literalists; all they see are the letters, words and phrases as is; they do not understand, because of the pedestrian way that they approach the task, that words have another life, a secret message behind their generally imputed meaning. The diligent, active reader, on the other hand, can infer greater levels of meaning by challenging what he or she reads. Religious books, such as the Torah , the Bible and the Koran, or Sufi tracts like Rumi�s Mathnawi, actually tell the reader that the true value is not to be found in the words by themselves, but in their hidden import. The literalist cannot see this, however, and insists on the literal truth of what is written in his or her religious book of choice; such people become fundamentalists, and insist on wearing excessively large beards, or not wearing particular types of clothing, or generally not enjoying oneself. They call themselves religious and spiritual, but nothing could be further from the truth; they cling to a single, solid meaning of the word, and are then stuck in a narrow, moribund world of literal meanings where the spirit cannot soar. And thus they make reading Hell, because their limited perception of meaning makes it so.
The inquiring reader is very different. By understanding that a word can conjure up many possibilities; by knowing that phrases may have an idiomatic meaning as well as a literal one; by sensing that a story, such as a creation myth, is a tale to try and explain a circumstance rather than a description of something that actually happened; by asking questions back at the text, by challenging it to show its true shape, the diligent reader becomes enlightened and liberated. But to get to that plateau of freedom is difficult and harsh, as it means that one has to cast aside assumptions and expectations and read in a very different way. Not only that, but the journey can be a frightening one, once one realises that each and every written thing carries denotations and connotations, meanings coiled within meanings. In order to reach the light, once again reading must be Hell. And it can give one a terrible headache.
Let us take, as an example, one of the letters to the Reading Evening Post above. Remember, we have to evade the surface meaning and try to dig for what else there may be. Let us use the one titled �Hunting Rage�. Firstly, notice the title. The writer herself will not have chosen this � instead, it must have been bestowed by a sub-editor. What is the sub-editor telling us here? Is he being neutral? Is he saying that hunters are angry? Or is he actually enraged by the fact of hunting? Now notice the letter itself. It consists of eight sentences and is organised as a single paragraph. The writer uses the first person singular pronoun eight times � a sign of insistence, or a symbol of an underlying lack of confidence? Does she actually represent the views of others, or does she merely hope so? Why is she so upset about the police doing their job, which at other times and circumstances she surely approves of? Why is she so upset? And why is she so afraid? As we ask the questions, an image comes to mind � that of an essentially lonely, insecure person who hides in a group and conceals her true feelings behind bluster and bombast. As you can see, careful reading unmasks the hand and the mind behind the text. Try it with this text; can you see me smiling between the lines? Remember, what you read is not necessarily what you should be reading; nor can you be sure if I am the voice of the author, or his puppet. Now let�s get back to Dan and Taylor.