No More Chairs A monday Night Group Anthology “If talent was toast,
Praise for No More Chairs ‘Gritty, grimy and graphic at times... it’s not for the faint-hearted.’ ‘... at the Monday Night Group it was all about re-writes, revision, crafting and honing... Trust me, it’s paid dividends. It’s not just the content that satisfies... No More Chairs will prove to be an appealing, stylish, desirable and above all enduring publication.’ ‘If talent was toast, MNG are a full loaf.’
‘A perfect book to sit down with a coffee or a glass and pick out what you fancy for the moment ; nothing is without impact, nothing outstays its welcome.’ ‘The MNG attack as a team and defend as a team and offer us a singularly absorbing assortment of modern writing... In the current morass of unwarranted celebrity biogs, seasonal pot-boilers and offthe-peg, market-driven ‘Everybody’s Talking About’ shelves, here’s a chance to enjoy some sincere, soulful and crafted writing from the gut of Manchester.’
No More Chairs
Written By: Edited and Collated By:
Published 2014 by Carnforth Press Selection and editorial matter copyright © Monday Night Group Prose and Poetry copyrights with the authors. All trademarks acknowledged. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a collection of works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the e-mail address below. Monday Night Group enquiries@mondaynightgroup.org.uk 0161 832 3777 Edited and Collated by Paul Bluer, Joseph Dempsey, Amanda Ashton, Mike Whalley, Adam Dean, & Ruth Clemens Cover Images © Steve Rouse Interior and Cover Design by Amanda Ashton www.ashtondesigns.co.uk A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: 978-0-9564874-9-0 Carnforth Press Printed and Bound by Print On Demand Worldwide Peterborough, Cambridgeshire United Kingdom
For Grace.
Contents Foreword Warning by Ruth Clemens
xi 1
No Gods by David Hills
2
The God of the Woods by Matthew Curry
11
Hobby Rocket by Amanda Ashton
12
A Greek Gift by Steve Rouse
19
He Sits and Drinks His Tea by Peter Dyson
20
Jimmywocky by Neil McCall
22
The Year Without a Summer by Thomas Badlan
23
I Will Lose Friends by David Gould
37
Snowdrifts by Paul Bluer
41
Hackus by Paul Bluer
43
Tinkas by Paul Bluer
44
Confessions by Paul J. King
45
The Fair Lady of Shannon-by-the-Sea by Steven Douglas
46
vii
Death of an Unknown Woman by Ed Whyman
58
Chosen by Caroline England
59
Tottenham cut up by Steve Rouse
69
Black Paint by Mike Whalley
70
Bihar and Orissa by Neil McCall
76
Bar Room Brawl
viii
Except for One by Paul Bluer
85
The First Touch by Hans De Zoysa
86
Superheroes’ Showdown by Ian M. Pindar
91
Garden Party Ghosts by Cathy Chapman
98
Imagine by Adam Dean
111
Actaeon by Ruth Clemens
125
An Outdoor Clubbing Experience by Baz Hoban
130
Promise and Cocoa by Kirsti Biggs
136
Five Pounds by Mike Whalley
151
Wasted Time by Caroline England
152
Masks by Dominic O’Reilly
160
Running by Anthony Whittaker
162
Cave/The Development of Decent by David Gould
166
Reflections on a Sunset at Silverdale by Ed Whyman
168
Up and Down Joyce by Neil McCall
169
The Edge by Paul J. King
170
Red Sky at Night by Peter Dyson
172
The Stranger by Matthew P. Lomas
177
Absence by Paul Bluer
179
Hackus by Paul Bluer
182
Tinkas by Paul Bluer
183
Two Tickets by Ed Whyman
184
The Painful Birthdays of the Muse of War by David Hynes
202
The Price of Silence by Caroline England
208
Cereal Killers by Toby Stone
213
Roger Casement by Matthew Curry
225
Inconceivable Afterwards by Steve Rouse
226
Statues by David Hills
228
Author Index Acknowledgements Biographies
233 235 237
ix
Foreword
Foreword The Monday Night Group has been running in Manchester for over fifty years. In that time there have been various, albeit sporadic, publications from the group but none recently. That’s why Joe and I, having attended the group for a while, decided to seed a fresh anthology of its members’ work – the one you’re about to read. The first things we agreed on: aim high, showcase the group’s talents and be as inclusive as possible. It was trial and error, because despite looking at how other people were doing it and asking advice from the veterans and alumni, our relative lack of experience in publishing meant we were winging it. To aim high, we wanted a large anthology that could be published both online and in print, so we had to raise our own funds, and though this was just one of many hurdles the editors had to overcome, showcasing the group’s talents was probably the easiest part. This compilation contains an eclectic variety of prose to poetry, and even a special themed section titled Bar Room Brawl. Contributors were asked to write fresh material based on the arbitrary theme of a Bar Room Brawl. Open interpretation of this led to a maelstrom of dark minded fantasy muddled with fact, surrealism, emotional hurt and physical furore. We could continue to wax lyrical about the material within the pages of No More Chairs, but you’re the judge now and we sincerely hope you enjoy it.
xi
No More Chairs
Warning
Warning by Ruth Clemens I want to rip this room to shreds. Tear down the walls, Stick a knife in the curtain and fly Down it as if it was a sail. Throw the telly out the window: It knows. I can see the fear in its glass reflection. I want to destroy this silence. Hurl the stereo across it Tear the ordered memories from the shelves Break the pencils Stu the flowers in the plug socket. This room hates me. It knows too much, it’s too clever. The fireplace snarls at me, Its black teeth bared. The armchair wants to spit me out. I want to punish this room Like a child resenting the wisdom of elders. The clock ticks its sturdy whispers in my ear. Take what you can, it tells me. Run. Leave.
1
No Gods by David Hills
W
e never watch support bands, we never stay for encores. They’re usually some talentless dicks called something like Hey Space Cadet or Tall Restless Virgins. Jez is necking vodka, surrounded by scene kids idolising him and keen to learn about Madchester straight from the man who can almost remember being there. I met him back in 1990. Straight off the plane with my journalism degree, I walked into his record shop, two rooms in the Northern Quarter stacked full of imported American house and German techno records. I told him I was reporting on the Manchester scene for the American music press. I’m not sure if he believed me but he stuck his hand out, ‘So yer a Sherman? I’m Jez, call me fucking Jeremy and I’ll rip yer face off and air mail it to yer Nan for Thanksgiving, whenever that is.’ It’s been over twenty years now of Jez and his sidekick Sherman. He rents that old shop to a cool clothing brand now and sells equipment to wannabe DJs online. He says, ‘Headphones are the new trainers, man.’ Jez likes to boast on my behalf, ‘Sherman used to write for Rolling Stone. You remember Rolling Stone don’t yer, cross between Playboy and Melody Maker, except more wankers read Melody Maker.’ 2
No Gods Yeah, so I was blagging him. A good British word, blagging, except it sounds a bit too much like blogging these days. I’m the walking American-Manc dictionary. I like crumpet, with its double meaning, too. The promoter, a sweet girl wearing a T-shirt so tight I can count her ribs, not that I’m looking at her ribs, pushes through the crowd. She’s wearing a black miniskirt and killer platform heels. This is the first time I’ve seen her out of jeans and Converse so I turn the aloof setting down a notch. I’d make a move on her except the needle on the risk:reward scale in my jeans tells me I might hurt myself, so I say, ‘Hey, great venue.’ You know your band sucks when the best thing people say about your gig is, ‘nice venue’. She asks me, ‘Are you going to mention this in your blog?’ I say, ‘Yeah, maybe. Jez is really impressed with your band.’ Jez has had his back to the stage the whole time, threatening the bartender with cash, never more than arm’s length from her trestle table of plastic glasses. I hand a beer and twenty cigarettes to the sound engineer so that he’ll put a recording of the gig into my mailbox. We live in the same apartment block. It stands on the site of a legendary Manchester nightclub. We’re both sceptical that it’s progress but enjoy the balcony views. ‘Nice venue,’ I say. ‘Yeah, man. Sweet acoustics,’ and then he bends over the control desk to adjust some levels. He claims that he saw the Sex Pistols play at the Free Trade Hall, but he’s about the same age as me. Blaggers everywhere you look. I watch the roboscans slice beams of light through machine-created fog. They pick out the details of the
3
architecture, mullioned windows, gothic arches and god squad bling high above our heads. Just briefly, I’m lost in the beauty. I punch Jez on the shoulder to get his attention, ‘Why are we going to gigs in churches anyway?’ ‘Since the fascist regime took over, dirty, filth-encrusted rock-and-roll sweat boxes are about as common as breeding pandas. And this isn’t a church; it’s a real honest to god cathedral. When have you ever been in a cathedral, Sherman?’ I shrug and we head out into the night as the headline act shuffle off stage. We stand in line for the all-you-can-vomit buffet with the novelty of queuing wearing off. I’m tired of the British fascination with it and my American obsession with decent service begins to surface. Jez distracts me with random conversation. ‘What’s less than having no beliefs?’ The question is too philosophical for my wired brain. ‘Atheist,’ I venture. ‘No that’s the zero state. I’m a rebel. I want the negative.’ ‘The Antichrist.’ ‘No, still acknowledges the belief system.’ I shrug. My brain can’t handle the deep conversation and my body isn’t in the mood for bad Chinese food. ‘This place is less than food,’ I complain as we are led to a table. We sit anxiously scratching the labels off Budweiser bottles. Around us are lowest common denominator diners, big 4
No Gods groups of students and small groups of fat fuckers who rate quantity over quality. We should have asked for a table near the salad bar where it’s quiet. I want to ask him what he thinks the meaning of life is, but I know he’ll say ‘drinking and fucking,’ because he always says ‘drinking and fucking’. But he’s off into some joke, or story or half-truth that his mangled brain has re-invented. ‘So there’s this cleaner who works in the art gallery. You know the score, agency, foreign, not a word of English but grafts really hard. So, anyway, she goes into this office and it’s a right state, so she gets on the rubber gloves and her black bin bag and does the business. Clears all the crap off the floor, and then runs the old Hoover over it. Happy that she’s done a good job, she wipes her duster over the framed sign on the wall, and d’ya know what it said in the frame? Plastic cups thrown on floor in disgust of urban anxiety.’ Ten grand of art installation, scooped up on to a bin liner,’ he cackles and waves his beer bottle at a waiter. I watch a crowd of balding blokes congregate around the table next to us. They loosen their ties but keep their name badges on. I think of Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men. A waitress is called to take a drink order, and they enter into the verbal dance of ‘I’ll have what you’re having,’ until the pack leader orders a dozen bottles of Bud. I say to Jez, ‘Let’s blow this, I’ve lost my appetite.’ A steward in a fluorescent tabard is turning people away based solely on their footwear. He stares at our feet and lets us pass. We are met by an invisible wall of stale farts and cheap perfume cemented together with equal parts desperation and sexual frustration. 5
I say, ‘God almighty, you can tell we’re at the wrong end of Deansgate.’ Jez says, ‘No my friend, your argument is flawed, it implies that there is a right end of Deansgate.’ Clearly, the last venue has brought out the philosopher in him. I say, ‘There is a right end to Deansgate; it’s when it implodes and becomes a smouldering pile of shit.’ Jez grips the balcony rail and stares at the swirling mass of the dancers below. We look at the ordinary girls; the ones who buy their underwear in the same place as their cardigans; the girls with ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ fridge magnets. I’ve had my fill of intriguing and beguiling, bored by the exotic. How spoiled am I, craving the comforts of an ordinary girl? I stare at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and try to find myself. I fish inside my bag ‘til my fingers find the secret little fold in the bottom corner. I grasp the magazine grade paper with its sharp creases between my index and middle finger. ‘Let’s go freshen up.’ I shout above the awful music, and push a path through the meatheads in fake designer clobber, waiting for the chance to clobber someone. Even here, the English language lets me play with it. Praising low level flushing technology as he chops, we twenty note the biggest line that Jez can fit on to the cistern lid. He says, ‘Toffee Crisp,’ and after my fingertips confirm that my nose is still attached to my face, I reply with ‘Curly fucking Wurly’ as we finish off the gram of good rock star grade powder that’s been sustaining us all night.
6
No Gods Really mellow coke, not the cheap shit these muppets around us had once and then brag about for the rest of their lives. It reassures us that we are still players. They’re piping music from the DJ into the toilets and he’s playing some seventies glam rock tune. In the confined space, Jez yells ‘Gak Monster’ at me, then the bouncers delicately kick the toilet door in and gently throw us down the fire escape. I’m struck by the realisation of how little difference there is between coke-head and cock-head. Yeah, cock-head, a great word on both sides of the Atlantic. A hospitality Hummer belonging to a lap-dancing club rolls past us. ‘Do you remember back when we was both dating strippers?’ he asks, ‘Not planned just sheer, bloody coincidence.’ ‘You can see the attraction can’t you, a woman who earns as much as you for doing the same amount of effort.’ ‘Being a DJ’s harder than it looks, Sherman; harder than writing about music.’ And he pokes fun at me for trying to compose my roman à clef, while he’s never tried to write his own story. I had made the mistake of crossing the line from recreational fucking into dating. I remembered the last time I saw Natalia, standing in a shoe shop with a Manolo in one hand, a Jimmy Choo in the other, and my credit card in her purse. She ignored me while I tried to explain the connection between Liza Minnelli and Christopher Isherwood. I checked that I had cash and wandered off in search of a bookshop. I doubt she even noticed.
7
‘What’s worse,’ I idly wonder, ‘being objectified or being ignored, because let’s face it, it’s binary, a flicked switch, nothing in between.’ Jez says, ‘I’m sure I saw the lovely Nutella. She were standing outside that strip joint near the town hall.’ ‘I doubt it, rumour has it she went back home to marry her cousin.’ He says, ‘Hey, you almost fell in love back then.’ And I say, ‘Yeah, almost,’ a bit too wistfully and he smirks. So this is it, the age of unreason, I think I’m losing the ability to be a sentient being. Simple rules, seek pleasure avoid pain, no longer responding to the senses. I slip off the bed and crawl around the floor in search of orange juice and painkillers. I press my face against the floor-to-ceiling glass. It feels cool and smooth on my forehead. I stare at the jagged industrial skyline, but feel disconnected from the city. I cannot bear to open the balcony door. The line of buses and cars sixty feet below chokes the neighbourhood with fumes and noise. They don’t put that in the glossy brochures; just photos of potted plant balconies and aspiration. They don’t tell you that you’ll get nostalgic for a stand of trees or a local boozer where you get a decent pint and slobbered in by the landlord’s golden retriever. I wander the back streets feeling vacant and needing to kick-start my system back into existence with a tall double strength latte. I avoid the slaves of retail, and their plate glass altars to designer clothes where I might catch my ghostly reflection and scare myself.
8
No Gods I stumble into a little backstreet church. I didn’t know it was here, probably the closest to my flat. My footsteps echo off the marble, such a light bright space it hurts. My mind races at the contrast with the red-brick exterior. Someone unseen is playing scales and exercises on the church organ. I mutter to myself, ‘Sweet acoustics.’ The modern art canvasses of the Stations of the Cross take my breath away and I feel compelled to sit down and just stare at them. My head starts pounding and it sounds like a Peter Hook bass riff. Then a Johnny Marr like jangle starts reconnecting my nerve endings. I fear I might start twitching and get mistaken for dancing like Bez from the Happy Mondays. The soundtrack inside my head beat mixes into I Am The Resurrection by the Stone Roses. ‘Welcome here kind stranger.’ I haven’t heard that since running with the Boston Irish. The guy in the dog collar squeezes himself into the pew next to me. He has a belly that betrays his enthusiasm for homemade cake. The little wooden bench holds us closer than comfortable. ‘We usually have a wedding on about this time. No matching duties today, probably make up for it with the hatching and dispatching later in the week.’ He shoves his hand out in greeting and chuckles at his own bon mots. He says, ‘We’re in the guidebook, the Hidden Gem. You should see our guest book, comments from all over the world. Not just football and musicians, this town.’ Normally, I’d tell someone to fuck right off and leave me in peace, but he is a priest, the sort that turns up to give your grandmother the last rites and comfort the family. He says, ‘But something tells me that you’re not a tourist.’ 9
‘Did God tell you that?’ I ask, relieved that my sarcasm is in full working order. He looks at me ruefully and breathes as if he’s summoning the energy to physically remove me from his quiet respectful sanctuary. ‘Twenty years of ministering to heavy hearts and troubled minds taught me that.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘And besides, you don’t have a rucksack.’ A warm smile lights up his face. I fear I might believe in things if this preacher tells me to. He says, ‘It’s a judgement dredged out of experience and peasant-like common sense.’ ‘Is that from the bible?’ ‘Arthur Miller,’ he says, and I realise that the void in my existence is intelligent, reflective conversation. From behind us a series of flashes prompts the priest to jump out of the pew with unexpected grace and speed. ‘No photography, please,’ and then he starts into a well-rehearsed tour guide routine. As he makes a roll call of saints and religious icons, I fade him out to allow my mind to take stock. With the terrible concentration of an uneducated man, I sit and quietly daydream about Lester Bangs.
10
The God of the Woods
The God of the Woods by Matthew Curry The god of woods took us to the place And presented life – a dark roe deer Bursting through the gloom at panic pace, All agility, adrenalin and fear. As soon gone as here; then peace flowed With her real absence, her sounds and moves. The sandstone escarpment glowed. The birches stood without their leaves. And presented death – another deer – Almost stepped on; some black webs of sinew on the skull; No smell, flesh gone, the only fur That still bound tight to lower legs. In the middle A puddle of black suds under a few ribs. The bones whitening without their robes.
11
Hobby Rocket by Amanda Ashton
‘
Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are returned to their full and upright positions. The aircraft is ready for departure.’ The flight attendant’s voice sounded hollow over the speakers, like a dusty record. Coleman struggled to hear her speech through the static. Did she just say the weather is calm, or the wet earth card? What’s a wet earth card? Coleman thought. I’ll bet it’s some secret message between the flight crew. It probably means we’re going down in the water. He double-checked the life vest under his seat and then cinched his seatbelt tighter. After several seconds he checked the clip holding his tray table in place. He didn’t want to hit his teeth on it if the plane did go down. He once overheard a bar-room conversation where a man claimed that the only way people were identified in most plane wrecks was from their dental records. That’s what the brace position was really for, to protect your mouth. Coleman Greer hated flying; everything about it made him worry, including what he considered to be the shabby state of the plane’s audio system. Last summer on a flight from Toron to to Baltimore the TV screens had stopped working and Coleman was convinced it was an omen that the plane would tumble from the sky on an otherwise calm and clear day.
12
Hobby Rocket Today was much like that day; bright, uneventful. He leaned his head against the window and looked down as the plane ascended over the ombré Atlantic water, the safety of the Boston skyline obscured by the row of passengers on the other side of the plane. ‘C’mon Dylan, hurry up.’ Only Tim’s head was visible in the doorway. Its perfect roundness blotted out the brightness of the sun, and his blonde hair shone in the light, like an inside-out eclipse. ‘I’m coming, it’s heavy.’ Dylan responded with a whine. ‘It’s on wheels. Just pull it.’ Tim’s entire frame was visible now, and he was hopping up and down. The Pee Dance, Dylan’s older sister always called it. Finally the object began to shift. It was covered in a dusty grey tarp strapped down with bungee cords. The wheels squeaked with the strain of their age. ‘Can you pull it by yourself?’ Tim asked as Dylan emerged from the shed, walking backwards. He was gripping the tow bar with both hands and using the weight of his body to edge the cart through the doorway. ‘Wait!’ Tim said. He disappeared into the shed and emerged with a can of WD-40. He crouched down and sprayed each wheel axle. ‘My dad sprays this on my bike when I leave it out in the rain.’ he explained. ‘My mom sprays it on the hinges of her bedroom door because my dad is a lazy bastard,’ Dylan replied. He sat down hard where the paving met the grass and examined a dead worm covered in ants on the concrete. The ants had built a sandy hill across a crack and were trying to pull the worm inside. Dylan remembered last 4th of July his sister caught 13
him burning ants with a sparkler. He held the metal wire low to the ground and watched as the flames landed on the sandy pavement and extinguished. He aimed for the ants and would cheer and laugh when a spark eventually hit one, causing it to curl up like the burnt edge of a newspaper. His sister slapped him across the head and pointed to one of the cracks in the faded pavement. ‘Do you see that?’ she said. ‘The little ants cause those little cracks. They break up through the sidewalk from underground.’ ‘They’re not strong enough to break concrete!’ Dylan protested. He wasn’t even strong enough to do that, he had tried stomping the ground as hard as he could and it never budged. ‘Oh yes they are,’ his sister answered. ‘And if you keep hurting the little ones, the bigger ants are going to come up here and drag you down into their hole and eat you for dinner.’ Dylan hadn’t hurt an ant since. He picked up a twig and poked at the worm, causing its attackers to scatter. Then he stood up and peeked into the windows of the white-clad house to the side of the shed. Don Carpenter’s home was dark and quiet. He drove the school bus for Tim and Dylan for most of the year; an easy job for a former construction worker on the far side of his retirement age. Now that it was summer he drove for the local charter bus company, taking tourists on scenic drives of coastline which amounted to nothing more than four hours stuck in traffic and lunch at a rest area that smelled like seaweed when the tide was out. ‘It should work better now,’ Tim said as the oil lubricant emptied with a hiss. He threw the blue and yellow can back into Don Carpenter’s open shed and wiped the WD-40 on to the front of his shirt. The shed door was propped open with a fake rock hide-a-key. Tim knew that’s where Don kept all his spare keys because they were neighbors. Tim had a clear 14
Author Index
Author Index A
K
Ashton, Amanda 12
King, Paul J. 45, 170
B
L
Badlan, Thomas 23 Biggs, Kirsti 136 Bluer, Paul 41, 85, 179
Lomas, Matthew P. 177
C
McCall, Neil 22, 76, 169
Chapman, Cathy 98 Clemens, Ruth 1, 125 Curry, Matthew 11, 225
O
D
P
Dean, Adam 111 De Zoysa, Hans 86 Douglas, Steven 46 Dyson, Peter 20, 172
Pindar, Ian M. 91
E England, Caroline 59, 152, 208
G Gould, David 37, 166
H Hills, David 2, 228 Hoban, Baz 130 Hynes, David 202
M
O’Reilly, Dominic 160
R Rouse, Steve 19, 69, 226
S Stone, Toby 213
W Whalley, Mike 70, 151 Whittaker, Anthony 162 Whyman, Ed 58, 168, 184
233
Acknowledgements
Acknowledgements Thanks to Commonword for their accommodation; Hannah Kate for her sage advice; The Gas Lamp, Manchester, for allowing us to hold fundraisers at their fine establishment; Rod Tame, Marvin Cheeseman, Dominic Berry, Daniel Carpenter, Joy France, Mike Whalley, Kirsti Biggs, David Hills, Anna Percy and all the people who performed both on and off the stage at our fund-raisers, and beyond, to help make this possible. Exceptional thanks to Amanda Ashton, without whom this book wouldn’t have been born. The anthology is dedicated to her daughter, Grace, who had to put up with all the extra strife caused by this project whilst still in utero. Amanda took our work and framed it with finesse for all the world to see. Finally, special thanks to Matthew Curry and Carnforth Press for publishing No More Chairs. Collated by Ruth Clemens, Adam Dean and Amanda Ashton. Edited by Paul Bluer and Mike Whalley. Interior and cover design by Amanda Ashton. Cover photos taken by Steve Rouse.
235
Biographies
Biographies Matthew Curry
Matthew Curry is a long standing member of the Monday Night Group. His books include In Galloway (2010), shortlisted as a Hay Festival Outdoors Book of the Year, and The Fountain Said (2010). His short story The Salesman Saleem was included in the Crocus Books anthology Migration Stories (2009).
Steve Rouse
Steve has been putting up with the MNG since the mid1990s. He’s been published by Commonword, local literary magazines like Lamport Court, and in collections such as ‘Best of Manchester Poets’. Steve used to host open-mic poetry gigs at Manchester pubs but is having a rest from all that.
237
Dominic O’Reilly
Born to the mean streets of Stoke on Trent, Dominic is now an economic immigrant in the Manchester area; living in a box in Stockport and jumping around various temp jobs which range in excitement from typing address information for the Royal Mail, through typing Census forms, all the way up to typing railway station surveys. When he can clear his mind of postcode information and defective platform copers, he writes stories in genres including horror, humour and erotica- typically depending on what mood he’s in, and he can be found at http://dominicoreilly. wordpress.com/ Dominic also writes about himself in the third person for no apparent reason.
David Hills
Belfast-born Salford resident David Hills found encouragement for his writing among the good people of Monday Night Group. Their feedback helped him to find his voice deconstructing the relationships between men and women. His short stories consider ‘how men are’ in the modern urban world. A refugee from the entertainment industry but still a huge music fan, his stories are carved out of the rhythm and soul of Manchester city centre, with inspiration drawn from snippets of overheard conversation and the observed choreography of human interaction.
238
Biographies
Caroline England
Caroline prefers writing to dusting. And ironing, vacuuming and washing-up. Born a Yorkshire lass, she studied Law at Manchester University and stayed over the border. Caroline became a partner in a solicitors’ practice and instigated her jottings when she deserted the law to bring up her three lovely daughters. In addition to the publication of her short story collection, Watching Horsepats Feed the Roses, and her first novel, A Slight Diversion, by ACHUKAbooks, Caroline has had short stories and poems published in a variety of literary magazines. Despite her best endeavours, her writing always veers to the dark side.
Kirsti Biggs
Kirsti Biggs grew up in a village near Salisbury where she dreamed of becoming a writer, before getting sidetracked and reading Maths at Oxford University. While there, she spent a fair bit of time in clubs resembling the one which features in ‘Promise and Cocoa’. She now lives in Manchester and is training to be a chartered accountant. In her free time, as well as attending Monday Night Group, she enjoys watching quiz shows and walking in the Peak District, and is trying to teach herself Swedish. ‘Promise and Cocoa’ is her first published work.
239
Paul J King
Paul J King deserves no biography; he has been around the fringes of Commonoword and the Monday Night Group so long he is attracting paleon tological study. Some say his semi-literate ramblings may be of some interest to people with a querimonious aptitude; personally we cannot comment‌
Toby Stone
Toby Stone attended the same school as Benny Hill, Batman (Christian Bale) and a member of Blur (Alex James). Following this alphabetical theme, Toby has been a bingo caller, a suspicious barman, a mortgage broker, and now writes books. He is unlikely, however, to ever be a bee, unlike the lead character of his story, Cereal Killers. Toby’s first novel, Aimee and the Bear, is out now with Manchester-based publishers, Hic Dragones.
240
Biographies
Ian M Pindar
As a young man Ian M Pindar was a mercenary, children’s entertainer, kitchen fitter, professional footballer, adult film star, pea processing patron and sandwich artist – his memory of these times may be a little confused now, but he remembers none of these jobs deserves a capital letter. Ian is a full-time writer who has published several books. His latest ‘Hoofing It’ is the first in his own name, and part of a trilogy. Now his mother has read it; he wonders if writing under the family name might have been a big mistake?
Antony Whittaker
Antony Whittaker would like to have been born in Addis Ababa, but in fact he is from Stockport. He is the author of a number of unread stories; the included piece, ‘Running,’ is an excerpt from a novella which will never be finished. In 2003 he was awarded GCSEs in Geography, French and Biology, and has since gone on to undistinguished obscurity. He is a keen editor of Wikipedia and keeps a collection train tickets from as far afield as Sandbach, Leeds and Wolverhampton.
241
Ruth Clemens
Ruth Clemens has been writing words since childhood. After graduating from Salford University with a BA in English Literature, she took some time out of education to, like, totally figure things out for herself, yeah? and as such, she currently works for hardly any money in a law firm. Unhealthily obsessed with the works of T.S. Eliot (the David Bowie of our time. Google it.), she was even initiated into the secret Eliot Society Inner Society during a ceremony which involved being in a jacuzzi in St Louis, Missouri, with the dude out of the BBC Eliot documentary (I kid you not).
Amanda Ashton
Amanda is an ex-Pat American who now calls Manchester home. By day she works in the financial services industry, by night she pens short stories with a macabre twist. She is currently working on her first full-length novel.
David Gould
David Gould (1988 – 2025) Disappointingly, Gould decided to take up creative writing.
242
Biographies
Cathy Chapman
Cathy lives in central Manchester after emigrating here from Wolverhampton. She has a very varied CV; great skills in pulling pints, assessing punters’ levels of drunkenness (generally you are okay unless naked or asleep), waitressing, fitting children’s shoes, typing, filing, and writing stories about other people’s lives to relieve the boredom. Forced to meditate every Friday by a particularly crazy boss (‘it will unlock your creativity!’), she had a rethink about the world of magazine publishing … and ran away. She gained a TEFL and taught with a charity in Ghana and Rwanda for four years. Cathy now teaches in a primary school in the heart of Manchester, and writes in her spare time.
Neil McCall
Neil works in the financial industry (boo!) but is counting down to retiring next year (hooray!). Besides poetry events he enjoys birdwatching, travel, curries, good beer and rock music, and his wife occasionally drags him out on a healthy geocaching ramble as an antidote to the last three. He has been published in various magazines but they all seem to have closed down.
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No More Chairs
For information on any of the authors published in this collection or for reprinting rights, please contact the Monday Night Group directly at enquiries@mondaynightgroup.org.uk.
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