Twenty Five is a series of semi autobiographical short stories based on the life and times of a character I have chosen to call Colin Cross. Colin is partly a fiction, an amalgam if you like of a real person who has lived through turbulent times, combined with historical events and sometimes people that reflect these times and their influences. Some of the things portrayed as happening to Colin may well have happened to others and been witnessed by the author, others will be totally fictional constructs based on the writers knowledge and personal understanding of time and place.
Although the majority of the characters and places portrayed in these stories are based on real people and places some of the names have been changed for obvious reasons. Some of the stories which will feature have already appeared on Going Postal, most notably the Incarceration series, they will need to be rewritten but will contain the facts as first published.
King Philip of England
Yes, he was once King of England, although the English don’t much like to think of him in that way. The man who sent the famous Armada against England in 1588 (and several others at different dates) might still have been King had his wife Mary yet lived. The Historical and National Narratives, and his role in them might have been very different. Just think how history might have been different if Mary had borne him at least one child who survived, as she so ardently desired.
Let us imagine that Philip had a son. Why not call him Alexander? Supposing that Mary had died at the same time as in our version of history, Philip would have been left as Regent for his infant son, the putative successor to all the Habsburg domains. With Henry VIII and Charles V as his grandfathers he might even have been an imposing and successful conqueror. Alexander King of England and ruler of the Habsburg Empire. It was already an imposing Empire, comprising the kingdoms of Spain, to which Portugal was soon added, along with their overseas domains, the Netherlands, with most of Italy apart of the Papal States under its influence if not its direct rule, and closely associated with the Holy Roman Empire of the German states. Already it was the Empire on which the sun never set.
|“People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”|
This is fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred.
Morrison came down to breakfast and looked at the offerings the Pacific Plaza hotel had laid out for their delectation. He baulked at the fried rice and eggs and knew that misery followed the consumption of the freshly peeled fruit on ice. He settled for white rolls and conserve. Even with the air conditioning, it was getting hot and immensely humid and it had rained for most of the night. He saw Mitchell dressed similarly to himself in a dark suit. Opel Canyon Securities insisted that all of its operatives dressed in dark suits for city business and airport runs, a lightweight linen suit for work in the field. Smart professionalism at all times. He joined Mitchell at the table and ordered coffee from the Philippino waitress, slightly puzzled.
FX: SPOOKY MUSIC (THEREMIN etc). THEN A ROLLING CLAP OF THUNDER AND AN EVIL GHOULISH LAUGH.
CORBYN: Who’s that?
DEVIL: (Oily, sinister, unctuous): Hello Jeremy, surely you must remember me? Even with the rapturous reception your speech received at the Labour Party Conference, you can’t have forgotten our little deal all those years ago?
CORBYN: Oh, hello, Mr Mephistopheles. Or is it Mx Mephistopheles? I wouldn’t want to assume your gender. What can I do for you?
DEVIL: Well, I thought that would be rather obvious Jeremy, what with the ecstatic fervour that your millions of true believers received your rehashed plate of old Marxism, wouldn’t you?
JEREMY: What do you mean?
Continue reading “A Corbynesque Pact”
This is a work of fiction and depicts a London that no longer exists. Thank goodness that the nation’s capital is now such a diverse and culturally enriched metropolis of civilization.
On a day in April 1977, the same day that German Federal Prosecutor Siegfried Buback and his driver were shot by two Red Army Faction members in Karlsruhe, a young woman left Tottenham Court Underground Station and walked down Soho Street to Soho Square. The Curzon Cinema on Shaftsbury Avenue was showing “The Eagle Has Landed.” The private cinema on Romilly Street was showing “Swedish Nympho Slaves.” A cold front had moved south with accompanying winds, but the streets were dry and her overcoat blew open. She was wearing a short skirt and diaphanous blouse. The cold wind was nipple stiffening.