Shame, and the lack thereof
You wouldn't catch me in a rubbish hotel bar shaking my ass and doing my world-famous Beyoncé impression on a Thursday night. Oh no.

It was my evil twin brother. Oh yes.

The woman in her mid-forties at an adjoining table thought it was quite funny, though the barman was unimpressed.

I shouldn't be allowed out, it's true. I'm not ready for civilised society.

Note to self
Your sanity will be questioned when you arrive at work and inform your colleagues that the first word in your head when you woke up this morning was 'haloumi'. Your direct superior will then ask whether you were drinking.

Corona
Simon has been sitting in front of his typewriter for the past hour. He has written precisely nothing. He is supposed to be composing a letter to his father, but he can't control the words swarming in front of his eyes. The room is lit only by a small lamp in the corner, throwing shadows up along the cheap, nicotine-stained curtains. He has lived here for over a year and has done little to the place beyond the first few weeks of moving in. Clip-framed watercolours nestle next to postcards and corner-curled photographs, along with reminder notes taped to the walls. The phone receiver lies uncradled, a dull tone emitting into the muted yellow light.

The room is not consciously disorderly, rather an artless neglect. Clothes are not strewn, nor are they folded. Books have not been thrown across the room in pique or rage. Newspapers have been stacked. The space looks abandoned, as though frozen in a museum exhibition case. It's a relic of how we used to live, except that Simon still lives there. The bottom drawer of the wardrobe is broken and the handle lies next to it, waiting for the burst of energy or pride that will see it repaired. It has already waited a long time. The bedclothes have not been washed in recent memory.

And so Simon remains motionless. His chair was bought from a secondhand shop and was formerly in a school. Countless pupils over the years had learned or slept or wrote love notes or provided excuses for undone homework in that chair. Numerous teachers had warned the occupant of that chair not to lean back on two legs. Some of the more artistic occupants had carved their names into the wood, leaving a permanent testimonial to their adolescent years which has now faded or been smoothed away. Now it rests again in a room, supporting someone with no ideas and no thoughts. A fitting circle.

It isn't cold in the room, and there are small signs of sunlight breaking through the thin fabric of the curtain. That doesn't provide any reason for Simon to open them, however. The radiators are still working at full strength and he chooses the imposed lamplight rather than anything easier, more natural. His fingers are stiff from holding the same position over the keys and his mind turns to the length of his fingernails. The small crescents of dirt underneath the longer nails. The vein lines running down his index finger. The way his hands tremble slightly. The miniscule discolouration on the side of his forefinger, where cigarettes have burned down to die.

Apart from the ashtray and the typewriter, the table is clear. As is the paper inserted so carefully into the typewriter, ready for the imprinting. Perhaps Simon will sit there for another hour. He may rise from his failure, leave the room and take a walk. He may decide to sleep. He may be infused with a spirit to arrange his room more perfectly. The drawer handle may be fixed. The overflowing wastepaper basket may be emptied. Some of the reminder notes may be achieved and removed. But not now. For the moment, he will continue to sit and write precisely nothing.

The nearly man
I have a track record of nearly meeting people.

A few years ago, I went to a design awards party. It was held at the bar next to the Great Eastern Hotel (the bar's name escapes me). A friend who had arranged the freebies brought me along on the promise of free drinks. It's a relatively well-known fact that I will go most places on the vague promise of free drinks, and so I was hardly likely to pass up this opportunity to sip expensive free cocktails while rubbing shoulders with the glitterati.

We entered the establishment and I knew immediately that I shouldn't have been allowed in. Everyone looked trendy, they dressed fashionably and they exuded an air of sophistication and belonging which I came nowhere close to emulating. Oh well, free drinks. We went up to the bar and grabbed two glasses of champagne each, then tried to find somewhere to stand/sit which was further than two centimetres away from the massive speakers pumping rubbish music into the room.

Eventually, after much shifting around the room and bumping into people I'm sure I should have recognised, we found a pillar to lean against. Fortified by substantial amounts of champagne, we started looking around the assembled D-listers to see if there was anyone who we actually did recognise. Turning my head ever so slightly to one side to look at the door, I saw Kate Moss walking in.

She walked directly towards me and just as she approached the zone where I would be able to say hello without shouting across the entire room or looking like a stalker, she walked past and straight to the bar. She proceeded to get drinks with her mini-entourage and then stand only a few feet away from where we were. She stood. We stood. And then she moved away, presumbly to try and find Stella McCartney, I don't know. We saw a small sofa become free and immediately dived for it, collecting drinks reinforcements on the way.

And that's how I nearly met Kate Moss.

Interrogation
"What do you do?"
"Various things, really."
"Specifically?"
"Specifically? Nothing."
"So your purpose here is what?"
"Well, I suppose you could call me The Fixer."
"The Fixer?"
"Yeah, you know, The Fixer. If stuff's needed, or things are broken, or you don't know someone to arrange something, you contact me. And I fix it."
"You fix it."
"That's right."
"Whatever it is."
"Yeah, either I can take care of it personally, or find someone else who can do it. Bish bash, problem solved."
"Is this, you know, dodgy at all?"
"Might be, might not. Depends."
"Depends on what?"
"On what you need. And on how badly you want it."
"It's a bit, well, gangland, isn't it?"
"No."
"Oh, I see."
"If, by any chance, you have a guy who's being a bit naughty, then having the lads go up with the usual 'It's a lovely suit you're wearing there, Colin, it'd be a shame if anything were to happen to it' routine can work wonders on focusing the mind."
"Do you actually do that?"
"No."
"That's a relief."
"But I can arrange it."
"Ah."
"No problem."
"So, is that how you're known?"
"How what?"
"As The Fixer."
"No, no. It's just what I do."
"Oh, so what do they call you, then?"
"The Man."

Grand Café Londonmark
Mesdames et Messieurs, ladies and gentlemen, welcome one, welcome all to the white tie 1920s socialite themed cocktail hour. I'll be your host for this afternoon and I trust that you are all dressed appropriately.

As we wander around the art deco ballroom, I see some familiar faces and names. Why look, who's that gazing out of the tall windows onto the estate? It's none other than Mister Nick, who has clearly misunderstood instructions and requested a pint. And so he shall have a pint, only it is a pint of crème de menthe. Salut, my dear fellow.

Over by the piano is a certain Mister Adrian. I shall send a waiter to fetch your prepared Tuxedo immediately, old boy. Actually, I'd better get the waiter to fetch Mister Graybo's Singapore Sling also. I'll arrange for the bandleader to start playing, and perhaps Mister Graybo will request the pleasure of Miss Lori's company in dancing a Charleston. After she's finished her White Russian, of course, and dance card permitting.

Making the extremely long journey by boat over from New York, New York, we have the delightful Miss Krissa, looking rather racy in her creme silk slip and black stockings. One Sidecar for the lady coming right up. Deeply engrossed in conversation with her is the delightful Miss Kate, whose shoes have caused quite a stir in fashionable circles, don't you know. Your three dry martinis with olives on silver skewers are just arriving.

Just coming over to speak with the ladies is Miss Karen, clutching her vodka martini. Perhaps she wants to tell them all about her exciting new career plans. Do tell, my dear. To complete the ladies' corner, we have Miss Pix shimmying her way through the throng, bourbon on ice in hand, glamorously photographing all the glitterati and opulence on hand. Oh, darlings, isn't it all so terribly, terribly wonderful?

And so back to the gentlemen. Standing by the billiards table in the corner (who moved it into the ballroom? I shall fire the butler), we have Mister Green Hamster and Mister Stuart. Mister GH shall have his Drambuie and is focusing on a particularly tricky shot, while Mister Stuart seems more preoccupied with his Jazz Baby. Well, really. I suppose he shall have to have a drink of some sort as well. How about a refreshing gin and tonic, old chap? Good? Good.

Glancing at the wonderful paintings on the walls are Mister Huwge, Gimlet in hand (Raymond Chandler's favourite cocktail, you know), Mr D, with his interesting 'Spitfire Pilot' concoction, and Mister Vaughan. A word, Mister Vaughan. Our head bartender has refused to accede to your request, as he claims it is beneath him. (He's terribly temperamental.) I've had a word, but he is quite intransigent on the matter. Instead, I propose a refreshing glass of Long Island Iced Tea. I hope you find it an adequate substitute. My goodness, listen to the gentlemen converse. Such intelligence and flair. It's good to have the right sort of people at a cocktail party.

Speaking of the right sort of people, one must not forget a mint julep for Mister Lyle, who is approaching the bar with a rather thirsty look on his face, nor a Manhattan for Mister Gordon, because the bartender didn't quite understand his request. I see out of the corner of my eye that there are two more additions to this wonderful gathering. Mister Jann and Miss Daisy are wandering in and greeting everyone. My, don't they look smart. I had better get the waiter to deliver a mojito and a cup of tea respectively to our two new guests. Tout de suite, my good man.

Well, everyone taken care of? Excellent. Time for me to brush down the tails, smarten the white bow tie and ask any of our lovely ladies if they would care to take to the dancefloor for a foxtrot? Anyone?

Invitation to tender
I have come to the conclusion that the male human body is extremely poorly designed. I am hereby opening out to tender the contract to redesign the male human body so that obvious problems are addressed. Particular attention should be paid to moving the 'sensitive' areas to somewhere other than at kicking height.

Apple have already contacted me with suggestions for the new iMan. Available in a range of colours and with the potential for upgrades, iMan is currently only available in graphite, but a later run of mini-iMan products is due to ship in late 2004 in a range of colours. To the relief of frustrated partners everywhere, iMan will not feature a floppy drive.

Audi have put in a bid to develop the Man TT. This is a stripped down and sleeker version of the current human male body, built with particular attention on speed, road-handling and smooth, sleek lines. They predict an enthusiastic response from the 19-34 alpha female market, and you should be aware that pre-ordering begins in March.

I'm still waiting to hear from Compaq about their suggestions for merging the current human body design with that of an iPaq; some sort of handheld Man project featuring increased battery life and wireless connectivity, and the initial projections are looking encouraging.

The proposed joint venture with Palm never really got off the ground after the project leader was caught in hysterics designing the logo based on the words 'palm one' and 'man'. I think they took him to the Priory.

There was an interesting email from Bodum regarding the possibility of having the new human male design completely transparent but, remembering the usual 'I was never at the pub, honest' excuses, we decided that this was already a feature of the standard male loadset and therefore not a design change at all.

Gillette have been summarily fired from the project upon the discovery that their redesign makes Man v2.0 look more like Wolverine from the X-Men rather than any substantive upgrade. Likewise, Sir Richard Branson's company has been excluded from any potential involvement in this venture, for obvious reasons.

I'll let you know how Phase 2 of the contract bidding progresses.

How to travel nicely on the London Underground
Your cut-out-and-make-into-a-paper-aeroplane guide to the Tube

Correct method

1. Wait until all the passengers have got off the train before getting into the carriage
2. Surrender or refuse a seat in favour of those passengers who are pregnant, elderly or have many bags
3. Respect other people's personal space insofar as this is possible
4. If wearing a personal music device, turn the volume down so as not to annoy other passengers
5. Avoid eating smelly or messy food and take all rubbish with you when you leave the train.

Incorrect method

1. Read your broadsheet newspaper ostentatiously, spreading the entire width of the double spread out as far as it will go, hitting other people in the face with the grimy inky pages
2. Stare at other passengers with a Hannibal Lecter-esque grin on your face for the entire duration of your journey
3. Decide that rush hour is the best time to break out the calamari risotto, and eat it with your fingers, carelessly
4. Sit across two seats, even though your weight is similar to that of a pigeon who has successfully completed the Atkins diet
5. Travel on the Circle line drunk on gin at nine in the morning and treat the carriage to a slurred solo rendition of I Can't Take My Eyes Off You, while offering to marry any female who hasn't managed to avoid eye contact.

How to cross a road without killing yourself, me or anyone else
Your cut-out-and-ignore guide to traversing London streets

Correct method

1. Go to a pedestrian crossing
2. Look up at the lit sign to see whether it is red or green
3. If red, stand at the crossing in an orderly queue until cars stop and the light is green
4. If green, cross the road in a brisk fashion, striding purposefully towards the other side of the road
5. Once across the road, continue to your destination.

Incorrect method

1. Just cross however you damn well like, listening amusedly to the screech of car brakes, the howling of car horns and the distinct music of impelled metal breaking your soft, soft body
2. Go to the pedestrian crossing and elbow your way through everyone waiting there, because obviously you're the King of the Castle
3. Wait until a few seconds before the traffic lights turn green, then madly dash across the road; drivers really love that adrenaline thrill, you know
4. Carry the largest rucksack you can find and bump into every other pedestrian on your route across the road, preferably rolling your eyes at them as though it's their fault
5. Despite the fact that I'm walking in a straight line across the street at an even pace, deliberately walk into my path, then slow down, then meander a bit so that the lights have changed when I'm only halfway across – I really, really love that, you dozy git.

How to be appreciated by colleagues
Your cut-out-and-burn guide to happy working life

Correct method

• Cover for them; they'll be loyal in return
• Offer to make them coffee; even if caffeine-intolerant, they'll appreciate the gesture
• Remember to invite them to work drinks; they'll feel part of the team
• Consider their time as important as your own
• Behave courteously and in a friendly manner.

Incorrect method

• When they* try to sneak in late (for the second day running), draw massive amounts of attention to them in full hearing of their bosses
• Ignore them as you would ignore a rabid dog quoting Richard Littlejohn
• Consistently undermine them in front of others, preferably by criticising their dress sense, hair, bodily functions or speech impediments
• Regard any projects they are working on as irrelevant and childish, preferring instead to dump your own five day research workload on them, ideally with the blasé phrase, "It's okay, just Google it"
• Constantly imply that they are an alcoholic, and make them the butt of all office jokes regarding drinking or lack of success with the opposite sex.

* 'They', in this instance, may or may not be me.**
** It is.

How to wake up for work in the morning
Your cut-out-and-throw-away guide to rising and getting to your office.

Correct method

1. Set alarm the night before
2. Rise when the alarm sounds, refreshed after 8 hours of peaceful sleep
3. Clean and dress oneself
4. Eat a healthy breakfast
5. Depart for work in plenty of time, perhaps stopping to buy a newspaper.

Incorrect method

1. Set alarm at about 2.00am when staggering to bed drunk
2. Reset alarm when it sounds for about 10 minutes later
3. Repeat step 2 at least three more times
4. Rise about five minutes before you are due at work, feeling absolutely shattered and looking like Lurch on a bad day
5. Hastily brush teeth while trying to smooth down hair; reckon that you can get away without shaving (again)
6. Light cigarette while tying shoelaces and trying to find watch
7. Run to nearest tube station, cursing loudly and scaring local residents and pets, while reading the prep work for the meeting for which you are currently very, very late.

Upon reflection
I'm being looked at. Scrutinised. I can tell this by the faded reflection in the glass door about four feet away from me. He isn't watching me subtly at all. No half-hidden glancing or furtive, darting eyes. No, he's watching me overtly, ready to be challenged, secure in his authority.

I could turn to face him, to stare back and challenge this divine right. I might move to a different, less visible place, to complicate and annoy his observation. I could leave. But I don't. I won't. As far as he is prepared to assess me, I am ready to be assessed.

There is none of the instinctive guilt or unease which I may feel when passing a policeman or handing over a passport. I hope I've grown out of that now. There is no debate as to who I am or the legitimacy of my presence. I'm allowed. I belong. I am known. I am untouchable.

Attrition, then. A battle of wills; static, inert, but a battle no less. Some people find the naked gaze of others intimidating or unnerving. I feel that it strengthens my resolve. I'm no rebel, but with time-beaten island identity creeping close to the skin, I know my rights. Or at least I think I do. I have the right to watch the watcher, and I will. I watch.

Time enough
There is a step you take which I can't follow. A silence when I should say the words I want to say because I should, because you want me to. There's a silence where I try to calculate what you mean and whether you mean it. A look at your face to tell me what happens behind those wide grey eyes.

It's not a long pause (Pinter would have dismissed it as trifling). I don't think you've noticed my conflict yet, the tugging between the opposing sides of my thoughts, impelling me towards a commitment one way or another. I squeeze your hand. This buys me time.

Had we but world enough, and time. Time enough to slow the cogs and levers of my mind – a Heath Robinson machine: intricate, complex and ridiculous – to produce something, anything. I'd like to say something true. I think I owe you that.

Small words convey big ideas. I know many phrases I can say to you, but they're from other people's mouths. Books, song lyrics, poems, films. I would steal their endeavours to rescue my muteness here. I would cheat you of my little originality, and cheat myself far more.

And you wait.

I speak.

"I'm so sorry."

Emerald absence
Just taking a few days away from here in order to investigate a future career as an international jewel thief. I'm still alive though (apologies to those who are disappointed by this news).

Dead time talking
Jack: Would you still love me if I was fat?
Emma: No.
Jack: Bald?
Emma: No.
Jack: Poor?
Emma: You are poor.
Jack: I'm not poor.
Emma: You're not rich.
Jack: Point made. Ugly?
Emma: Don't make me be nasty, darling.
Jack: You're saying I'm ugly?
Emma: I'm saying you're ridiculously easy to wind up.
Jack: Oh.
Emma: What prompted this?
Jack: No reason.
Emma: There's always a reason.
Jack: I just wondered.
Emma: You never just wonder. You've been thinking about this for days, I bet.
Jack: No, I just wondered.
Emma: Right.
Jack: Maybe we should get married.
Emma: What?
Jack: We should get married.
Emma: Isn't it a bit early for the midlife crisis, Jack?
Jack: What do you mean?
Emma: You're 24. So am I. We've been seeing each other for a month. And you want to get married.
Jack: Well, maybe not, then.
Emma: So I'm not good enough for you?
Jack: No, no. That's not what I …
Emma: Got you.
Jack: Hmmm. Perhaps I need to be less gullible.
Emma: No, you're wonderful just as you are … fat, poor, ugly and gullible.
Jack: You're doing it again, aren't you?
Emma: Yes.
Jack: I'm getting better at spotting it now.
Emma: That's true.
Jack: Here it comes, did you buy your ticket?
Emma: What ticket?
Jack: The ticket for the …
Emma: Got you again.
Jack: Damn.

Changing your name
Couldn't be simpler, simply introduce yourself with your new chosen name. For example; "Hello, I'm Londonmark" becomes "Hello, I'm Manchestermark", or for the more ostentatious of you "Greetings! I am SanFranciscoTracy!" But lets keep to babysteps here, we've a lot to cover. To new people you will always be Manchestermark. They'll always think of you as Manchestermark and refer to you as "That Mark bloke, the one from Manchester", little suspecting that you have an entire other secret past with another city. In fact when someone finally does let slip that you used to be Londonmark they'll even exclaim that you never looked like a Londoner to them and they'd just always assumed you were from Manchester.

When it comes to people who have known you for longer, family, old friends, ex lovers, bartenders, you'll catch them slipping every now and again with a "I was out for drinks with Lond... I mean Manchestermark" or "Yeah it was a riot, we got totally blitzed and Londonmark was dancing on the tables, you know him as Manchestermark" and in both cases you have to remind your mother to stop telling people you take her out to the pub with you because you're still single and this is exactly the sort of reputation you changed names to get away from.

Changing features
This is where the impersonation comes into it. Add a moustache, add a goatee, add a pair of thick comedy spectacles, and suddenly you're a parody of someone else, usually yourself though. Stroke the goatee menacingly with a crafty glint in your eye and you're not Londonmark anymore, you're his evil twin: Londonmark Mk 2 (or LM:Mk2 for short). Put on a thick northern accent and you're his long lost cousin jus' down t'Big Smoke for t'day aught, lad. The possibilities are endless and usually limited only by the number of heads and limbs you possess. Be reasonable of course, wires poked through your cheeks and orange facepaint do not make you a tiger.

You can try little touches like a slightly larger prosthetic chin, contact lenses, an extra nostril, a long debonair duelling scar down the left side of your face and see what sort of effect it has on people you've just met. Tell them you've always been known as "Chisel chin", "Ol' Green Eyes", "Monsoon Sneeze" or "The Scarlet Pumpernickle" and people will blithly believe you simply because the physical evidence backs it up. You can then spin yarns for hours as they continue to buy you pints of your days breaking rocks with your chin, dazzling people with your sparkling eyes, rehydrating small children from above and fighting for your damsel's stolen honour.

Changing people's perception
A tricky endeavour that should only be entered by those of us hardened by years of shaping people's opinions and views of ourselves. This is the equivalent of psychological warfare and requires a convincing poker face and wits of steel.

Lets imagine that for years you've had a reputation as a heavy-drinking, womanising, elitist jack-of-all-trades with a shady past and a criminal record, and your attentions have been drawn towards a rather delicate specimen of the female gender. Sauntering up to her, thumping your pint onto the bartop and saying "Awright Love? Fancy a shag?" will kill your chances dead. This is the Nineties, women can afford to be choosy. On the otherhand, this is where you can apply a little bit of graft and study towards a worthy cause.

By replacing one of the selections in the jukebox with Vivaldi's Four Seasons and picking something slightly less ladish to drink, say a sparkling mineral water perhaps, before standing patiently at the bar beside her and telling her that the second movement has always evoked within you a deep spiritual serenity you've already blown her immediate perception of you out of the water. No matter what her friends have warned her about you her first impression is now indelibly of a sensitive caring man, living in the appearance of a tough macho man, the duality is always a massive turn-on. Alternatively you've just alienated all your drinking buddies and will need to move to Azerbaijan as quickly as possible and change your name to Jeff.

In conclusion
In all cases, the point is to play on people's willingness to accept your new identity without a second thought and gain yourself a reputation as a master of disguise, continually plotting to bring your evil squirrel army to bear against your enemies. I am Londonmark, fear me, I may be sitting right beside you and you'd never know. Cackle, cackle.

Itinerant
From Sunday night onwards this week, I have slept in a different place each night. Three of these involved beds, the other two involved floors. And I have no idea where I am sleeping tonight.

This is not as desperate as it may sound.

But don't try this at home.

Live and Let Londonmark
Dr Omega spread his hands expansively across the Venetian glass table.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you may be wondering why I have brought you here today. I will address this matter presently. First, some introductions."

He gestured to the man sitting on his right.

"Stanislav Morbinski, also known as The Scratcher. His weapon of choice is a small portable blackboard, along which he drags his specially reinforced fingernails, inducing terror, fear and death in all who hear him. Scotland Yard are still searching for him in connection with the murder of a prominent British cabinet minister last year."

He turned his attention to the elegantly dressed woman further down the table.

"Lady Sue Spender. An English noblewoman and society's darling. Her speciality? Death by elastic. Concealed on her right thigh is a small, seemingly harmless garter. This undergarment, however, has accounted for the suspicious demises of numerous young beaus and blue bloods."

As Lady Spender smiled, he moved his attention to the fair-haired, tweedy man next to her.

"Professor Karl-Heinz van der Graaf. Cruelly deprived of the Nobel Prize for Sadism five years in a row, the Professor has suffered a breakdown. His only pleasure in life is torturing others through the use of IQ testing. Brave is the man who dares oppose him, foolish the man who believes he can better him."

Dr Omega turned to the opposite end of the table, where a plain man in a plain suit plainly sat, plainly.

"The mysterious Mr Mister. Nothing is known of his origins. Nothing is known of his background. Nothing is known of his whereabouts. But whenever he appears, people die."

Waving his gloved hand towards the left corner of the table at a haze of smoke, Dr Omega continued.

"Peter Scoria. The Stoner. From an early age, The Stoner was fascinated by three things. Paper, plants and fire. While at a progressive university, he encountered the perfect fusion of these in the form of marijuana. His consumption has now reached Marley-like proportions. He targets his victims carefully and withholds munchies until they perish."

Turning to the uniformed man further up the table, Dr Omega finished his introductions.

"General De'Ath. Deposed head of the Moltavian army. Psychopath. Lepidopterist. Criminal mastermind. Responsible for the mass genocide which engulfed the peaceful republic of Moltavia, klling over three citizens and injuring countless others. His tactical and strategic brilliance will help us achieve our bold aims."

"You will see that I have left one chair empty. The reason for this will become clear in due course."

Dr Omega paused, hearing the tanglible anticipation in the room.

"We all have one common enemy. Londonmark. I have brought you here today to show you my plan to rid ourselves of this meddling fool once and for all. My plan is breathtaking in its simplicity and audacious in its scope. With my new Omega Device, and your invaluable services, we will humble him and finally rule the world!"

Indiana Jones trilogy – Deleted scenes #2
INT. Bar in Cairo.

Belloq: We meet again, Dr Jones.
Indiana: Could you be a bit more subtle about the Bond references, please?
Belloq: Sorry. Um … I re-encounter you once more, Dr Jones.
Indiana: Oh my god.
Belloq: Anyway, sit down, Dr Jones. Sit down before you fall down.
Indiana: I swear I'll kill you, Belloq.
Belloq: Come, come, Dr Jones. Make an attempt to be more civilised. My Arab friends here do not take kindly to death threats in their places of business.

[Indiana sits, sullenly.]

Belloq: I regret the involvement of the girl, Dr Jones, truly I do. But it was you who brought her into this. Will you tell me one thing?
Indiana: What?
Belloq: You're an archaeologist, like myself. We have spent years studying ancient civilisations, learning dead and dying languages, familiarising ourselves with mystic rituals, getting to grips with obscure local customs and painstakingly researching artefacts across the entire globe. I have spent half my life in libraries and crumbling museums.
Indiana: And?
Belloq: How do you get so many women?
Indiana: Excuse me?
Belloq: I was always a bookish child, with little time for socialising with others. I have dedicated my life to searching out relics, both my passion and my obsession. I haven't had a lot of time for, shall we say, fraternising. How do you do it?
Indiana: I didn't come all the way to Egypt to provide you with Dating 101, Belloq.
Belloq: Indulge me, Dr Jones.
Indiana: Well, I guess it's the image.
Belloq: Image?
Indiana: You know, leather jacket, gun, whip, fedora, total disrespect for women, that sort of thing.
Belloq: Interesting.
Indiana: Also, it's the whole Han Solo thing again.
Belloq: Could you explain?
Indiana: You know. The whole Han Solo/Princess Leia thing. I'm a rebel, but a loveable rogue. It's the same with this chick. She hates me, but she really loves me.
Belloq: I'm afraid you've lost me, Dr Jones.
Indiana: Just ask George Lucas.
Belloq: Very well.
Indiana: Is this all you wanted to talk about?
Belloq: No, of course not. Do you know what the Ark is?
Indiana: Well, duh.
Belloq: [ignoring him] It's a transmitter. A radio for talking to God!
Indiana: Yup. Okay. Right. Sure. Whatever.
Belloq: You doubt me?
Indiana: I doubt anyone who keeps stealing all my finds. I nearly get crushed by a giant ball, perforated by arrows, stung to death by scorpions, speared and stabbed, then you just roll on up and take the damn thing from straight out of my hands. Kind of makes you doubt your faith in others.
Belloq: I never had you down as the bitter type, Dr Jones.
Indiana: Oh … just … sod off.

Indiana Jones trilogy – Deleted scenes #4
INT. Schloss Brunwald, Germany.

[Dr Indiana Jones swoops through the window and is promptly hit on the head by Dr Henry Jones Senior.]

Henry: Junior!
Indiana: Don't call me that, Dad.
Henry: No backchat, Junior.
Indiana: Sorry, sir.
Henry: What are you doing here?
Indiana: I'm here to rescue you.
Henry: Rescue? I don't need any rescuing.
Indiana: Dad, you're imprisoned in a castle in the middle of Nazi Germany. You need rescuing.
Henry: But the beer is excellent.
Indiana: Granted, but come on.
Henry: And I've developed quite a liking for the food.
Indiana: That's great, Dad, now let's go.
Henry: To where?
Indiana: Out of here. Somewhere safe. After the Grail.
Henry: Oh, they'll never get their hands on the Grail.
Indiana: Why not?
Henry: Because there was an error in the translation.
Indiana: Uh?
Henry: The shield of Sir Richard revealed the location?
Indiana: Yes, Alexandretta.
Henry: Alexandretta! I should have known. But that's not the location of the Grail.
Indiana: What?
Henry: No, no. When I mailed you my diary, did you read it?
Indiana: Yes.
Henry: All of it?
Indiana: Yes.
Henry: Every single page?
Indiana: Well, I might have skimmed some of it.
Henry: I knew it. Just like you, never taking the time to do things properly.
Indiana: Look, Dad …
Henry: Never mind. In my Grail diary, it shows that the Latin on Sir Richard's shield is a test, not a pointer.
Indiana: What?
Henry: In order to prevent the Grail from falling into the wrong hands, the three crusading brothers agreed that their shields would point not to the Grail itself, but to a false location, thereby ensuring that even in death, the secrets of the Holy Grail would never be revealed.
Indiana: What was wrong with the Latin on the shield?
Henry: It's slightly different from the accepted form of the word 'Grail'.
Indiana: So, what's in Alexandretta?
Henry: Well, it appears I've spent a large part of my life searching for something different.
Indiana: What?
Henry: The Holy Snail.

[Pause.]

Indiana: Oh, Christ.
Henry: Junior! Mind your language.
Indiana: Sorry, sir.

Indiana Jones trilogy – Deleted scenes #5
INT. The Grail Temple.

Indiana: Who are you?
Knight: The last of three brothers who swore an oath to find the Grail and to guard it.
Indiana: That was seven hundred years ago.
Knight: A long time to wait.
Indiana: You're not kidding.
Knight: Has much changed while I have been guarding the Grail?
Indiana: Oh. Well, nah. Not much.
Knight: You must tell me more.
Indiana: I'm kind of in a rush here. My dad's outside and he's been shot.
Knight: Shot?
Indiana: Yeah, shot.
Knight: How?
Indiana: With a gun.
Knight: Gun?
Indiana: Yes. I don't really have the time to detail the history of ballistics for you, just trust me on this. Right, which one of these babies is the Grail, then?

[Donovan enters.]

Donovan: Right, everyone shut up. Good. Old guy, give me the Grail.
Knight: You must choose. [Pause.] But choose wisely. For as the true Grail will bring you life, the false Grail will take it from you.
Indiana: Ah, I thought something like this might happen.
Donovan: You're shitting me.
Knight: What does this mean?
Indiana: Later.
Donovan: Okay, okay, hold the phone. I know nothing about this archaeology rubbish other than the facts that the Grail is good, Jones is a pain in the ass and Elsa's fit. Elsa, honey, go get me the Grail.
Elsa: But of course.
Indiana: Don't do it.
Donovan: I say this will all due respect, Dr Jones: if you speak again, I will shoot you dead.

[Elsa surveys all the chalices and selects a bejewelled, golden cup.]

Donovan: Very bling. What now?
Knight: You must use the chalice to drink from the well of eternal life. Only then will your choice reveal itself.
Donovan: So, on the one hand I get eternal life. On the other, I get what?
Knight: The false Grail will take life from you.
Donovan: Hang on. If I screw up, I die?
Knight: What did he say?
Indiana: That's right, Donovan.
Donovan: Are you sure about this, Elsa?
Elsa: Oh, yes.
Donovan: Really sure?
Elsa: Yes.
Donovan: No margin of error at all? No buts? No maybes? One hundred percent sure?
Indiana: This isn't your Phone A Friend lifeline, Donovan, get on with it.
Donovan. Hmmm. What the hell. Cheers!

[Donovan drinks from the well, convulses, disintegrates.]

Knight: He chose … poorly.
Indiana: No kidding. What did you put in that well?
Knight: Eternal life.
Indiana: But that's one hell of a hangover. Got to work out which one of these is the Grail.
Elsa: Do you need a hand?
Indiana: You're kidding, right? You've done a great job so far. Back off.

[Indiana looks through them all and picks up a simple earthenware cup.]

Elsa: That's just skanky. You're not actually going to drink out of it, are you?
Indiana: You bet.
Elsa: Mad.

[Indiana drinks from the well, starts to convulse.]

Elsa: Indy!
Indiana: Kidding.
Knight: You have chosen wisely. Now tell me more about these guns of which you spoke.
Indiana: Laters, Grandad, I've got to go and save Sean Connery.
Knight: Oh, I loved him in The Untouchables.
Indiana: Hang on, I thought you were guarding the Grail for the past seven hundred years. How did you see that film?
Knight: We have cable TV.

Indiana Jones trilogy – Deleted scenes #3
EXT. Village in Mayapore.

Indiana: The Shaman is trying to tell us why the village has died.
Shaman: [In Hindi] Hello. We don't often get visitors.
Indiana: He says that there is a great evil at work here.
Shaman: [In Hindi] You have a funny hat. I like it, though.
Indiana: He says that the evil is coming from Pankot palace and killing his people.
Shaman: [In Hindi] I hate to be the first to tell you this, but your son over there looks Oriental. You should have a few words with your wife here, if you know what I mean.
Indiana: He says that one of the stones which guards this village was taken from them.
Shaman: [In Hindi] Also, you could do with repairing that jacket. It's very tatty.
Indiana: And then, like the monsoon, the darkness moved all over the country.
Shorty: Well, they've been touring Permission to Land for ages now.
Willie: What?
Indiana: Shush. I'm trying to translate.
Shaman: [In Hindi] The blonde looks a bit clueless, doesn't she? Pretty, though, I can see why Spielberg married her.
Indiana: When the sivalinga had been taken, their well dried up.
Shaman: [In Hindi] Are you understanding a word I'm saying?
Indiana: All their animals fell down and died and their crops shrivelled.
Shaman: [In Hindi] You know, I actually auditioned for the role of the Prime Minister, but they said I was too old.
Indiana: The fields would no longer grow any food and they have been starving ever since.
Shaman: [In Hindi] Too old, me? I trained at the RSC, you know. But oh no, do I get the English-speaking parts? No, sir.
Indiana: Then, one night, there was a fire in the fields. The men went to fight it.
Shaman: [In Hindi] All I have to do is jabber in Hindi and get you to do all the translation bits.
Indiana: When the menfolk returned, they found the women crying and all their children gone.
Shaman: [In Hindi] Blah, blah, blah, la la la, rhubarb rhubarb.
Indiana: He wants us to go to Pankot palace, find the sivalinga and end their village's curse.
Shaman: [In Hindi] What the hell are you talking about?
Indiana: Looks like we're going to take a slight detour, sweetheart.
Willie: Oh, no. No, no, no, Jones. You're taking me straight to a phone and a hotel.
Shorty: You call him Doctor Jones.
Willie: Why don't you just get lost, you irritating little …
Indiana: Cool it, I need to speak with the shaman. [In Hindi] Cow running sand otter door fridge.
Shaman: [In Hindi] What? And how did you know the Hindi word for 'fridge'?
Indiana: [In Hindi] Leaf yes river twice Shiva cloud corn.
Shaman: Would you prefer it if I spoke in English?
Indiana: You speak English?
Shaman: Only a little.
Indiana: Why didn't you say?
Shaman: One doesn't like to blow one's own trumpet, you know.
Indiana: Can you get us to Pankot palace?
Shaman: Of course. I'll need to see your driving licence, your insurance documents and a current credit card, then I can show you our available hire cars.
Willie: Mercedes Benz, Mercedes Benz, Indy …
Indiana: Quiet down. What the hell kind of scam are you running here?
Shaman: A very lucrative one. Now, show me the money.

Indiana Jones trilogy – Deleted scenes #1
INT. Northeastern college lecture room.

Brody: Indy, some gentlemen from the Army are here to speak with us.
Indiana: Army?
Brody: Army Intelligence.
Indiana: Nice one.
Brody: Don't do the oxymoron joke again, Indy, I beg you. It's just not funny any more.
Indiana: All right, all right.
Brody: Here they come.

[Two men in bad suits, carrying briefcases enter the room.]

Musgrove: I'm Colonel Musgrove and this is Major Eaton.
Indiana: Hi. What do you want?
Musgrove: We recently intercepted a Nazi communique mentioning your former professor, Abner Ravenwood, and the word 'Tanis'. Can you help us make sense of this?
Brody: Probably a misspelling of 'tennis'.
Eaton: I think not, Dr Brody.
Brody: Worth a go.
Eaton: Tanis, Dr Jones?
Indiana: An Egyptian pharaoh stole the Ark of the Covenant from Jerusalem and took it back to the city of Tanis. A short time later, Tanis was consumed by the desert in a sandstorm that lasted a year. But before that, the Pharaoh had had the Ark hidden away in a secret chamber called the Well of the Souls.
Musgrove: And this Ark does what exactly?
Indiana: Unleashes the power of God.
Musgrove: Okay.
Eaton: Ah.
Brody: Indeed, gentlemen.
Musgrove: Well, you're just going to have to go and get it before the Nazis do. I suggest you get packing.
Indiana: Wait a minute. You have no idea as to the awe and magnitude of the Ark.
Eaton: To be honest, Doctor Jones, we don't care. All we know is that if the Nazis want it, we want it first.
Brody: The playground mentality.
Musgrove: Damn straight, Doctor Brody.
Eaton: I suggest you get in touch with Professor Ravenwood.
Indiana: I haven't seen Abner in ten years. We had a bit of a falling out.
Musgrove: Falling out?
Indiana: Yes.
Musgrove: You mind telling me what that was about?
Indiana: Yes.
Eaton: Come on.
Indiana: I may have accidentally slept with his daughter.
Musgrove: May have?
Indiana: Yes.
Eaton: I'm sorry, Doctor Jones, I'm not quite clear.
Indiana: I was a student of Abner's. I was young, I was at college, Marion was young, she was pretty. We had drinks, things happened, life goes on.
Brody: I think what Indy's saying is that he was really too drunk to know for sure.

[Pause.]

All: [In unison.] It happens.

In wine, truth
There is a small movement in the corner of the room, a place where nothing should be moving. Sophie can't see the movement but she can hear and almost feel it. She wants to find out what it is, but doesn't want to get out of bed and switch the light on. She inches her hand from under the bedclothes towards her watch to see the time, untangling her arm from where her t-shirt has ridden up around her shoulders. Oh, great. She has to get up for work in two hours.

It was a bit of a night last night. Although this seems reassuringly logical, it was anything but. Stopping at Bradley's Spanish Bar to meet an old school friend for one, maybe two drinks had resulted in an impromptu bar crawl around Soho. Various friends had been summoned into central London at short notice and an hour of catching up and gossiping mutated into an entire evening staggering from bar to bar and an expensive black cab journey back to her flat.

Another small movement in the corner of the room. It had better not be a mouse.

Sophie tries to ignore it, instead attempting to remember if anything bad had happened last night. She recalls that she and the girls had been asked to leave one of the pubs near Carnaby Street for singing too loudly and because Jen went behind the bar to mix her own cocktails. Rachel had tried to persuade them all to go out to a place she knew in Angel but everyone shouted her down because they all knew she meant the Walkabout, and she only wanted to go because she fancies about three of the bar staff.

She remembers walking down to Leicester Square and she remembers Laura losing her purse. Although she knows that she didn't call anyone last night, Sophie has the horrible, sinking feeling that she texted Ben late last night and invited him out with the girls. Mistake. Mustn't call Ben any more. She can't quite recall the contents of the message, but knows that Jen stole her phone at one point. Perhaps it would be a good idea to ring him. No. Check the sent messages memory of her phone first, just in case. Yes. First of all, try to get back to sleep. Definitely.

Turning onto her side, Sophie puts her arm under the pillow and drags the duvet over her head. Sleep. Please sleep. I order you to fall asleep right now. No, right now. After a few minutes of commanding herself to sleep and remaining resolutely awake, Sophie knows she has to get up. Get rid of the mouse, go to the toilet, get a glass of water (her mouth is, unsurprisingly, very dry), try to get an hour's nap before getting up for work. In that order.

Just as she takes her first step out of bed, she trips and falls into her beanbag. Small objects roll and scatter across the carpet. So that's where I left my handbag. Stumbling across to the light switch, she hears the movement again. She imagines that she can feel small feet scampering across towards her bare feet. She turns on the main light and sees nothing out of the ordinary. Yesterday's shirt, bra and jeans are still where they were when she threw them off last night. She can see one shoe and hopes that the other one is in the hallway.

The movement was in the area where her jeans are currently crumpled. There are mud stains at the bottom of the right leg, which is unusual because Sophie doesn't remember walking through puddles or through a park. But then her memory is a little hazy about last night. Shaking her hair out of her eyes, she goes over to the jeans and, counting down slowly from three, picks them up and throws them across the room in an attempt to dislodge the mouse.

There is no mouse.

There is, however, a mobile phone with the envelope icon flashing insistently at her. Sophie sighs in exasperation, picks up the phone, switches off the light and goes back to bed. She clicks through the various options to read messages and sees that the first message is exactly what she half-hoped wouldn't happen. Ben.

The view from here
You wore a long overcoat with the belt tightly wrapped around your waist, tied rather than buckled. You had expensive shoes, though I always forget where you got them. Around your neck and shoulders is a scarf you found on the market stall I showed you. Though it's cold and I'm wearing cheap gloves, you're warm enough not to need them. Your cheeks are faintly pink from walking against the wind.

I first saw you sitting in a coffee shop with a newspaper. You retrieved a small notebook and pen from a handbag which was overflowing. It had clearly been resewn and repatched countless times, and I later found out that you had bought it from a street vendor a few streets away from the Trevi fountain on your only trip to Italy. You had finished reading the paper and were thinking about what to write in your book.

I know that the notebook is many things for you. Tickets, flyers and stickers poke out from between the curling corners of pages, each one inspiring you to tell a story of a journey, a gig or a performance. Small ads cut out from the Camden New Journal are still there from your flat hunt last year and you haven't bothered to throw them away. Postcards from friends and blank ones bought on the street or from museums nestle with unused foreign stamps and old bus tickets.

In a way it doesn't matter what I said when I sat down at your table. I can't remember the words – you knew but you never told me – and I don't really need to remember. We talked, you bought me a coffee because I had already admitted that I didn't get paid for another few days, we talked some more, you stole one of my cigarettes when you thought I wasn't looking, and we exchanged telephone numbers.

I didn't call you, and you didn't call me, for a week. When we met up again, you accused me of behaving like Vince Vaughn in Swingers. In truth, I was more like Jon Favreau but I didn't want you to know how pathetic I was. I had memorised your number within half an hour of leaving the coffee shop and it had taken all my will not to dial the number. Later in the conversation, I admitted as much and you laughed without stopping for a full five minutes, though you held my hand while you mocked me. I didn't mind.

You have more social grace than I do. You're better at parties and functions, and even my brother noticed the first time he met you. You got on with him and his girlfriend immediately and easily, making them fall slightly in love with you. Although pleased, I felt faintly jealous. You never use my name when we're alone, preferring familiarities like 'darling' and 'dear'. I tease you that you've forgotten my name. You pretend to write it down so you won't forget it again.

We don't talk of love, we're much too shy. We talk of plans and newspaper articles and songs and memories and family and books. I wonder whether we'll be like this next week or next month, but I can't work out how to say it in case I scare you. Even if it all ends tomorrow, I'll have the sound of your laugh, the pressure of your hand upon mine and the dark flash of your eyes committed to memory forever. Though I don't think it will end tomorrow.

It's cold today, and I'm no forecaster, but I think things will get even better. It's looking good.