Have we been Pep-a-ruined?

 

       He led Chelsea to The Double, so we fired him.

Welcome to Chelsea Anonymous.

My name is Charlie and I’m a Chelsea Fan.

As Chelsea fans we are used being tested, tormented and tortured. We suffer because along the way we celebrate, win more than any other London team (pretty much all of them combined!) or play incredible creative exciting football and lose with honour. Or Costa.

Watching the last two games with Young Richard, over 100 years of True Blue between us, we both felt as low as we ever have as Chelsea fans.

We don’t care if we lose, as long as we play with passion. We know there are as many downs as ups; that the notorious midwinter Chelsea ‘Bad Moment’, as coined by our greatest ever manager (himself Ancelotti The Eyebrow), can last for two months; that being a Chelsea fan is worrying often if the team will turn up.

But this bunch of young exciting talented players are pretty much the same crew who were blowing teams away before Christmas. I was in shock at how quickly Maresca gelled us into an attacking unit that scored for fun, from all over the pitch.

That - as we know - is how you win titles. And when I say titles, I don’t mean the foreign manager description of the Community Shield.

I mean Premierships.
The league.
League Division One in the old money.

A mere four months ago we were fearless, focused and - but for the lack of a mature striker, a fit Fofana and the return of Petrovic  - as good as I could hope for.

So what happened? Some ideas: not even opinion. Just trying to make sense of this drivel we’re playing.

No leadership. We look clueless, but Maresca is a great tactician, so I’m sure there is a plan. If we’re not executing it then somebody on the pitch must make it happen.

Nobody’s shouting or pointing out there. Nobody's taking charge on the pitch. Young players without a mature mix, desperate for a kick up the backside during games.

What happened to change our season? Well, Maresca played to type, a mini-Pep, and started playing Moisés Caicedo at right back, inverting with possession.

All very clever, two shapes for when you have and haven’t the ball. Mind-blowing when introduced by Pep years ago, but now teams know how to exploit it, so don’t do it.

Anyway, Moises is the best Midfield Destroyer since St. Claude ‘Wot Moi?’ of Makelele, so leave him at the neck of the spine to bite like a vampire.

Stop tinkering with the centre backs and goalie. That triangular three is the rhythm section of all great teams, so choose and stick, as much as injury allows. Then everyone knows their job and players start to trust each other.

Anyone in goal but Sanchez or Kepa. Bring Petrovic home from loan. If it ain’t broke blah blah blah. He did well enough last year.

I know Fofana is injured, Disaster’s out on loan, Badiashile turned out to be an anagram of his name and yuk, it’s ugly, but choose and stick.

The reason our defence has been so shite is that nobody feels safe in their position. Play there every week. Tackled by Terry. Cleared by Carvalho. Allow it to evolve.

A hedge fund doesn’t change its spots. In this world of bottom lines and pure profit, fans are clients and academy players a commodity.

It’s never going to change but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Excel will always be more important than Footballing Excellence, yet we fans know that academy players will put in the extra 7 minutes after a long bruising 90, to win with the team they love.

Watching a True Blue play for the first team transports us fans down onto the pitch. It's an empathy exchange that clings to the core of club loyalty.

Elephant in the room: how do you spend over £1bn and fail to buy a viable striker? If a frustrated wasted miserable Ice Cole has to masquerade as a false 9 again, he’ll be off to Real Madrid come the Summer, before you can say “Buy-Out Clause.”

Finally, in that vein, don’t give players eight year contracts. Alongside large salaries it makes them unaffordable to other teams, thereby removing jeopardy from their status as Chelsea players.

A goal up after 20 minutes and they think they've done enough. They’re under contract for another 6 years. Crazy and then some.

So have we been Pep-a-ruined by our very own Guardiola clone? 

Tinkered from simple success to complex catastrophe?

How long is this season's ‘moment’ going to be?

©Charlie Adley

18.02.2025

She was golden kindness on legs!

“If you’ve got power back tomorrow I’ll drive over to you. If my power’s back I’ll meet you off the usual bus tomorrow afternoon. One way or another we’ll watch the match together.”

“Sounds like a plan, Stan. Cool. Talk tomorrow morning then, bruv. Cheers.”

Next day I’m calling him from the chilled darkness of my electricity-free home.

“Hi. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Straight to voicemail.
Bugger.

Same an hour later.
Double bugger.

Didn’t know what to do.
Brain not functioning after such a cold night.
I needed heat inside me.

The wind had eased, but world outside was frozen solid, so after chiselling my way into Joey SX, I drove him through a snowy icy North Mayo, in search of a cooked breakfast.

In a pub near Ballina they bought to me a large pot of strong hot sweet tea, which arrived at my shivering core with the pleasure and power of an illegal drug.

After two eggs, two rashers, two sausages, black and white, beans and toast, I tried calling my mate again.

“Hi. Leave a message and I’ll -"

Then I sent a text, saying if I didn’t hear from him, I’d drive to his gaff (an hour away in Co. Roscommon), ‘cos my spare room was like an igloo, whereas his sofa bed was by the stove in his cosy living room.

I’d be warmer at his place without power than he would be at mine.

Yeh but no but, ‘cos I’d no way of knowing if he'd seen any texts or heard any messages.

What to do?
Where to go?

No point driving through that dangerous winterscape, all the way to his town, only to find he’d already jumped on the bus to Ballina.

I’d have to meet that bus, just in case he was on it.

The 22 bus comes from Dublin Airport, stopping at 5,379 towns and villages on its merry way. It was due at 14:16 (not 14:15, oh no) but even on a good day, I know from experience, it arrives at least 20 minutes late.

You’d think that this mélange of knowledge and experience might cocktail into some wisdom, but sadly we can’t escape who we are.

Even though I’ve lived in Ireland for 33 years, I’m still very English, and can’t arrive late for anything. I pulled into the tiny lay-by outside the bus station at 14:10, and sat in Joey, watching the drab damp world progress outside.

The sky was as dark as daylight allows. The freezing wind smashed huge wet snowflakes onto the windscreen.

After an hour I ran the engine to get some heat into the car. As I defrosted I suddenly and urgently needed to go to the loo. Zipping up my coat I headed out into into the weather.

Bloomin' heck! Before I made it into the bus station, that wind cut clean through my layers of weatherproof clothing, pierced my own fatty cladding, slashing shards of ice onto my innards.

Relieved, a few minutes later I came out to see another car had squeezed into the lay-by behind Joey. Drawing level I glimpsed through the window a middle-aged woman in the driver’s seat, texting.

Without hesitation I knocked on her window and asked if she was waiting for the 22 bus, and if so, was she texting someone on board?

Despite the freezing cold wind smashing into her face, she wound down her window and smiled as she explained that yes, she was. Apparently the bus was crawling along at two miles an hour, and was only in Swinford now.

Thanking her profusely I climbed back in Joey SX, wondering for the umpteen-kabillionth time how lovely the people are, here in the West of Ireland.

It is of course possible that an English person might’ve responded with the same warmth, care and smile, but equally it’s very likely that, had I asked them to lower their window and enquired whether they were waiting for the 22, the response would've been something along the lines of 

“What’s it to you? Fuck off and mind your own business.”

Half an hour later I heard doors thumping, and saw through my rear window two young people climbing into her car.

Had I somehow missed the bus arriving? No, even given the appalling conditions, I’d’ve seen a whacking great bright red Bus Eireann Expressway coach turning into the station.

Nearby, other people were walking past, rolling their suitcases and carrying backpacks.

What was going on?

Behind me her car was now full, and I expected her to drive off, but instead she climbed out of her warm dry environment and walked over to Joey, tapping on his window.

“The bus broke down half a mile down the road, so your friend should be here any minute."

“Oh right. Broke down? Bloody hell! Thanks so much for letting me know. I was wondering what was going on.”

“All the best. Stay safe, now.”

And she was gone…

I waited a short while longer, and then climbed out to look down the road. Nobody in sight, but I’d hate to drive off now and miss him, after waiting an hour and three quarters.

But no. He wasn’t there.

Off I headed, back to my cold dark home, only to find - yippedy dippedy dingle dongle dooooo!!!! - the power was back on, and bliss: light and cheer and whiskey followed.

We won’t talk about the football, but that woman and her kindness stayed in my head.

She could’ve simply driven off, but instead she decided to venture from the warmth and safety of her car to tell a stranger what was going on.

In the majestic order of the universe, it might look like an insignificant gesture, but not to me.

She walked through that cold wet wind, just to tell me about the bus. She didn’t have to, but she wanted to.

Now, instead of remembering a wasted miserable wait and an absent friend, I’m thinking only of a golden beam of kindness on legs. Her humanity shone through the coldest of wet afternoons.

I’m so glad I live here. The weather is a challenge, but the strangers are the finest.


©Charlie Adley
26.01.2025

A tale of two Santas - and two buckets of Jewish generosity!

Many thanks to zazzle.co.uk

Snow fell onto the sodium-lit London street outside my Rats Alley flat. 

 

The Winter of 1986 was so cold the water in my loo froze over. All down my road, cracked toilets bowls lay dumped outside the flats, like rejected Christmas presents.

Chris and I sat in my living room for hours, staring at each other in silence, hunched against the old plastic sofas, wrapped in layers of clothing and blankets.

 

Broke.

 

Utterly boracic and lint: skint, the pair of us, with only two days to go until Christmas.

“Hey Charlie, have you got any old whiskey bottles?”

 

“Yeh, there’s two empties in the kitchen. Why?”

 

“Aha! Bring them to me, and get out that fan heater you hide in your bedroom. We’ll have a drink yet!”

Ten minutes later, we were lying on our bellies, eyes at carpet level, watching whiskey seemingly appear from nowhere. 

 

Chris had stood the two empty bottles in front of the fan heater, which was running at full blast. The heat from the fan was hitting the cold glass, thereby condensing the holy juice out of the bottle. 

 

Where before there was nothing, we suddenly had a couple of inches of Christmas Cheer. 

 

So we did.

“Yay! Nice work mate! Happy Christmas to you and your cunning ways! You’re a bloomin’ genius!” I exclaimed.

The phone rang. It was my landlord, who also owned the shop below my flat. He was sorry to ask at such short notice, but he wondered if I wanted to earn some cash? And did I know anyone else who needed some too?

Did I?

He explained that the shop owners of the street were looking for a couple of guys to stand outside dressed as Santa Claus. They would be collecting money for the Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital.

“Sure, yeh, 'course we can do that!” I told him, “But how can you pay us if we’re collecting for a charity? We wouldn’t stoop so low as to take money from the sick kiddies!”

He explained that our presence was going to attract punters to his shop, one way or another.

Well, fair enough then. More than fair, but just one more thing. This was Golders Green, at that time the most Jewish suburb in North London. 

 

How kindly were the locals going to take to Father Christmas?

“Well, he was Jewish, wasn’t he?” came the inscrutable, irrefutable reply.

Yes, Jesus was born, lived and died a Jew. 1,986 years later, in the tiny back room of a shop in frozen London, Chris and I were falling about laughing as we tried on our costumes. 

 

We were unsure if Santa was meant to be naked underneath his regalia, but the freezing air settled our minds on that issue.

Somehow, fitting the tights over our jeans felt more than a little Superman-ish, but the beard was another matter entirely. 

 

It got up my nose, tickled my lips, and after a minute or two of breathing, returned to my senses the less-than delightful scent of the previous night’s Rogan Josh.

And so, out onto the streets, followed by a gaggle of giggling girly shop assistants.

 

“Cor! Look at those two sex bombs!”

 

“Yeh, don’t fancy yours much though!”

We asked the boss if it wasn’t a little excessive having two Santas out there together, but once again, his answer was beyond reason.

“Most places they get one, so in Golders Green, they get two!”

Chris and I started to shake our buckets, trying to catch a generous eye. People were ready and eager to give. Great Ormond Street Children’s hospital was a cause that crossed the barriers of race and religion, although I felt a little saddened to have to treat a hospital like a charity.

We had been provided with bags of lollipops, which we were meant to give to sweet little kiddies who came up to us. 

 

Unfortunately, (or maybe most fortunately) children are trained to stay away from strange men bearing candy. The combination of my costume, and the ultra-deep voice I adopted for my role seemed to scare the hell out of the wee darlings.

All it took was “Hellow lickle girlie! Do you want a lollipop?” and I was instant pervert, children scurrying away to hide behind their parents, safe from the nasty red man.

Suddenly, off in the distance, we heard a strange commotion. Two police cars were creeping slowly down the street, followed by a massive demonstration by Hassidic Jews, they who sport the long hair curls, blue raincoats and big floppy velvet hats.

Hundreds of them were marching down the Golders Green Road, carrying placards written in Hebrew. Chris and I stepped back to watch this strangest of sights unfold, and then all of a sudden, it dawned on me that each and every one of them was a potential punter.

Leaping into the fray, I frantically shook my collection bucket. Each side of me, every which way, hats, raincoats and beards glided past, the marchers temporarily blinded by my flash of scarlet ripple in their ocean of dark blue.

I felt I was inside a roll of Pathé News film, and was sorely tempted simply to savour the moment, but there was work to be done.

“Cough up for the kiddies! Great Ormond Street Hospital needs your help! Dig deep!’”

Dig they did. Hands reached into pockets, coppers started flying into the bucket, followed by silver coins and then notes. 

 

To my left wallets were hurriedly opened, to my right a passing beard, a glance of spectacles, everywhere hands putting notes into the bucket, fivers, tenners, twenties. 

 

It was wonderful to stand there and watch them give wads of cash; enough to bring a tear to my eye.

 

There was no question of Old or New Testament here, just a river of raincoats on a mission from God.

 

Two full buckets, a happy shopkeeper, and two very merry Santas in the pub that Christmas Eve.

 

May your God be with you.

 

©Charlie Adley

22.12.2024

 

 

One day I discovered I was a success!

Thanks to caricatures-ireland.com

In 2003 I was incredibly down on myself. The emotions I needed to write the novel were too raw; too painful to access.

As I complained in my journal at the time, it felt like grabbing hold of shards of glass.

Feeling like a failure as a writer, I sat at the kitchen table listening to the radio, where a woman was talking about people who live off their writing.

She said that at that time there were less than 30 people in Europe who were making their entire living by writing whatever they wanted.

My head rose from its downward stare to soak up the sunlight coming through the window. My spirit made a similar journey.

That’s exactly what I was doing. I was one of those less-than-30 people.

I had my Double Vision column in the Connacht and City Tribunes, and my Diary of a Blow-In column was running in the Irish Examiner. The features editor of the Irish Examiner used everything I sent him.

I’d had a good few features published in the Irish Times and the inestimable Martin Doyle was then editor of the Irish Post in the UK, and he was buying my features regularly.

Living in a lovely farmhouse in North Mayo, paying €80 a month rent I was clearing over 400 quid a week (a fair wad 20 years ago) by scribbling exactly what I wanted for all those different publications.

When people described me as a journalist I didn’t want to seem like a pretentious prat, but I never felt like a journalist, because I never wrote a news story.

I wrote exactly what I wanted, the way I wanted to. When I went on holiday to Greece, I wrote about my holiday to Greece. If I went to Galway and got drunk, I wrote about going to get drunk in Galway.

When the government pissed me off I wrote about that, and if I sat on my back step and watched the clouds and the birds, I wrote about clouds and birds, and sold the piece.

Far from a failure, I realised I was a privileged and successful writer. My work was pure pleasure. 

For 27 years my scribbling paid the rent, but there’s more to life than rent, so below is a list that I’ve been updating all my life, never really thinking I would use it.

As you read the list you will think ‘Oh my God, he’s milking every single opportunity!’ and that's exactly right. This is not a list of all my jobs.

This is a list of every single way I’ve earned money over the decades. Here’s the story of what this scribbler did to get by.

What are not listed are the thousands of freebies I (and every other writer) wrote for friends, colleagues, and anyone who asked for a little favour. 

1 - Unloading trucks, London
2 - Handyman/Driver, London
3 - Bakery Cleaner, London
4 - Santa Claus, London
5 - Envelope stuffer, London
6 - Transporting models to catwalk, London
7 - Children’s tutor, London and Bradford
8 - Lift operative, Harley Street surgery
9 - Photocopier marketer, London
10 - Barman. The Gate, Northwood
11 - PR, Equestrian Statues, London
12 - Roadie, Equestrian Statues, London
13 - Record shop assistant, Record Fayre, London
14 - Newspaper game designer, London
15 - Community Letter writer, London
16 - Sales Incentive Game designer, London
17 - Sales Recruiter, London
18 - Sales trainer, London
19 - Gardener, London
20 - Magazine distributor, London
21 - Car Washer, London
22 - Market Researcher, London
23 - Cardboard factory sales, London
24 - Truck Hire Administrator, London
25 - Snow Clearer, London
26 - Babysitter, London
27 - Video Shop manager, London
28 - Milkman’s Assistant, London
29 - Unistrut Worker, London
30 - Gas Station attendant, London
31 - Domestic cleaner, London
32 - Squash Club manager, London
33 - Meat truck driver, London
34 - Warehouse worker, London
35 - Industrial cleaners salesman, Cambridge
36 - Barman, The Mill, Cambridge
37 - Roadie, Perfect Vision, Cambridge
38 - Columnist, Freebase Kevin, Cambridge/Galway
39 - Venue manager/Kiosk attendant, Bradford
40 - Barman, The Biko Bar, Bradford
41 - Laundry worker, Bradford
42 - Barman, The Peel, Bradford
43 - Car Telesales, Bradford
44 - Beer festival organiser, Bradford
45 - Student Residence Cleaner, Bradford
46 - Pizza chef, Bradford
47 - Cinema advertising Sales, South-West England
48 - Paxo Stuffing Roadshow driver, touring
49 - Glass manufacturers stand operative, touring
50 - Car detailer, Melbourne, Australia
51 - Kitchen Porter, Kinsale, Ireland
52 - Flyer’s deliverer, Galway
53 - Columnist, Pink O’Bum - Galway
54 - Columnist, Lionel's Labours Lost, Galway
55 - Columnist, Andy Prince - Galway
56 - Youth Worker, Bethany, Galway    
57 - Youth Worker, Mon an Oige, Galway
58 - Youth Worker, Crisis Drop - in Centre, Galway
59 - Mail room worker, San Francisco
60 - Café bookkeeper, San Francisco
61 - Shelf-builder, San Francisco
62 - Document puller, San Francisco
63 - Accounts assistant, San Francisco
64 - Receptionist/Telephonist, San Francisco

65 - Escrow Assistant, San Francisco
66 - File clerk, San Francisco
67 - Receptionist, Architect’s office, San Francisco
68 - Assistant to the Dean, University of San Francisco
69 - Receptionist, Family Mosaic, San Francisco
70 - Receptionist, Allied Digital Technologies, San Francisco
71 - Administrator, University of San Francisco
72 - Receptionist, Engineering Office, San Francisco
73 - Mail distributor, Goldman Sachs, San Francisco
74 - Assistant, Law Office of Donna Brorby, San Francisco
75 - Assistant to Real Estate Appraiser, Santa Rosa
76 - Telephonist, NA Mortgage Company, Santa Rosa
77 - Receptionist, Donald Judd, CPA., Santa Rosa
78 - Rewrite editor, Jim Boulden, Cyberspace
79 - Claim expediter, State Farm Insurance, Rohnert Park
80 - HR Assistant, Homecoming Financial, Petaluma
81 - Construction labourer, Pacific Heights, San Francisco
82 - Shipping clerk, Kendall Jackson Winery, Santa Rosa
83 - Company Secretary, Monterey Import, Cotati
84 - Columnist, ‘Addled Impressions’, Galway City Tribune
85 - Geriatric care worker, Taylors Hill, Galway
86 - Fundraising consultant, NUI Galway
87 - Age Action Charity Shop Manager, Galway
88 - Arts Festival Crew, Galway
89 - Feature writer, Magpie Magazine, Ireland
90 - Cleaner, Bellissimo, Galway
91 - Feature writer, Irish Post, U.K.
92 - Cleaner, Nimmo’s Wine Bar, Galway
93 - Minority Sports interviews, Irish Examiner
94 - Diary of a Blow-in Column, Irish Examiner
95 - Fish farm, Palmerstown, Killala
96 - Feature writer, Irish Examiner ‘Bricks and Mortar’
97 - Tutor to autistic child, Crossmolina, Co. Mayo
98 - Feature writer, Irish Examiner weekend supplement
99 - Copywriter, Target Communications, Barcelona
100 - Feature writer, Irish Examiner weddings supplement
101 - E-zine writer, Target Communications, Barcelona
102 - Off Licence Worker, Ballina, Co. Mayo
103 - Wine Shop worker, Salthill, Galway
104 - Youth Worker, Ballybane Traveller Youth Project
105 - Columnist, ‘Double Vision’, Connacht Tribune
106 - Youth Worker, Salthill Traveller Youth Project
107 - Feature writer, Irish Times health supplement
108 - Craft of Writing teacher, Killala, Co. Mayo
109 - Craft of Writing teacher, Galway Arts Centre
110 - Craft of Writing teacher, 1-1, Salthill, Galway
111 - Craft of Writing teacher, Westside Community Centre
112 - Craft of Writing teacher, Co.Tipperary

 

Don't think they'll all go on my CV.

“What’s the deal with the arm thing, dude?”

Thanks as always to Allan Cavanagh at Caricatures Ireland

  

I saw a ghost, but it was only frightening later.

On a late Somerset Summer’s evening in 1977, my friend Bruce Wallace and I were stumbling back to the farm from the village pub.

Towering hedgerows are a feature of England's Arcadian south-west, so the narrow lane was shaded as dusk. Before the road curved toward the farmyard, there was a gap in the hedge, looking across to gentle river and the little stone bridge.

Sunlight hit us through the gap, and we both turned our heads toward it, where we saw a tall uniformed man, standing by the bridge.

As the hedgerows returned, we lost sight of the man, who was gone before we crossed the bridge ourselves.

It was an entirely unremarkable encounter. Doubtless the farmer and his wife had taken in more guests. The farm was listed in several guide books, so later, when the new arrival failed to turn up for dinner, I asked John the farmer who he was.

John turned his tanned creased handsome face to me.

“By the bridge was he?”

“Yes, in some kind of army uniform.”

“Ah, that’d be my granddad. He likes to stand by the bridge.”

“No, couldn’t be him. This bloke was youngish, in his 20s I’d say.”

Flicking his pitch black fringe out of his eyes, his deep Somerset accent betrayed nothing but nonchalance.

“Flat hat?”

“Yep.”

"Arr, that’d be him. Went off to the Somme. Tends to pop up around this time of year. Always loved standing by that bridge. More spuds?”

Hunching our shoulders, staring wide-eyed across the table, Bruce and I made stupid faces and went “Bleeeeeaaaayyyyaaarrr!”  at each other, allowing comical shivers to run through our bodies.

To our hosts, raised and steeped in folklore and mysticism, it all seemed perfectly reasonable. In the memorable words of Dr. Who, it was nought but a “...timey wimey jumbly wumbly thing.”

A proud atheist-pantheist mutant, I accept wholeheartedly that there is much to the universe we cannot see. We sense so little compared to other animals, it’s clear there’s more to life and death than we can perceive.

One encounter truly spooked me. 20 years ago I was living in a fine old North Mayo farmhouse.

When you live alone, in a house off the road, deep in the countryside, you simply cannot allow yourself to feel in any way spooked out.

So when friends told me about the warm and friendly vibe they felt in my home, I felt slightly less worried about the arm that came through the bathroom window.

There was no point mentioning it to anyone. Why would I scare others?

Talking about it might make it more real in my head too, that long male arm, clad in a red-checked shirt, reaching through the window behind me, as I sat vulnerable on the loo.

The hairy wrist, the forearm that tried to strangle me as it pulled on my throat…

Just my imagination, running away with me.

Sing it, Charlie.
Forget the horror.
Think of the song.

I successfully ignored the recurring apparition for years, mentoning it to nobody, until my friend from Canada came to stay.

As he walked into the living room after a visit to the loo, he turned to me.

“What’s the deal with the arm thing, dude?”

“What arm thing?”

“The arm, man! The red chequered shirt, hairy wrist thing that just tried to strangle me in the bathroom.”

Oh poop. Buggeroo and buggeration. That’s torn it.

“Oh that arm!” I said, as nonchalantly as possible. “Yeh, I don’t know. I decided that I’d just invented it. I mean, there might be ghosts in this house, it’s old enough, but the bathroom and kitchen are brand new builds, so I can’t see how there’d be a ghost there. And anyway, there’s way too big a gap between the window and the loo. Nobody could have arms that long.”

“Sure they could. Before I came in here I walked round the house and checked and hey, from outside you can reach anything sitting on that toilet!”

“No! No you can’t! Even if you can, I have to believe you can’t, just so I can live here in peace.”

“Sorry dude."

Silence fell upon us, as I desperately tried to come up with a solution that would allow me to live a terror-free life in my home. Thankfully my friend was ahead of me.

“Hey, man, I got it! Look at my shirt. It’s the same damn shirt on that arm that came in the window! I think what you saw was just a manifestation of me trying it out just now, and I picked up on the scary vibe you created, and thought I was being strangled by… by…by my own goddamn arm! Now that’s spooky You must have some powerful creativity, man!”

“Either me or you!” I retorted, as the two of us sat, avoiding eye contact, each knowing that the truth lay elsewhere.

The wonders of the Cosmos are truly awesome, as in ‘worthy of awe’, rather than ‘awesome frappaccino.’

Good luck over Halloween and remember: your brain is the scariest weapon in the universe!




©Charlie Adley
31.10.2024