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| The first few pages of Part Ten |
| This is Jim. He is a computer professional living and working in the
UK. This is his home. It is nothing special. A typical house, in a typical
street, in a typical town. But Jim was having rather a bad day. He had
just lost his job. The bottom had fallen out of the telecommunication industry.
And the rats were laying off staff. Rather than leaving the sinking ship.
Jim did not mind losing his job. He had never really liked it anyway. It
had taken Jim three hours to travel to work. When he had finally arrived,
he had an important e-mail waiting for him. It was from his manager. Who
was in America. On a fact finding course. It said that he had been given
a month's statutory notice. And that a formal letter was in the post. His
manager suggested that today could be his last day. Provided he wrote a
comprehensive hand-over document. Jim wrote the document within the hour.
He had then spent the rest of the day banging his head against his desk.
His three colleagues had read the same e-mail message, two hours earlier.
They had promptly disappeared, along with their laptop computers and anything
else that was not nailed down. The whole office had been silent all day.
Apart from the thudding of Jim's skull against his desk. Nobody wanted
to speak. The people who were left, were the ones who had kept their jobs.
Or who had been stupid enough to work the rest of the day. Jim was in this
last category.
Jim left work at five. It had taken Jim two hours to get back home. This was nothing new. It had once taken him an hour to travel around one junction of the M25 and half an hour just to leave a retail car park. Jim had discovered on many occasions that travelling in the UK was now a recognised form of sadistic torture. The police traffic camera's were there only for entertainment. Jim would have liked to have worked close to his home. But most companies preferred to employ people who lived at least five miles from their office's. This was because Human Resources thought it made the employee's more punctual and easier to dismiss. On Jim's way home. He had added several tooth marks to his cars steering wheel. However, he had managed to get home without causing the death or injury of any other road users. This was despite being under-took. Over-took and then pulled in on. Tooted at for driving too slow. Flashed at for driving too fast. And pulled in front of at a mini roundabout. Jim had negotiated all this daily turmoil. With the added bonus of being made redundant. And without any major incidents. Only to discover, when he got home, that his home was empty. Both his wife and his son had gone. His wife had left a note saying that she was tired of living in a loveless marriage. And that she was at her brothers thinking things through. Jim had looked at the calendar. It was not April Fools day. It was not even April. Jim had, at that point. Had enough. Something inside his mind snapped. Jim whispered softly to himself. 'I am a good father. I am a good husband. And I am a good worker. I don't complain. I am not nasty. And I always do my best'. Jim screwed the note up. 'But this is not good enough. Is it? Life is determined to drag me down'. There he sat. In the fading light. Clutching the scrunched up note from his wife. Starring at the floor. In silence. In the cold. Without a thought in his mind. In total and utter shock. That was where he would have remained. Had he not noticed a tick-tocking coming from his CD player. His wife had left it on. And it was still spinning the disc that she had listened to. Jim switched it off. He paused for a second. Then he switched the CD player back on. He ejected the disc. He took it out. He looked at it. 'Sting?' he thought. 'Mr mantra sex himself'. Jim looked at the cover for the disc. 'Set me free' he said to himself. 'Set me free. You are the one who has enslaved me to an existence of work. Work. And more work. And look where it has gotten us?'. Jim put the disc back in its case and then put it back into his wife's CD rack. 'So. What else have you been listening to' he thought. Jim turned on the light and looked down the shelf. The CD's were mainly mood and love compilations. With some pop artist albums. 'There was a time when I knew all of her musical tastes' Jim thought to himself. 'But not now'. Jim sighed. 'Soul to Soul? When did we last have time for doing anything romantic. For that matter. When did we last feel like doing anything remotely romantic?'. Jim felt ill. He sat down on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling.
'I need food' he said to himself. Jim stood up and walked into the kitchen.
He switched on the light and then walked over to the fridge. He poured
himself a pint of diet D&B and then opened the fridge. 'Bugger all
in there' he said out loud. He picked up the bottle of D&B and carried
it, and his glass into the front room. He put them both on the floor. Next
to the sofa. 'B&J!' he exclaimed. 'That's what I need'. He went back
into the kitchen and opened the freezer. He rummaged about and pulled out
a tub of ice cream, as if it was a free gift. 'Come here me beauty. You
are for the eating. And I am for the consuming' he said to himself. He
pulled a teaspoon from the cutlery draw and walked back into the front
room. He sat down and began to gobble all the ice cream up. Jim could eat
whole buckets of ice cream and did so regularly. When he was finished he
took a large swig of D&B. Then belched. 'B&J followed by D&B'
he said out loud. 'All I need now is some funky music. And all of my worries
are gone. Yeah!'. Jim stood up and walked over to his CD rack. Jim put
on his deepest voice. 'Come here you funky fat boy. It's time to see if
you still have a dip in your hip. And a glide in your stride'. Jim looked
down at his CD's. 'Then come onto the mothership!'. Jim pulled out his
George Clinton CD's. 'Well. If you can't funk to that!' he squealed 'Then
you can't funk'.
Jim had put on a lot of weight over the years. He had not bothered to exercise. Because he did not have the time. His main aim was to make as much money as he could. He had come to that decision some ten years earlier. Money is the key to end all your woes. This was a quote from the Run DMC album that had stuck in his mind. Jim used rap music like other people used books. To obtain information. Jim had grown up in London. He had gone to an inner London comprehensive. His school friends had said that it had been a life altering experience. This was because it was not the best place to gain an education. Jim had fought against the odds. He had made it all the way to University. He had managed to study for a real degree, a science degree. A degree in physics. He did not pretend to be good at it. If he had wanted to excel at his degree he would had done chemistry. But he was interested in physics, and the general working of the World. Jim had taught himself about the hip hop culture. He had tried to rap.
He had tried break dance. He had even tried DJ-ing. With some success.
Although. He was no Mr Magic. While at University he had tasted freedom.
He had stayed in student accommodation for two years, on a full grant.
When Jim was at University, they did full grants. Jim was now thirty five.
George Clinton and the mob made Jim feel good. They always had. They allowed him to escape from his troubled life. They reminded him that life was about being yourself and feeling free. Jim poured himself another pint of D&B. He drank it down in one go. Then belched. 'E-X-C-U-S-E ME!' he shouted. He put his hand to his mouth. 'Did I say that?' he said to himself. 'They must be mixing sherbet with D&B these days'. Jim continued to wiggle along to the music. Jim did not know it. But he was working himself up into a delusional frenzy. Nobody had ever told Jim not to mix D&B with B&J, and then funk. The end results were going to be outrageous. Jim continued to display his total lack of fitness to himself. He even
attempted to break dance. And do the doo. Whatever the doo is? Jim tried
to sing along to the songs. Even though he did not remember the lyrics.
Really he should have. Because he had listened to them so often. When the
music finally stopped, Jim had consumed the whole bottle of D&B and
shaken his butt so much that it felt like it was about to drop off. He
lay on the floor. Exhausted and tired. With his arms and legs stretched
out. In a star formation. Staring full at the ceiling. Throbbing to the
rhythm of a funk induced high. 'Boy that was fun' he thought to himself.
'What's next?'. Jim stood up and wandered over to the CD rack. His stomach
squelched as he bent over to take a look at the CD's. He pulled out his
recently acquired Secret Weapon CD. Secret Weapon were a band from the
early Eighties. They were one of the early disco rap bands. Their album.
Must Be The Music. Was not available to Jim when he had first heard them.
But he had recently discovered it, on an Internet web site and ordered
it from the states. Along with his other selection. Sun's Greatest Hits.
By the band Sun. 'Secret Weapon' Jim said to himself. 'Must be the music
alright. I am on a natural high. Or something?'. Jim removed the P-Funk
CD's from the player. Carefully placing them back into their cases. He
then inserted the two new CD's. Jim put one finger into the air. 'Ah-one-Ah-Two.
Ah-One-Two-Three' he whispered. And the music began. He sang along to the
first track. 'Must be the music. It's turning me on'.
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