Ground Force by Gary Lashmar

(A Marshal Gray Tale)
Me sister and graham are on holiday in Tenerife so that’s me happy. Gets the pair of ‘em out from under my feet for a few weeks at least. Graham is without doubt the most depressed punter its ever been me displeasure to meet. (Except for me mate Mark but he’s a rare case as ya know) I pity me sister on holiday with that morose cunt. His bed’s comfy though, I give him that, and I know a decent mattress when I’m lying on one. Better than that dodgy put-you-up with the rizla thin mattress they’ve had me kipping on since I moved in.
Me lie-in don’t last long though, (they never do do they - the good ‘uns) on account of some cunt’s ringing the fucking doorbell!
It’s probably one of them soap dodgers from the spud-home down the road selling something. There was one round the other morning about this time. I opened the door and the nutter was standing there, I.D. card thrust out in front of him, looking like a potato with a mouth. One look at his threads gave the game away: The world had obviously given up on the poor bloke years ago, dropped him in the dustbin of life, turned its back on him for ever. They keep trying though don’t they? Have you noticed? I mean, you have to admire the determination of the poor sods really. When all hope disappears what do they do? Arm themselves with a few dishcloths, a few tea-towels and that and before ya can say ‘I blame the parents’ they’re round ya house trying to flog ya their wears. That’s enthusiasm for ya. Remember farah trousers? Eh? I’d forgotten all about them until this King Edward turned up wearing a pair. Farahs, and, get this, a big, fuck-off, red pringle jumper number.
"Hello" he says. Then he just smiles and stares at me all expectant. I’d obviously missed me cue as far as this peanut was concerned. Things were definitely not going according to the idiot training manual the lemon had obviously spent days memorising.
"What do you want?” I say, phasing him even more than he already was.
"Ur?"
“what … is … it … that … do … you … want?”
"I'm from the national society of potatoes" he says (or words to that effect). I was wondering if I can show you a few products?
"No sorry, I've got some toast on and it'll burn," I tell him, shutting the door in his odd face. I almost feel sorry for him but only almost and that doesn't count.
So if it is him at the door now then he’s in for a good kick in the plums on the end of a long run-up. I hurry down. (well it's not really a hurry to be fair, more a slumbering amble) and I open the door.
Fuck me!
It's them cunts off the telly.
The gardeners.
The bird with the big tits and that matey the builder … what’s his fucking name now?
They’re all just standing there, smiling.
Fucking hell!
There's cameras out there.
Big cameras.
"Is this live?” I say because it’s all I can think to say. ’m wide awake now by the way. Staring into the camera I am, smiling. What am I smiling for? Don’t be a cunt. Look cool for fucks sake.
Fuck!
Why didn’t know one tell me they were coming?
What are they doing here at all come to that?
I’m standing here in me pants for fucks sake. Look at me hair. Jesus!
"Not at all … it’s recorded,” says the producer. We edit it all together in the studio after.
"We're from ‘Groundforce’ says matey the builder?" I still can’t remember the cunts name for the life of me.
“You look as if you’re not expecting us Graham,” says big-tits. “You are Graham aren’t you?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I lie though not really knowing why. Why not at the end of the day?
Then they let me in on the scheme of things. It only turns out that that fucking spud Graham has got in touch with the BBC on the off-chance of getting his garden done up on a freemans. And guess what? The silly bastards have only gone and fell for his spiel.
What I can’t work out is how the fuck he’s gone on holiday to Tenerife and forgotten all about it. It don’t add up. That cunt don’t forget nothing. Ever. I have a look on the pinboard in the kitchen. Bingo! I find the letter straight away. Guess what? They’ve only gone and bungled the dates. At least the secretary who sent the letter has. Graham thinks it’s next month they’re coming. Shame. He’d have loved to have been here. I haven’t the heart to tell this lot though. I mean, they’ve already gone out of their way ain’t they, not fair that they have to come back on account of some prat of a secretary fucking things up.
So mum’s the word as far as I’m concerned.
It turns out it was all meant to be a surprise thing for me sister. Ya know the format … graham sends me sister to the spar for a couple of days and these cunts from the telly do up the garden for her. Then all of a sudden she’s on her way back and matey and big tits and all the others start going crackers and making it look as if it’s touch and go whether or not the place is going to be finished in time (it always is though have you noticed?) and then … my sister’ll show up, make a show of being surprised, matey and big tits’ll neck some fizzy cider for twenty minutes then have it away on their toes.
What a fucking case that Graham is. It’s a good fuckin’ job I’m here to save the fucking day as far as I’m concerned.
They show me the plans that they’d come up with based on the drawing Graham had sent them in with his application.
What a load of boring old bollocks. There is no fucking way any sister of mine was going to be even slightly impressed by these fucking plans. They may as well have just mowed the fucking lawn. No. It’s back to the drawing board mate. Liven things up a bit. Make these cunts work for their money.
So that’s what happens. I make a few adjustments to the plans. I’ve always thought that this fucking garden needed tarting up a bit to be fair. Get rid of that old bench and that apple tree and put in a fish-pond or two is what I reckon. Get some carp in there know what I mean? And a few gnomes or something to liven the place up. One of them fountains with the barrel.
“You did stress that you didn’t want a water feature when I spoke with you on the telephone,” says the producer.
“Well I’ve changed me mind squire,” I says.
So we get another plan going and pretty soon we’re all at it.
I’m loving the camera me. I’m a natural. I start accidentally on purpose being funny and that. I might even get fucking spotted here. It happens. I mean if it can happen to the likes of that Jamie Oliver then it can happen to anyone as far as I’m concerned.
Day one ends and the garden’s looking a proper state. Old matey and big tits have it on their toes to a hotel with their crew and I’m left to me own devices. I nip down the grapes for a light-ale and to let them all know I’m about to become the next big thing. Souness is at the bar looking like the puppy that got beat up for a laugh and I go over. It’s the first time we’ve spoken since I threatened him with his life so he’s walking on eggshells. So he should. I tell him he’s on fuckin’ probation but he’d better watch out because me good mood was liable to evaporate at a moments notice and he was liable to cop the consequences. I don’t even know why I talking to him in all honestly.
“Thanks mate,” he says, wiping beer from his stupid daft tache with the cuff of his manky Liverpool tracksuit top.
I want to tell him me new theory on why I reckon god invented scousers but I’ve got other things on me mind. Like how I can turn this groundforce 15 minutes of fame malarkey into a career. Chances like this come once in lifetime and if you don’t make the most of them then more fucking fool you as far as I’m concerned.
Day 2: I’ve got a plan. I’m going to get proper involved with matey, the main man, what’s his fucking name? I’ve got to remember his name or I’m going to look a cunt. I bell me mum.
“Mum, you know that garden programme on the telly? What’s that big blokes name, the builder bloke?”
“The big bloke? Oh you mean the builder, what’s his face?”
“Yeah, yeah that’s him,” I groan, already regretting dialling her.
“Ohhhh god … What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m phoning you.”
“I know … It’s … oh dear … it’s right on the end of my nose Marshal?”
Then she’s shouting into the living room at me old man. I know he’s in the living room because he’s always in the living room. “Bill what’s that blokes name from the telly?” she screams.
“What are you on about you daft old bat?”
“That garden program … oh you know him. That nice man?” she says.
“Have you been sniffing something?” he shouts. “Who’s that on the phone? Who’s fucking paying for that?”
I hang up.
Fuck it. Then I have a brainwave. I’ll ask matey his name when he gets here.
The Groundforce mob turn up at 9:15. A bit late but I let ‘em off on account of I’m in a good mood. And they’re superstars after all. I mean, once I’ve cracked it I’m fucked if I’m ever going to be early for anything ever again. Not that I am now … but … I won’t be changing that’s for sure.
Straight away me and matey (he told me his name but I’ve fuckinf forgotten it again) are on the tools and going at it. I keep trying to catch a load of big tits’s tits but she’s over with some other skinny bird plotting tulips or whatever they’re called.
The camera’s all over matey and not giving me a fucking look in so desperate fucking measures are called for.
“Fancy a cup of tea?” I shout and me worse fears are realised when every cunt and their mother says yes. The camera whip pans to me though and thinking on me feet I start singing a little song. A bit of the old Elton John and goodbye yellow brick road. Old matey looks up to see what I’m doing and he’s looking at me like I’m a knob with a spot on it but I couldn’t give a hugo boss what that no-mates thinks of me. It’s alright when you’re at the top of the tree looking down pal but us up-and-comers have to climb each branch as it presents itself.
“Goodbye yellow brick road … we’re the dogs of society …” I’m singing.
Then I stack it.
I fall straight in a bush of stinging nettles.
A bush that was meant to have been dug up by big-tits the fat cow. God it hurts. Jesus. Me shirt is off as well so I’m double stung up and that. Old matey and the skinny bird pull me to me feet and lead me over to a chair. That’s me out of making the tea which is the good news but I’m not sure how this little stumble will come over on the telly. It’ll either look like an improvisedon purpose stumble sort of thingy or I’ll just look like a cunt who fell over? Me moneys’ on the later and I’m quickly wracking me brains to think of a way to turn this one around. It’s times like this when the men are separated from the boys. Sink or swim and all that bollocks.
It’s the end of day 2 and I’m fucking stinging like a cunt I don’t mind telling you. I might even have to stay in tonight.
Day 3 and old matey’s looking a little the worse the worse for wear as well. He’s got guts ache though he’s even turning that to his advantage, making ‘feel sorry for me’ eyes into the camera and that, trying to all the mums on his side I reckon. That’s the thing see, and I suppose it comes with practice, you absolutely have to turn everything to your advantage.
The good news is it’s a hot day and old big tits is showing a little more cleavage than the previous two days. I know the lads won’t believe this so at the risk of not being taken seriously I invite them all round for a butchers. Even Souness.
So there’s John, Souness, Carl, Mark, House of Fraser and lamps. They turn up with a crate of Stella, which I hide from matey the builder on account of I’ve seen the cunt on the telly and he’s not shy when it comes to a light-ale or two. Now that’s fine by me but he has got a deadline and I’m not being held responsible for any fucking hold ups.
I get all the lads humping rubbish and sawing up the fallen apple tree and carting it all out to the skip in-between taking it in turns to join me in looking at whatsherface’s mams.
At about midday old matey and the producer come over with a camera. They want me to act panicky and to make out that me wife (sister) is due back in an hour.
“But she ain’t.” I says.
“Yeah, don’t worry about that,” says matey. “This is the way we always do it. You just talk into your mobile as if she’s on the other end of the line and we’ll take care of the rest when she does get here.” Then he stops. “Which is when?” he says.
“What?” I says.
“What time is she coming back for real?”
That’s done me.
Fuckin’ hell. I’d got so carried away with enjoying myself that I’d totally forgotten that I wasn’t really Graham and that I was lying my fucking tits off.
Think … think … think.
“She’ll be home in a couple of hours,” I tell him.
“Shit. That is early,” says Matey. “That only gives us a couple of hours at the most. We generally get at least 4 hours leeway. So we need to get a shift on. Come on troops,” he says dramatically into the camera.
“Brilliant,” says the producer to matey. “We can use that.” Then he turns to me. “Ready?”
“Course I am,” I says.
So the cameras roll and it’s down to me to make-out I’m all panicked. It’s not that difficult this acting lark I’m thinking by the time we’re on 3rd take. Piece of piss. Matey struggles a bit though. I always had me suspicions about matey on the telly. I mean he’s always got the gab but it just never rung true to my ears. And me doubts have been confirmed. They have to do about 10 takes before the bloater can string anything resembling a coherent sentence together.
Knowing that nobody was coming home in two hours like I told them I’m left with no alternative but to bring in a ringer. I might usually have asked me ex wife to lend a hand but I was fucked if I was going begging to that old tart, especially after her shagging that hub-cap stealing scouser souness. So I had no option but to rope in Fat Kay from the Grapes. Kay was the daughter of Alf and June who ran the grapes and we let her talk to us sometimes for a few free beers and that.

Things take a nosedive about here. Kay turns up as pissed as a fucking fart and falling about all over the place. I’d briefed her over the phone as to what to say but she’d obviously gotten straight on the sauce the moment I’d hung up. Probably for some dutch courage and that. Anyway. It was too much for her to take. Camera ready and framing her as she appeared around the side of the house looking all daft (I don’t know how she even got that far to be fair, the state of her) she just staggered towards us for a few steps, lost her footing, stumbled and fell straight into the fucking fish pond.
We pulled her out, (took 8 of us) threw some coffee down her neck then stuck her on the put-you-up. Well on the floor really because the fucking thing collapsed the instant we lay her down on it. The crew went off home, said they’d return tomorrow to film tonight’s bit.
The producer was not best pleased but I couldn’t give a sterling moss.
The next day went down well considering fat bird woke up with the hangover of a lifetime and a sore ‘cilla black’ from where we’d dropped her.
I wasn’t best pleased when I realised that when (if) this programme eventually aired, most of the fuckin’ population would think that Kay was me wife. The thought was sobering. So I poured meself a brandy.
And that was that. We finished filming, said our goodbyes, and it was over. I’ll have to wait a couple of months to see how it looks on the box but I’m a patient man. You can’t hurry fame.
The long and short of it was that when Graham came home and saw the fishpond - in place of the bench that had been under the apple tree - he went berserk. How the fuck was I too know his mum had been buried beneath it for gods sake.
”There was a bloody plack on the bench you buffoon.!” he screamed in my face a few seconds before he demanded I hand over his keys and get out of his house and never come back.
So that’s me looking’ for a new place to get me head down again.

Dog by Gary Lashmar

I’m walking Brian, my brand new golden Labrador dog, down by the canal, steering clear of town in case I run into ‘Mickey Soaper’ or one of the chaps ‘cause if I’m spotted with this dopey looking thing then that’s me a fuckin’ laughing stock, no two ways about it.
It was my birthday on Saturday and Brian was a present from the wife. I don’t want to appear ungrateful or anything but I hate Labradors; just can’t see the point of ‘em at all. I suppose for blind people they serve a purpose, and them poxy adverts for bog roll, but that’s about it as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know what came over the wife buying me it in all honesty, she knows I’m a Pitt-ball man, always have been – I’ve mentioned it enough times, so why buy me a silly dog?
She gave me Brian on Friday, the night before my birthday, soon as I walked in the door she was standing there with a silly grin on her face.
“Now I know your birthday is tomorrow Keith but this present can’t wait until then so you’ll just have to have it now,” she said and I nodded like a benny as she took my hand and led me inside and up the stairs. She had me closing my eyes as well, telling me not to peep and that, and pretty soon we’re in the bedroom and she’s telling me it’s okay to open my eyes so I did - fully expecting to see the Playstation 2 and portable TV I’d pointed out in Dixon’s the week before.
No such luck because sitting in the laundry basket in the corner, big red ribbon round it’s neck, tongue hanging out, weary look on it’s face like you was gonna kick it or something – was the dopiest looking canine imaginable.
“What do you think?” she says.
“Lovely,” I lie. I mean, What could I say? She’d obviously gone to a lot of trouble to fuck up my day so who was I too spoil things.
To be fair I’d be well within my rights to lob the little bollock in the canal. I could say it saw a cat and bolted. I’m tempted I have to say. It’s just I know what she’s like. She’d never let me forget it. It’d be like living with plod: “Oooooo If only you had spent another 5 minutes looking you might of found him Keithy”, or “Oh Keith, if you wasn’t a smoker, do you think you might have caught up with poor Brian?” All that pony. Not worth it. Still … it’s not a closed case.
Look at it now, out for a walk and that, I mean … most dogs love their walks don’t they. Live for ‘em. Well not this little flee-bag, no, he’s just bloody moping the whole time, a look on his face like he’s got the world on his fucking shoulders. He’ll have a couple of fucking bricks on his shoulders if he’s not careful.
I leave the canal path, and cut through the industrial estate, past the cemetery and out by the Storage Facility Unit. This is a huge fucking place about the size of 2 football pitches filled with huge metal storage containers and surrounded by a big old wire fence.
I stop walking. Is that what I think it is? I get a bit closer to the fence to confirm what I think I’m seeing. I’m only fucking right too; one of the container doors is open. I scan the surrounding site, at least what I can see of it from here, and I as far as I can see there’s nobody about.
I nip across to the cemetery. There’s a gap in the fence if I remember rightly. I do and there is. I’m through there a bit lively dragging my four legging friend behind me. Then I’m pegging it across to the container. Nice one. This might turn out to be a nice day after all. I reach the container, hurry inside, and then I’m tearing through the place like a Rick Waller in a sweet-shop.
Inside there’s a cupboard, a chest of drawers, a couple of big old picture frames, a coffee table and stacks of boxes. Lovely.
I’m about 30 seconds into rifling through this gear when it happens:
Suddenly; I hear this colossal, ear blitzing bang and my heart stops beating as everything turns pitch black. Someone’s shut the fuckin’ door on me. I’ve been rumbled here I’m thinking – bang to rights.
Brian barks.
“Shut up!” I shout.
I walk to the door or where I think the door is and trip over a fucking chair. Shit! I get up and make it to the door. It’s locked. What the fuck is going on? It’s dark so I’m thinking maybe this is not the door so I light a match and I find a light switch, flip it on. It is the fucking door. It's locked from the outside.
“All right,” I shout. “STOP FUCKING ABOUT! OPEN THE FUCKIN’ DOOR.” I listen with my ear to the wall for about a minute. Nothing. “OPEN THE FUCKIN’ DOOR YOU SLAGS!” Nothing. Shit!
I’m panicking now, screaming my head off, but still there’s no answer so I starts banging on the wall and there’s this loud drumming echo which someone must be able to hear but nobody comes so I’m thinking this is someone winding me up here, must be.
Then I’m thinking Mickey Soaper or someone must have spotted me and followed me down here on the off chance of a wind-up. Him and his Pit-ball are probably out there now laughing their fucking heads off. Well this is one punter who’s not rising to the bait. I sit down. Fuck him. I’ll wait it out. He’s hardly the patient type, Mickey.
10 minutes later I’m banging on the door again. “MICKEY!? MICKEY? OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR YOU SLAG! A JOKE’S A FUCKIN’ JOKE. MICK!
MICKEY! ALRIGHT YOU GOT ME! HA! HA! NICE ONE, NOW OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! MICKEY?”
20 minutes later … D I don’t think Mickey’s out there after all. It’s someone else. Maybe it’s not even a gag at all. Maybe it’s an accident. Why was this fucking container open in the first place? Maybe someone came and picked something up and took it to their car or something, then came back to shut the door and didn’t see me in here. It was semi dark in here after all and if they weren’t looking for anyone being in here and I didn’t shout out straight away and I’m …
The dog’s yelping, shiting it big time, and I’m thinking, shit, it’s Saturday, it’s after five o’clock, and I’m like pretty sure this place is closed on Sundays so that’s me in here till Monday.
I look at the mutt and try to come up with a way of blaming it for the predicament we’re in.
It’s about an hour after the door shut on us that I hear this horrible fuckin’ squelch and turn round just in time to see Scooby fucking Brian dropping a dirty big turd in the middle of the container.
Words fail me to describe the stench it but I’ll have a go … IT FUCKING STUNK!
15-16 hours later and I’m still in here. Not a sound from outside though I was banging on the walls off and on for the first 5-6 hours. I’d had a bit of a sleep but the smell of Brians dump is so rank it’s keeping me awake. I’ve been killing a bit of time by rummaging through the loot again.
2 days now and I’m shiting it big time. So thirsty. Hungry too. Fuckin’ stomach cramps, the lot. Mouths swollen dry and I keep thinking of Bobby Sands and that lot on the mountain who ate eachother.
Brian has just pissed up the leg of an armchair. He’s looking as hungry as I am and more than a little anxious. He keeps pacing about the place and whimpering and I shout at the little bastard to sit down and stop his fuckin’ whining and it does, goes off and cowers in the corner, but an hour later it's up and having another piss and I’m wondering where the fluids are coming from because it’s had nothing to drink that I know of and then it's pacing and it's doing my fuckin’ brain in and this is what I scream at it in so many words but it don’t seem as bothered now, just keeps pacing, giving us this creepy stare about the eyes and thank fuck there's a light in here to keep tabs on the little freak.
The bulb in the ceiling is flickering and I reckon it’s running low, probably not meant to be on for this length of time and I’m so fuckin’ thirsty I can’t hardly concentrate.
I must have dozed off again and flee-nuts is pacing again and looking more and more hungry by the second and he’s stood a few feet away, in front of me, dead still, just staring at me, a horrible evil looking staring it is.
Somebody should have found us by now. Must be days and no sign of anybody and I’m on me feet and screaming but I have to be honest with myself … something at the back of my mind … and the longer I’m in here the clearer it’s becoming. What I’m thinking is … wasn’t this particular container way out in the far corner of the facility site, past the sign that says ‘long-term storage area? And isn’t that area kept for punters who are storing their stuff for long periods of time, maybe even indefinitely? If I was a betting man (which I am) my money is fuckin’ well on this shed being totally in that area. It could be bloody weeks, months even before someone comes along.
The light’s flickering and I know It’s about to go out any second and I’m having a last look around and low and be-fuckin’-hold I only go and find a torch in the bottom of a box on top of a wardrobe so I keep it handy just in case. Overall, the gear in the place is pretty crap which means nobody would have bought it off me anyway which makes me feel 20 times worse for my trouble. The people who own it are probably paying twenty times more for storing this jumble sale shite than what it’s actually worth.
How long have I been here? I don’t know. It’s like I reckon I’m a bit mad mate, bit paranoid and Brian’s on the floor across the other side of the container. He’s bogging me out. Staring. Stop fucking staring!
Man's best friend is his dog. That’s a lie. Who come up with that? Probably that John Knoakes cunt or someone. The mutt’s gone and chewed up most of the furniture. Not John Knoakes - the dog. Eaten half a fuckin’ cushion it has and there’s fuckin’ feathers and gunk hanging from its mouth. Like a nightmare. A nutters nightmare.
The light’s gone out now and I’m shining the torch in the mutts eyes, keeping an eye on things.
Tired mate. Daren't sleep.
Mutt pacing about, had enough of the three-piece-suite it’s been munching on.
I scream at it . “SIT DOWN!” Hurts my throat, fuck, so dry.
Brian aint listening to me. He’s just nipped a bite out of me Adidas Ozweego’s!
Bastard! I kick out. Little fucker is growling mate.
Long slivery tongue hanging out like in Aliens. Saliva. Horrible. Fucking breathing heavy and panting and a frothing mouth and that’s me shiting it.
Fucking Andrex dog but it’s teeth could cut you in two, I see that now, for fucks sakes so that’s me standing up and screaming at it to get off and leave me alone.
I don’t mind telling you I’m crying. The mutt’s is scared no more mate that’s for sure and … and … it’s eyes are boring a fuckin’ hole in my throat.
The End