Using the following randomly picked texts: A list of countries and outlying territories by total area (random article from Wikipedia); A picture of a candle lit vigil for Benazir Bhutto (random image from Google); The Fish and Chip Box in Northwich (random address in the phone book).
The Moderation
a 24 hour story
by Anthony Richardson
Poky little fucking gaff, The Moderation. Yellowing wallpaper dropping all over the place like it was dying to get out. Jukebox plays two Madness songs and Park Life. Complete mockney, complete bullshit, full of arseholes wish they lived north of the river. Two regulars, one a big old fucker, the other average, no lean bastard but average. An old barman wiping the glasses squinting right up close making sure there’s no dust. Sizing up the regulars out of the corner of his eye. Hates the cunts. Poky little end-of-the-road-you-look-at-someone-wrong-you-get-yourself-killed gaff, The Moderation, and that’s exactly why Yank’s choosing to take his bird in there, to prove himself.
Yank the young pretender strutting in there with her like he’d won a fucking cock fight. Two regulars sitting on their stools, gripping their pints, knowing, sensing it’s him. Two regulars: China and India. China staring ahead at the wallpaper, smiling his teeth out. India glancing now and then at China, wishing they’d gone off the boozer for the chippy, but Jesus that girl’s pretty, so small mercies. China old enough to be India’s dad, but a violent old fucker. Barman praying to God the cunts won’t start anything, happy, mind, that some bird’s with Yank. Might be no trouble with that piece of skirt hanging around.
And the barman’s all busy with the drinks, pint of pisswater Bud for Yank and a vodka orange for the lady, four pound eighty and keep the change. Yank impressing the girl, all the while impressing the girl.
Barman winks at Yank cus Yank don’t scare him, says nice piece of fur not seen her round here, Yank.
Yank smiling, announcing well allow me to perform the introductions.
India daring just a little to take his eyes of his pint and onto the bird’s skirt but no further, India, no further.
Yank says this here is my new lady friend, The British Virgin Islands.
China smirking his wise old mental smirk, which Yank fucking twitches at, and the barman clocking this, but keeping the diplomacy going by saying ooh, exotic, what a lovely name, that’s exotic, that is.
Where you from then sweetheart with a name like that? purrs the barman.
Battersea, the British Virgin Islands replies.
China snorting into his Chang and Yank going all tight-lipped like the next thing that comes out of China’s mouth had better be fucking worth it, old cunt or not. All bullshit, this chat. All pub-lish.
The British Virgin Islands doesn’t say nothing else, like whereabouts in Battersea, or what brings her to Clapham, except a strapping young fella like Yank. She’s enigmatic, sipping her drink. Park Life’s playing and that’s all that can be said for these three minutes.
India sensing it’ll kick off no time at all.
Yank opens that big old mouth of his. The Barman’s eyes flick to him from China, all the while assessing the situation, all the while knowing the shit that’s gone down between these cunts.
Just saying to The British Virgin Islands here before we came in the boozer – about how she’ll do all right with me in Clapham.
China squeezing his glass. India tensing his neck.
If The British Virgin Islands comes with old Yank here to Infernos, she gets VIP fucking access. I’m in with the bouncers. They won’t fucking touch me.
India knowing what’s coming. India just came for a quiet pint, perhaps a cod and chips after. Nothing more than a quiet pint.
Yank winding up like a cruise missile.
Why won’t the bouncers touch you, she’s asking me on the way past the chippie. I’ll tell you why, I said to her. Cus I’m the third biggest country by total area in square kilometres in the fucking world.
China puts his foot through the fucking jukebox. Barman closing his saggy little eyes. China standing up glass crunching under his feet and silence of turned off Blur. All 22 stone of shit house, old cunt or not. Turning to Yank. India grabbing for China by the shirt sleeves but getting waved off like a fly.
China a big old fucker. Up there toe to toe with Yank. Been a while hasn’t it since you’ve been round this way, United States of America?
Yank turning all slowly like a barge to face him. Oh, all right, old China, hardly noticed you there.
The word ‘old’ like a broken glass to the face, but China all English and civil, won’t touch the fucker with ladies present. Everyone knowing that and that’s why this cunt Yank’s pushing his luck, coming in here shooting the shit like a real big bollocks, like Russia or fucking Antarctica.
Nice little thing you got there, United States of America. From Battersea? They heard of old China in Battersea?
Leave it out, eh, China? Nice quiet drink, eh, China? India saying all smiles.
China brushing off India like he was a dog hair on a shit suit. China still got the fucking moves, won’t let young cunts like the United States of America stroll into the joint thinking he’s the muscle.
You got a little friend there, China? Yank pissing like a hyena at India, and China’s watch falling down his wrist like there was no muscle to keep it up, like the king of Clapham is dying in this very pub.
The British Virgin Islands looking all soppy at India all sorry for him like but giggling at USA and having a nice little sip on her vodka orange.
China showing he’s not gonna let a young pretender come in here like this so loosening his belt and his gut all hanging out like a butcher’s. So tell me, United States of America, what’s your total area in kilometres squared at now? Cus I could have sworn I was third largest, not you, what with my 9,640,821 and 6.5% of the cunting earth.
India groaning like he’s a balloon deflating.
Now it’s Yank’s turn to fidget. His eyes flitting between the girl and the barman, then back to China. Yank’s young but he heard different figures. Swearing to himself in his own head that he’s heard different figures. Old barman sucking his teeth. Knowing there’s fuck all of a way out of this without a bill for damages.
You, er, you jumping on the fucking scales, China? 9,640,821 kilometres fucking squared?
Well it don’t matter if you’re bigger, eh, USA? China pronouncing Yank’s name like a mug in imitation of The Great British Virgin Islands and her lovely tits. Yank’s bird blowing nervous little bubbles with her straw.
Barman drying a glass. Knowing Yank’s area. It’s 9,629,091 kilometres squared. That includes only the 50 states and the District of Colombia.
Never mind my area, China, fuck my area, my area’s legit. I want to know more about yours. What territories and overseas regions you including in yours, eh? Tai-fucking-Wan?
China getting all defensive, spluttering a bit. No of course I’m not including Tai-fucking-Wan you poxy little… You think I’m a fucking …?
Easy, easy, China, says India but China not giving a monkeys about India’s easy easies.
You including Pengku, Kinmen, Matsu in your total area in kilometres squared, old China? Yank enjoying the quest like a cockney Columbo.
China’s neck shrinking. You think I’m a fucking clown? You think I’d include them? China and Yank eyeball to eyeball, bird for now forgotten.
You got no disputed territories at all in that size you’re bandying around, old China? None at all?
No, you muppet, no disputed territories, China visibly shaking but Yank letting him sweat.
Pause.
Agony.
No backing down.
Young and old pressing noses.
China’s old eyes all anxious for the first time in his reign over Clapham, still holding his glass but the hands going white with the pressure. Beaten Yank before, but for how long, China? How long?
India cracking, breaking this up. Clearing his throat, saying that China is including Aksai Chin and the Trans-karakoram Tract in his statistic. That’s what accounts for his superior size. It’s still a big size without those disputed territories, isn’t it?
China going all red. India wishing he’d never opened his borders. Only said it to clarify, like. To help.
Yank howling like a coyote, howling like he’s the alpha-country, howling like this is it, this is match point, like just after this he’s gonna take the British Virgin Islands home and destroy her on the kitchen fucking table.
Aksai’s Chin and the Trans-karakoram Tract? Oh dear, old China, oh dear. You really are a soppy old bastard. They’re claimed by fucking India here, aren’t they?
China glaring at India waiting for India to say something like India had just become the most important country in the fucking room.
India mumbling into his Cobra, something about how to be frank it wasn’t that big a claim on these disputed territories, really, and that he was sure in the course of time an agreement could be reached, but Yank drowning him with his laughter and aaahhhing having been proved as the third biggest not this old pretender here in his poxy little pub.
And Yank’s leading the little minx out of the boozer by her pert arse like he’s the king of fucking Clapham and China shaking with the shock of defeat to this cunt and he can’t leave it there or that’s it, that’s life gone for good for old China.
And so China’s red and slamming down his pint on the bar and mouthing, right, and chasing them out of there and into the street where he grabs Yank off her and the two going at it like a pair of 22 stone mental cunts in the gutter and the British Virgin Islands standing with her back to them, mesmerised by something else, something more important than a country’s land mass.
Her attention being grabbed by a group of mourners outside the ‘Fish and Chip Box.’ The mourners holding candles and placards of Benazir Bhutto, and everyone weeping and the candles flickering now and then with the tear drops. A twilight vigil for Bhutto, and people just bawling.
India stumbling out of the boozer and finding the British Virgin Islands a bit apart from the crowd. What happened, why all the people here, she’s asking, her eyes so wide. The British Virgin Islands is so beautiful, but so far away.
Benazir Bhutto owned the chippie, says India, hands in pockets in awkward respect.
Benazir Bhutto did the best fish and chips in Clapham. She knew everyone’s order. She did great big portions, such was her heart. The batter was crisp and moreish. You wanted vinegar, she didn’t soak it in vinegar like the others. The people liked her honesty. Free tartare sauce, only five pence a sachet on ketchup. The people said she made a loss on ketchup. Benazir Bhutto got to know you if you let her. You found solace in her cod and chips, if you really searched.
India feeling the tears dropping down his cheeks. The British Virgin Islands following him into the crowd where it was safe.
And as the mourners wailed and said prayers for Bhutto, and the people they held candles and wept tear stained tributes, and as The United States of America beat The People’s Republic of China’s head into the drain, The British Virgin Islands lifted her hand and – only for the briefest of moments – put it in India’s pocket and made it all warm. And – only for the briefest of moments – her fingers brushed against his.
