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Ice Cream Motorcade

On a council estate the ten armoured ice cream vans drive two abreast, a motorcade hogging the road. All the kids are chasing and laughing with glee.

Inside the vans are ten clear containers of thick glass. Each a rounded cube with no visible way to open them. Each contains a mysterious and valuable thick brown syrup. They’re arranged in the same formation as the vans, two abreast and five deep.

When one of the trucks crashes a cube of the liquid rolls over, splitting in two. The liquid holds it’s form for the most part, oozing at the speed of a glacier.

In The Closet

We’re chasing the bus through East Morton, a small village I used to live in. The kids are there waiting for us. As we’re running there’s piles of processed meat in the road, like piles of horse muck. As we’re chasing the bus it runs over a few piles, meat exploding out and as we stamp on them the same happens. Mechanically reclaimed meat is splattered all over the road, graphic and in maximum high definition detail.

[fragment missing]

It’s the early 90’s in Leeds, we’re moving out of our house, boxes are piled everywhere. I only see one of the rooms, a sparse bedroom, brown textured wallpaper that probably started life cream hangs onto the wall. There’s a single bed, tall and worn, next to a glass front cabinet filled with shelves, maybe six feet tall.

A new guy’s moving in, his hair black and floppy, wearing a striped knitted jumper - quite emo. He emerges from the adjoining room, conspicuous in it’s mystery, the door seeming more real than real. He’s not coming out with us, deciding instead to hide from someone. However he chooses to hide in the cabinet. The glass fronted cabinet, with small shelves. He presses himself in trying to close the door. Somehow he manages, the glass warping around his features. We stand looking at him, ridiculous. He ushers us on so as not to give him away - idiot. Though he did lend me a book on Gothic films.

As we leave, another housemate says hello to me, inconspicuous and throwaway. But it’s laden with emotion, with unrequited love for me. It took all her confidence to say hi to me, that one word filled longing. I know this and make a mental note to talk to her next time I see her and check out is she’s hot. That’s for another time though, right now we have to leave.

We step outside, the door to the bedroom leading immediately onto the street. The air’s heavy with imminent rain and electricity. It’s early 90’s, and as we walk to college the camera swoops high, taking in the vista of the city, everything subtly tinted sepia. It swoops here and there in impressive aerial shots before sweeping back down at the college, where we’re just arriving. We study advertising and one of my tutors is Jeff Goldblum.

The bore-tender

I'm stood in a large triangular bar, an old pub. Small red atmospheric lampshades dotted around, old oak all over, once varnished, now smooth and worn from hundreds of elbows, old trophies and photos pepper the walls. The bar itself makes fills most of them room, right in the centre serving from all sides. A plethora of bottles filled refracting the light, the amber liquids almost glowing.

I'm the only one in the there, everyone else is in the beer garden outside drinking and having fun – it's a friendly, lively atmosphere. The bar tender's talking away to me, taking his time. I don't mind though, I'm enjoying my coffee, stirring in rich cream. He points to the TV on the wall in the corner, tells me his friend was in the TV show, but apparently he's a bit mental. He yammers on, I only half hear what he's saying. I can see my friends through the window drinking and having fun, getting the neighbouring table involved, wishing I was out there and getting a bit frustrated.

He keeps on talking, the elderly bartender, white hair, in his red velvet waistcoat. He looks like part of the furnishings. Like the old wood he moves to a different time scale. I'm getting really frustrated now, why won't he just get my pints? I can't seem to get a word in edgeways, I'm stuck in here listening to him talking away while the fun's outside. Through the window everyone's laughing. Guess I'll never hear that punch line.

My coffee starts to taste foul, like the cream's curdled and the coffee's burnt. This stupid old man. Just give me my pint – I'm your only customer! The coffee's disgusting. And he won't stop talking.

27/7

Found notes:
Farmyard Crime Stoppers: some kids prank call Raul Moat during negotiations.
Taking the video home.
Fighting giant things (still fairly harmless – like a Wallace and Gromit monster)
Devil fight
Football team
Fake fight
Video

28/8

Me and Jordan are watching a deep pink sunset. Everything is bathed in pink, it's beautiful. We sit stand there and bask in it.
[fragment missing]
Slimer (from Ghostbusters) tries to cut us off.
Downstairs the living bodies are being tied up.