MARK WYNN

​ Keith was smoking in a transporter cafe somewhere. He was doing it by the window. The light was falling on his face and he was having a great time. He had wanted to be Roy Rodgers when he was little, but this was much better.  I was looking at him admiringly. I was drinking a hot drink, but not too hot mind in case it gives us esophageal cancer. You had to be careful about things like that. Pour a little cold in it if you must, but just don’t die before the ones you love so that you can look after them for as long as possible.  Keith Richards was smoking a cigarette in a picture in a transporter cafe. He was tired after the night before. Nearly having his clothes ripped to shreds by the screaming girls of the previous place. He was eating bacon and eggs with tomato sauce. The man who had served him hadn’t recognized him. He didn’t really get recognized that often. There was a cup and saucer by the plate and an ash tray. The group he belonged to had been enjoying some succes...

​ If you’re out in the fields, ambling as you do, you might come across this chap, David, the gamekeeper, a fag in his mouth and a gun of some description in his paws for shooting at poachers.  I don’t know no poachers, but they do exist. I have a book about them and I seen a program as well. But the gamekeeper knows where they’re at like. He waits at a certain fence, or at this opening to the woods or that and he keeps a look out, he listens, and he stands there for hours if he must do. There’s some lads driving down from Boro. They’re after the badgers or something. I don’t know. Maybe the rabbits.But the gamekeepers having none of it. He just stands there, drawing on his fag.  Wouldn’t the poachers smell it How’m I supposed to know, but he does it, and if it’s a moonlit night, still and quiet, because it must be best for playing poachers and game keeping I expect, then he’s having the time of his life, drawing on his fag and not watching the news or flicking his phone.