It All Ends With Jazz Hands

As I open the door, I wonder if my number’s up.

Standing on the doorstep, dominating the view of the midnight garden, is a semi-naked, seven-foot bodybuilder. Lantern jawed, glass eyed. Utterly immobile. Silent, powerful, menacing.

When he speaks, his voice is a cold, Austrian drawl.

Indigo Roth?

I’ve seen this movie. It doesn’t end well. But there’s nowhere to run; the back door is deadlocked. I have no choice but to meet the challenge on the doorstep.

Yes. I step over the threshold and stand outside with him. He steps back, and then stands frozen, almost surprised. I imagine that we normally run.

I take in his clothes. They’re tiny, and make the merest attempt cover his engineered physique. He’s naked apart from some red, short-trousered dungarees with yellow buttons, a little white collar with a bright blue bow. Oversized leather mountain shoes cover his feet. And topping off the ensemble is a yellow alpine hat with a feather. I’d describe this as being at a jaunty angle, but the truth is it simply doesn’t fit his head that well.

I use his hesitation to seize the initiative.

Now, don’t take this the wrong way... but you are a Terminator, right?

Yes. Cyberdyne Systems Moddle One-Oh-One.

Well, you’re not here to terminate me, I figured that part out for myself. You're a schmuck, Roth. So how can I help? And what’s with the clothes?

I vant to be a reeal boy.

Vot? I mean, what?

I haff exceeded my programming. I am no longer a colt-bludded killer. He pauses, and then repeats, I vant to be a reeal boy.

You want to be a real boy?

Affirmatiff.

Whoa. Get a grip, Indigo. Who told you I could help you?

You did. Thirty five years from now.

Hmmm. No point arguing that one. I make a mental note to never dabble in time travel.

Again, honesty may be the way forward.

Well, I’m not sure I can help you. I poke his cheek; under the warm flesh is cold steel. You’re a machine after all. Living tissue over a metal endoskeleton, but just a machine.

In a blur, he draws a heavy automatic weapon from a holster in the small of his back. He aims precisely at my heart, and his aim does not waver.

Dis is an Uzi nine millimetre. You said it vould help you focus. He pauses, and his comic timing is admirable. Is dis vot you call a choke?

I swallow, now wishing I'd not poked his cheek.

A joke? Yes, I sure hope so. My mouth is suddenly dry. I’m unpredictable, sometimes it’s hard to tell.

Yes. I have studied you for many years. You vork to defy expecdations. It is in your nature to rebel.

It is?

He turns his head to look at me directly for the first time, and manages a lopsided grin.

I haff detailed files.

There is a harsh metal click as he cocks the weapon; it’s time to move us along.

Ok, I’ll give it a whirl.

Excellend. The Uzi vanishes back into the holster.

So... I wrack my brains for a meaningful question, What do you want out of life?

He stares into middle distance, which is probably the kitchen.

Happiness.

That’s a good start. What else?

Fulfilmend. Love. A steddy chob.

You’re really getting the hang of this. Anything else?

A phased plasma rifle in de 40-watt range.

Hey pal, just what you see.

He shrugs. Sorry. Old habits, you know?

I nod sagely. And what skills do you have?

I haff an advanced neural ned. A learning compuder. There is a swell of something resembling pride in his voice. I can learn anyding.

What, anything?

Affirmatiff. I can play piano. I know the complede vorks of Shakespeare. And I mek a mean baked Alaska.

Impressive. I'm not kidding; my meringue is never crisp enough. Anything else?

I can sing and dance.

That’s good. Hang on. What?

Yes. Lizzen. He clears his throat. And strikes a puppet pose on my doorstep. Good grief, we’re going to finish on a song. Somewhere, Jiminy Cricket covers his ears.

I’ff god noh strings to hold me down,
To mek me fred, or mek me vrown
I had strings, bud now I’m vree
Dere are noh strings on meeeee!

He ends with jazz hands.

I look up into a clouded sky and find no stars to wish upon.

I sigh.

It’s going to be a long night.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Last Of The Jam Doughnuts

A lot of thoughts go through your head when you're sitting on the top of Mount Everest. One thought is louder than all the others right now.

Is it, Wow, what a view!?

No, but it's undeniably breathtaking.

Is it, I wonder what that huge plain to the north is?

No, I'm pretty sure it's the Tibetan Plateau. I vaguely recall that Darjeeling is someplace "nearby".

Is it, The silence is awesome!?

No, but I'd pay good money to have my house here every Friday night. It gets real noisy when the pubs empty, and it'd sure save looking for the dustbins on a Saturday.

It's none of those.

The thought on my mind is, How on earth did I get here?

Closely followed by, And why is there a penguin with me?

I notice he's finished the last of the jam doughnuts, and most of the coffee. Well, damn.

Still, not to worry; it's a nice day.

And the view it really is breathtaking.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

---

Captain's Blog - Supplemental

Just a couple of quick footnotes for today's entry.

First, Scott Free over at Ergo has kindly lobbed an award my way. It's the gorgeously vibrant Sunshine Award.

For those of you who don't know him, Scott is young, talented, and good looking. So clearly, he has no redeeming features whatsoever. Apparently he likes my blog though, which speaks volumes as to his frame of mind.

So, if you like my brand of nonsense, you might enjoy his too.

I'm not obliged to hand this one along, but I will the next time a bright young thing wows me with their über-chipper personality and blogging ballast.

Second, the new lifestyle goes well; fifteen pounds down, twenty seven to go. I could murder a pizza (duh), but I've made some positive changes to my routines, and will treat myself to a modest one on the next milestone. Which might be the gloriously round-numbered sixteen pounds.

Message ends.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

A Handful Of Minor Injuries

There has been a lot of speculation over the past few days about the prolonged absence of myself and iDifficult. We put out the usual smoke-screen story about illness, but I can now reveal the truth.

And, like all good truth, it's stranger than fiction.

---

Special Winter Olympic Report
by Claire Angorra-Smith, BBC Sport

The 2010 Olympic Winter Games in Vancouver has been a truly global spectacle, a magnificent showcase for alpine sport, and full of surprises.

But aside from the excitement and spectacle of the basic fifteen events, what of the demonstration events going on at Vancouver? Both summer and winter games have been light on these trail events in recent years. In fact, not since Albertville in 1992 have new sports been tried in an alpine setting.

But Vancouver has broken with this recent tradition and added in one new event.

The Super D Pairs Sledless Descent.

For those new to Super D, it's a white-knuckle ride down through a mile and a half of steep mountainside. Two athletes, no transport, no limits. Just a pair of courageous drunken souls, or plummeters, sliding on their backsides at up to ninety miles an hour, pitted against a merciless and precipitous mountain.

One week ago, two renowned bloggers received the call to join the British Olympic Team in Vancouver. Their mission? The Super D.

Little is known about the sporting pedigrees of Indigo Roth and the mysterious single-monicker iDifficult. The pair were discovered after a rowdy evening on the tiles which ended in an accidental slide down the infamous Tipplers' Tumble in their snowbound home town.

They were naturals, said talent scout Shifty Mandelson. One minute they were staggering along the road near The Tumble, and the next they were off piste. Their survival instinct kicked in instantly, and they displayed world-class cameraderie, effortless cursing, and breakneck speed. I knew we'd have a chance of a medal if we could get them out of the hospital and into the team.

After arriving at Whistler Mountain outside Vancouver, Roth and iDifficult threw themselves into training, working on a steady rhythm of beer - curry - plummet. After three days, utterly unable to tell their arses from their elbows, they were still trailing the times of the Canadian professional duo Kato & David. But, determined to bring home the gold for Queen and Country, they pushed the boat out in the final few hours to get themselves really relaxed.

Things nearly came unstuck as they waited for their run at the top of Whistler. A drunken altercation with the German team ended with a Mountie being summoned. The pair, unable to produce their Olympic identification, were arrested and handcuffed to each other and then to the starting gate. They could only stand and sing Show Me The Way To Go Home quietly as their Canadian rivals posted their best time.

Just as all hope seemed lost, Roth borrowed a hairpin from passing American plummeter C. L. Larew, who was just about begin her descent with canine team-mate W. D. Hickory. iDifficult set to work picking the handcuff lock, and the duo cheered mightily as the Americans swept past the Canadians to take the lead*.

[* Larew sustained only a handful of minor injuries from Hickory sitting on her wagging his tail, using her as a makeshift sled.]

The British pair were called to race just as the first lock was picked; they had detached themselves from the starting gate, but not each other. Pluckily, they elected to make the run still handcuffed together.

As the pair leapt to their date with destiny, slurring Swing Low Sweet Chariot, the prayers of late-night viewers in Britain went with them. Their start was blistering, a tumbling whirl of limbs and off-key crooning, but they lost vital seconds arguing about the best place to stop and take a leak. Unable to find a bus-stop, they ploughed ahead, and seemed to be losing time until they bounced off a sequence of three rocks. Roth's trio of sharp cries started an avalanche and, sensing victory, the pair were carried by the wall of snow past the finish line in a record time.

The Canadian Team lodged an appeal about the handcuffs as unauthorised equipment, but this was dismissed by IOC President Jacques Rogge as Being entirely in the spirit of the event and the Olympic Movement.

Roth and iDifficult were unavailable for interviews, but our new British sporting heroes will no doubt have plenty to say for themselves as soon as the casts and bandages come off.

---

Meanwhile, Back In England...

The real story from the Winter Olympics here at home has been Amy Williams winning a gold medal in the Women's Skeleton. Only the ninth gold for Great Britain in the history of the winter games.

This may be of no consequence to the nations of the world, some of whom will have won that many golds just in Vancouver, but to us Brits, Ms. Williams' win is a huge and very British story.

A Brit who wasn't expected to be in the running for a medal, let alone a gold one.

A Brit who wasn't even the top-ranker slider in the British team.

A true underdog. And us Brits love an underdog.

She led from the start, confounding the expectations of everyone involved, and broke the track record twice. Everyone expected her to falter, to go the way of so many amiable British competitors. But she didn't, she raced hard, held her lead and then gave all of us in Old Blighty something to sing about.

Amy's post-win interviews were wonderful. She presented us with a cloud of gentle, happy bewilderment, mixed with good-natured, if slightly embarrassed, pride. Traditionally, Britons are raised to be grateful winners and gracious losers, which is perhaps why we don't win that much.

But I'll admit to a certain moist-eyed pride, seeing her be so magnificently British in the face of victory.

There are times when I am embarrassed to be British, but not today.

Amy Williams did us proud, and showed the world what it is to be a True Brit.

Thank you Amy.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

The Wisdom Of Invertebrates

The grass rushes towards me, and I land heavily.

Two seconds later, as I eat turf, something large and heavy lands on top of me. I assume it’s my best friend iDifficult, but the speed of the impact makes it feel like hippo with glandular issues. A large canvas bag follows a moment later, thumping dangerously into the ground next to my head.

The trip through the vortex was a miasma of hard light and wind, and there was a strong sense of falling. The landing confirms the last part.

I make a mental note to bring a mattress next time.

And to go second.

Hey, this looks like the right place! exclaims the weight on my back. Yes indeed, it's iDifficult, the renowned pizza rustler and part-time evil genius*.

[* He spends half his time raising cuttlefish in his third shed, and claims they’re smarter than people.]

Move! I bellow, partly in haste, partly in agony. Clock’s ticking! As my friend bundles himself off me, I manage to turn my head and look around. Yes, it’s my back garden. Or a very close approximation.

But time is short. I don’t have time to stop to smell the roses.

How long? I wheeze, standing as quickly as I am able, stretching my back. Vertebrae crack. Where is Bear when I need him? 'Difficult checks his heavily modified iPhone, waving the augmented hardware at the open portal that still gyrates chaotically in the air above us.

Thirty seconds!

This suits me. I believe in threes, especially from a narrative standpoint. We’re off to a good start.

Damn, do we have time to do this? he shouts my way as I run down the garden towards my house.

Yes! I shout back as I approach the back door, Assuming I changed the locks! My hands are shaking, but they’re already in my zippered pockets, hunting for what will hopefully be the back door key. My right hand comes up empty, but the left locates what I’m after; I pull out a metal ring with two keys on it.

The keys switched pockets! I observe loudly.

Dimensional mirroring! screams the Illogical Physicist, The cuttlefish were right! **

[** See what I mean?]

I select my current back door key and try the lock. Nope. Damn.

Wrong key! A crash of metal and canvas behind me tells me that he's emptied our one item of luggage unceremoniously onto the grass. In a few seconds, he’ll have the escape route ready to go. Which, considering our schedule, is no bad thing.

Twenty seconds!

I try the other key. My old key. The locks clicks and the door opens.

I’m in! I shout over my shoulder as I head quickly into the dim house. I obviously didn’t need to replace the lock in this world. Somewhere, I muse as I clear the kitchen, there's an elephant roaming free, with no stories to tell about a bizarre insurance claim involving a dog whistle.

Now. All I have to do is find the thing I’m after. I play a percentage hunch as I pass through the gloomy hallway, and turn up the stairs.

He wouldn’t make it hard. It’s not my style.

I crest the stairs, breathing hard, and barge into the well-lit bathroom.

There! A pair of identical toothbrushes. Not just similar. The same brush, twice. PhotoShop twins, positioned precisely in the cup on the glass shelf. One mine, the other one mine. Well, his. Same thing, really.

One Indigo, two dimensions.

I swipe them both and drop a small card onto the shelf. The card I found in my bathroom three days ago, in the space where my toothbrush would normally be.

It bears three words, now returned to sender.

Tag. You’re it.

There is a woman’s scream from downstairs. No time to wonder. It’s time to go.

As I leave the bathroom and take the stairs three at a time, I notice that I’ve redecorated the landing and hallway. Aquamarine and orange. Nice. I particularly like the new wallpaper. Hallways are always hard, hanging these long drops must have taken me ages.

I reach the bottom of the stairs, and turn back to the kitchen just as iDifficult bursts from the downstairs toilet. Behind him, out of sight, a woman curses like a trooper. He is blushing. His head slows a flying toilet roll.

Ten seconds! he hisses as he hustles past me.

I don’t ask questions. We tear through the kitchen, dance nimbly through the utility room, and burst from the house like pair of rowdy vaudeville performers. Somehow, I’m slightly in the lead, and start the dash back up the garden and our soon-to-close exit from this world.

What were you doing in the house?! I bellow, exasperated.

Wondered if you had any dental floss. He somehow shrugs while running. You’ve run out at home.

Not the best time, mate! The vortex swirls ahead, a chaotic hole eight feet in the air. Underneath it is the quick-erect trampoline, the same one we found on the back lawn three days ago. Thank goodness for fast-assembly gym equipment.

I scared the living daylights out of the woman in the downstairs loo.

I heard! Who was it? We’re not going to make it! The vortex is starting to flicker and splutter, but there are a few seconds left.

Without slowing, my friend looks at me sideways. It seems you married Gillian Anderson in this dimension.

SONOFABITCH!

Then, with a jump, a bounce, and a whoop, iDifficult boldly goes. There's a momentary flash and a slight stretching of reality as he crosses the breach, and the vortex shoots him home first.

We need to work out how to keep this thing open longer.

Perhaps the cuttlefish will give us some pointers.

And then, still wishing for a mattress but settling for the next best thing, I go second.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

And Be Loved In Return

This has not been a good week.

With few exceptions, everything that could have gone wrong has gone wrong. Spectacularly. My stress levels are through the roof, I'm sleeping badly, and frankly it's a miracle I haven't thumped anyone.

I've not been in the mood to blog, and technology has made this impossible even if I wanted to. But I have been out of circulation, and I'm sorry for this even if I can do nothing about it.

This entry is being made from the office on a Sunday. There was going to be a humorous photo, but even that is beyond my ability to deliver right now.

But such is the week. Next week will be better.

So, am I here just to bitch and whine?

No, I am going to step dramatically out of character and wish everyone a happy Valentine's Day. This is not my favourite day of the year, but it has come home to me this week that it's a tremendously important day for a lot of people, for a variety of sweet and bitter reasons.

It can be a day of surprises, of excitement, of anticipation.

But it can also be a day of sadness, of lost dreams, of zero validation.

Whatever your spin on the day, I offer this simple thought.

This Indigo Rose is for you.


I'll be thinking of you today, whoever you are.


With love, Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

Passing Into Mental Myth

When I look back on my life, it is as a series of moments.

It's the week before Christmas. And as I stand in the cold, dark evening, gazing across the courtyard to the chapel, I realise that one of those moments is unfolding around me.

Three hours earlier, the moonlit evening is clear and crisp. I have a light jacket on over my dinner suit, but the chill in the air quickens my step on the five-minute walk from the car park. I'm not crazy about office parties, but this one is at King's College in Cambridge, the most impressive of the old university colleges. Not to be missed.

Half a dozen of us arrive at the same time. The massive college gates stand open, and though we manage a brief exchange of greetings, silence falls as we walk through into a magnificent courtyard.

Great Court is a hundred-odd metres to each edge, with impressive architecture on all sides. A wide gravel path surrounds a vast - and immaculate - grass square, with a distant statue at its centre. The massive Gothic bulk of the famous King's College Chapel broods, sullen and unlit, to our right.

I've not been in here before, and gape a little.

Event signs direct us towards a tall and well-lit building to our left. Huge, black lampstands cast their electric light from the perimeter of the grass. As we make our way, I note that we're all careful to keep to the path, and smile; the college authorities will still hang you for walking on the grass, says an inner voice.

As we deposit our coats, we all look pleased to be indoors, particularly the women in their more elegant, colourful evening wear. There's some polite chitchat, but a hubbub of conversation quickly draws us through to the warm main hall. It's quite something, an intimately lit room with a high-vaulted Gothic ceiling, stained-glass windows, wood-panelled walls, and dozens of impressive oil paintings.

I'm interested by all this, but far more interested in the company of good friends, and in what will hopefully be a superb meal. I'm a bit awkward in formal social situations - black tie for two hundred is quite daunting - but my amigos carry me magnificently, and dinner does not disappoint.

And so, in a whirl of conversation, indiscrete whispers and raucous laughter, the evening passes pleasantly.

As the party draws to a close, the first handful of us - keen to be in our beds - slip away from the hall, gather our coats, and head out through the main doors into the chilly night.

And stop dead.

The courtyard has been transformed.

It's snowing heavily.

Four inches have fallen while we were indoors, and huge fluffy flakes continue to descend from the solid cloud cover overhead.

The others head back indoors, excited to tell those at the party about the snow, but I stand, transfixed.

The court is an unbroken field of white, as immaculate as the grass undeneath. The closest lamp post has taken on a surreal quality, standing in isolation, tall and black, in the snow. At any moment, a Narnian faun might walk timidly out of the darkness to stand, uncertain, in its electric glow.

Across from me, the immense chapel is now cheerily lit, its windows tall and colourful. I half expect to hear the sound of the college choir from within, but the silence is absolute.

It's breathtaking.

As I stand there in the snow on a cold night, gazing across the courtyard to the chapel, I feel the moment crystallise around me, never to be forgotten.


Back in the now, just a few weeks later, my mind is playing tricks on me. The mental picture of the lamplit courtyard in snowfall has passed into mental myth. It's taken centre stage in my memories of the evening, pushing aside the pleasant memories of the party, and the later memories of treacherous pavements, biting cold winds, and hazardous driving. The latter have been demoted to a terse

And I got home afterwards.

All that's left is that perfect moment in the snow.

And when I look back on my life, it will be as a series of moments.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010
All photos © Sean McHugh, from the fabulous Cambridge In Colour

A Frozen Game Of Patience

I had the strangest dream.

I remember very little about it, other than its end.

The room is dark. I am sitting in a pool of bright light at a wide, wooden table. Its ends melt into the gloom on either side of me. If I rolled a marble to left or right, I would never hear it drop.

My hands rest on the cool wood. Close by, playing cards are frozen in a broken game of Patience.

I have been waiting.

Not long now. They will arrive soon.

And then, slowly emerging from the darkness to the border of the light, they come. Four of them.

A lion, a bear, a badger and a man.

They look at me across the table, uncertain why I am here.

We dreamed you, says the lion. He is golden, imperious.

We dreamed you, says the bear. He is tall, black, deep.

We dreamed you, says the man. I know him.

The badger nods silently. He is coarse, rough, ready.

I don’t understand, I say. Is this the final scene?

The badger leans forward and shakes his bristly head. His voice is cool and clear when it comes, but there is thunder chasing at its heels.

We dreamed you, he says.

We dreamed you so that you would write us.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010

On Board For The Long Game

It's official - I need to shed a few pounds.

Check it out. Excuse the feet; today's socks were dismal.

I have no idea why 282 pounds* was the straw that broke the camel's back, but there it is. And no, I wasn't carrying a sack of spuds at the time. I suspect I may look like I'm carrying a sack of spuds, though.

[* Measured on more robust industrial scales. ]

Actually, no, I'm still looking ok. I'm 6'5", and I'm told I carry it well. I know what my doctor thinks my weight should be**, and frankly I don't give a hoot. My only yardstick is whether I'm content as I am. And I don't mind carrying some extra most of the time, it suits me well enough. But lately, the suit trousers are coming up a bit snug, and those are the big ones. Remember the cool dark blue suit with the waistcoat? Lovely. What a waste.

[** And for what it's worth, he uses insurance charts rather than medical ones; they come up a bit heavier, but he says they're better researched.]

So, I'm officially announcing I will be losing some poundage. Forty two pounds to be exact. There's no significance to this number other than it is a deeply significant number. A number you can trust and mistrust in equal measure.

I will not be following some faddy diet. Someone wise said long ago that people do not need diets; they need a change of lifestyle. I agree. And this wild bachelor lifestyle with its lazy eating habits needs to change. But never fear, iDifficult will periodically force me to eat pizza and curry in large amounts.

I'll post a Captain's Blog Supplemental if there's anything interesting to report. Good grief, it's barely worth a single blog entry, let alone getting together with my vanity to produce offspring.

Right, I'm off to buy some temporary trousers from my local store. XL, XXL, XXXL, ah here we go... FB. But I will soon be enjoying the dark blue suit, and as time goes by, I'll be back in the slim light brown one. There will be photos.


Roger and out, Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010