I left school when I was 16, which was one reason I was never exposed to the classics. Whenever I thought about them - usually while watching Jason and the Argonauts - I was daunted, imagining impenetrable slabs of arcane language. This ignorance was, on the sly, a badge of honour, right up until I was asked to contribute to an anthology from Nine Arches Press that planned to reimagine Homer’s Odyssey. Rather than admit to never having read the thing, I agreed and crammed it. 

I discovered The Odyssey is a great read, that has endured – at least in part – because of the vividness of its storytelling; there’s nothing taxing about it and discussions over its provenance, or the accuracy of this translation or that don’t detract from the fact that it is – in as much as anything can be – a must read.

Rather than update an event from the text - Odysseus’ encounter with the lotus eaters for example, or Polyphemus or Circe - I decided to rewrite an unusual gap between events. As I wrote in an explanatory para at the end of the book:

‘I decided to re-imagine the moment when Odysseus weeps as a bard recounts the story of the Trojan horse. As a gap in the drive of the narrative – however small – this seemed to be the perfect subject matter. I wrote the story as a stream of consciousness, partly because this is a quintessentially modern idiom, and partly because its conversational style echoes the informality of the oral tradition from which the Odyssey emerged.’

I was reasonably happy with my effort. I knew it could have done with another draft or two but that’s sometimes the way when you’re trying to do something different, to a deadline…

‘Odysseus weeps, as the bard at the Phaeacian games tells the story of the Trojan horse...

... blimey it’s hot. where am I again? let’s see. that was Park Hill, we’ve had the church, there’s the Prince – looking good as usual – so this must be...ah yes. Chantry. the very same. carpet of cherry blossom, frondy beds, perfumed billows of flowers. Nice House Road if you will and of course you will and how did i get here, if anyone asks? oh, the usual, you know me. passing through. carried by a breeze, blown by the wind, born on the whims of the gods of wine and chat, looking for heaven knows what...well. texted anyway. ‘there’s a barbie on. open house type thing. pop by, I’m sure you’ll be welcome.’ I’ll bet. bound to be someone there who knows of me. got to be close to a fixture at this sort of thing by now, as i drift from gathering to gathering, a little bit legendary, a little bit mysterious. it’s a dirty job and all that. could do with it too – a few tots, maybe a few stories – way i’ve been since last week, since that party on Cotton Lane. thought i was losing it there, a couple of times. head music. most unlike me, most odd. oh well. onwards, as ever. up the drive, front door’s open, in i go. aha! so it’s his do. I’ve heard tell of him, of his get togethers. he’s Moseley royalty, he is. excellent. i can certainly live with that and...oh my. it is a Nice House. let’s see. oak floored hall, big stairs, feature vase, or is that an urn? telly in there, 53 kitchen through there. into the back room – nice fireplace – smell of cooking meat – pork, maybe – coming in through the French windows. aah! French windows – simple, timeless – why mess with the classics? – and now a patio. moss-aged brickwork. pastel blue wall. honeysuckle/ivy trellis, ooh, that’s nice, a ceramic mosaic, goddess/nymph-type thing, mirrors in her hair, mischief in her eyes... there’s the barbie. wooden table of food, one, two Greek salads, bowls of olives, hummus, and what’s that? aha, baba ganoush. quite a crowd an’ all, no surprise there. power milling holding court, bit of the old woffwoff; typically Mose by the looks. professional class or thereabouts. the modestly great and relatively good: teachers, academics, arts administrators, probably the odd theatre designer, session musician, internet summat. the vibe sunday-boho: understated statement shirts, an occasional beard, the odd pair of – ouch – inadvisable shorts. teens and kids too, detached, or running about in a boutique-festival style. let’s see: Cassandra? that figures. Drew? hmm. Megan but of course. more wafts of meat. bi-ig lawn, fire pit. tinkling: glasses on glasses, laughter, keyboards, the music rocksteady, i recognise this one – Jackie Mittoo – a little bit out there but safe enough – comfortingly familiar, reassuringly exotic – very Moseley, very Nice House Road. so. where do I start? glass of wine and back into the front room i think. telly was on, showing the Olympics. might settle the nerves, dispel the jitters – yup, anxious again, head’s not quite right – why is that? – help me to get my bearings before i dive in... phew, it’s cooler in here. and – bloody hell – maler than outside, if that’s possible. surfeit of Team GB shirts. poor chat, though there’s no surprise there. typical sports fan shortage of wit – ‘Did you know the Olympics started in Much Wenlock?’ says a fella in leather sandals. and then, of course, a tautness of nearly pros, in the corner, once removed from the hoi polloi. genuine athletes. clean shaven, less booze, thin muscular. climbers i’ll bet, or runners or cyclists. L’Etape, no doubt – oh yeah there it is. wait til they clock me – a little bit lairy, a little bit hairy – i’ll be fair game. someone’s bound to come the billy big bollocks, though this is Nice House Road so it’ll be on the sly. ahh, he’s the fella: him there, gesturing at the telly in a triathlon tee. I Do It For The Pain. please, please tell me you’re not trying to impress me with that – swig of wine – oh here we go – what’s that mate? ‘Do you follow athletics, then?’ i knew it. challenge disguised as polite enquiry. ok, ok, you asked for it (and thank you, goddess whoever you are...): ‘Not any more. I used to. When I was a kid, I was area champion at the javelin. And there was none of this aerodynamic rubbish they throw these days, I can tell you. Lead mate, made out of lead they were...’ do you see, mate? ‘...so yeah. But then – cut a long story short – I went abroad for a couple of years, did a bit of travelling in the Med. Hitching rides on cargo ships and ferries and the like, dodging civil wars and revolutions...’ and yeah, you might look impressed, ‘...which takes it out of your body in the end. Not that I’m unfit – you just pick up a different sort of fitness. Do you know what I mean?...’ – so there you have it. you did ask. but then that’s me, that’s what i do these days, when i’m on my game at least – another slurp. i tell stories. and do you know why, mate? (been thinking about this.) because anyone can go charging about the place, doing stuff. triathlon-ing – though that’s the least of it – and the rest. i mean i’ve done my share of that. i’ve made hell and merry on my travels, seen palaces and kings, i’ve shadow-wrestled with politics and monsters and love. but it isn’t enough. you’ve got to tell the world about it too. because that’s where you’re alive, in the telling, in your stories, in the way you choose to edit the stuff you do. in fictions – anecdotal, honed – in rhetoric, self deprecation, the piss-take and front, in observations and asides, in apercus and pith and one-liners and wit. in ‘have you heard?’ and ‘you’ll never guess what’, in stories that get you out of bother or into bed, that help you sleep at night, or give you confidence or a finger up your arsehole. in chat that makes you laugh or gives you peace of mind. i’m wiser in my stories, wiser, funnier, more enduring, more heroic. better too, better at everything i’m known for, better at sports, better at love, better at drinking and fighting, at telling stories or work – whatever that is – better at being a shit or swearing. or, come to think of it, worse. i mean that’s the thing, it depends how it plays. so. how did that chat play, with the rest of the room? am i on my game? let’s see. quick scan, bit of eye contact from that bunch over there – not too much, some down the nose; lots of averted gazes. you don’t fool me. i see that interest, those smirks – sandal man, i’m looking at you – you’ve been listening alright, all of you, of course you have. because everyone listens to someone like me. because you might be alive in your own stories, but you’re alive in other people’s too: you’re him he’s talking about or her, the hero or heroine or villain or dick; you’d have done that slightly differently – shake head – or that just the same – affirmative nod... any road. that’s enough of that – rub face (still not right, jitters unassuaged) another drop – blimey wine’s gone – it’s time to move on, leave this lot to their sports and games. looks like the fella in the sandals is coming too. maybe i’ve got myself another follower. hmm. not sure what i think about that just now. oh well. pffff. onwards, as ever. into the back room. and what do we have here? small group of people in front of the mirror by the fireplace, more typical Moseley woffwoff. holiday chat by the sounds: beardy bloke taking the piss, her in the maxi dress doing herself down and wait for it... yeah, there it is: the obligatory sat nav gag.... should i dive in there, give them the benefit of my chat? i could tell them the story about wild camping on Paxos, some of the lads falling foul of the local brew, the lass with the glint in her eye; or the one about when we were threatened by that gangster, crippled fella lived up in the mountains... face it, it’s all quality stuff. that’s why i’m in demand. then again – blimey that’s some frown – do you know what? i’m not sure i’m in the mood for this after all. for any of it. bit discombobulated to tell the truth, bit all over the shop; pulse’s skittering, breathing’s rushed – is that heat or wine or am i losing it again? i don’t know but i need to sort this out, whatever it is. into the garden i reckon, listen to some tunes – the music’s still good; spot of Toots – get some air, that might help. through the French windows – mind the step – that wasn’t very cool –and outside... ah. patio’s full. sea of people, haze of voices. very close. very sweaty. no air after all. hotter than before, if that’s possible. oh well, i’m here now. deep breath – in through the nose, out through the mouth – quick refill and in i go for a (hopefully restorative) mingle. let’s see. what’s the chat like? blimey that’s pedestrian, even for Nice House Road. all marinade recipe this, Instagram that, book group the other. wireless providers. that or nostalgia, the old ones reworked, retold – ‘do you remember Chloe? Chloe ran away with Tom’; ‘what about Penny?’ ‘Penny with the beret?’; ‘No, that was Dennis. Dennis goes glamping’ – oh this is no good, no good whatsoever. it’s more than pedestrian actually, it’s stultifying. oppressive. and it ain’t helping my head. neither’s he, as it goes. sandals man. holding court by the halloumi kebabs. he’s looking rather smug all of a sudden, a little supercilious. it’s as if he’s orchestrating the conversation, but there’s more to it than that. ever since he heard my chat, he’s been trying to catch my eye. almost as if he wants me to take the floor again, tell a few more stories, like i’m some sort of entertainment. I don’t think so, mate, really i don’t. i mean where do you get off with that? who do you think you are? who do you think i am? and now – oh great, it gets better – now he’s trying to liven things up by giving everyone the benefit of his own chat. ‘I know this one! It’s an old Trojan Records number. Takes me right back, I can tell you, to long summers and being young...’ here we go ‘...the world was bigger back then, do you know what I mean?...’ oh really? do tell ‘...but that didn’t stop us from wanting to see it. That’s right! By any means necessary! One chap I remember had a crazy idea about setting off in the footsteps of...’ hang on ‘...yeah, he was from round here as it happens...’ hang on a minute. is that... is that me he’s talking about? i mean i remember that too, well almost at least ‘...last anyone heard of him he was in jail on Gozo...’ it is! that’s me he’s on about! – well sort of at least – Jesus Christ! talk about kicking a man when he’s down. is this what it’s come to? is this  all i am round here? someone to be trotted out like Tom or Dennis or Chloe whenever the chat gets too Dennis or Chloe or Tom? is this all i am? existing – enslaved – in fragments, anecdotes, apercus, one-liners, sweaty above the perfumed gardens of Mose – a javelin champion travelling the Med, dodging wars and revolutions, a fella from round here, with a crazy idea, last seen in a jail on Gozo – in fictions, part-truths, evasions distortions. in stories. edited? bullshat more like. reworked? retold? regurgitated more like, by gatherings of Moseley royalty, by professional Nice House Roaders living vicariously up or down, living through me in so much woffwoff – comfortingly familiar, reassuringly exotic – like over-chewed youth or barely palatable thirty-plus regret, like the cud of a goat, the bullshat cud – yeah that’s right – the bullshat cud of a goat – did I ever tell you about that goat I saw on the back of that mule? it was three in the morning blah de fuckitty blah. pffffffffff. fffppbbbbbb. rub face. i mean don’t get me wrong. we’re all made-up. we’re all stories. that’s where we’re alive, in the stories we tell ourselves and other people, in all this stuff that happens once or doesn’t and then is told and told again until it does; we become it – i become it – ‘that’s epic, mate! you’re a legend!’ as the son of that fella said to me the other day. but i’ll tell you the difference, i’ll tell you the difference, it’s this, this is the difference: I’ve told too many stories. it’s all i am. i’ve told so many stories i’ve lost myself, i’m alive in other people’s chat but nowhere else and, and... whoah. whoaaah! there’s that thing again – from Cotton Lane – fu-uck – this is too much, the pressure’s almost physical, it’s all closed in and my brain’s gone, just gone, disintegrated fragmented, i’m in pieces, thoughts diffusing – floating away, evaporating in the air around my head – Jesus – squeeze eyes tight shut blink – need to sit down – but where? – deckchair by the barbie, collapse, head in hands – pretend it’s ok – ‘smoke’s in my eyes’ and now – what’s this? – the tears – huhhhhhuhuh – a snivel a heave and i’m gone, my Christ i’m gone... hhhhffffffffhhhhhh... right. right. enough. come on son, take a minute, get a grip of yourself through the nose, through the mouth. so i’ve gone, have i? well then, i need to come back. because whatever i’ve become and wherever i am, this is me and there’s nothing i can do about it: i can’t stop telling stories, because it’s all i am and all there is. so i’ve got to keep going. gathering the pieces, the fragments, putting them together. making new stories, telling more stories. i’ll become whole again – sometime, soon – i have to. in a minute: at next week’s gathering, a do a month from now, a year or two on; eventually, if only in passing. and until then? well, another deep breath, let’s see. stand up. allow myself a smile (Christ. of sorts...). more wine – of course – a fumbled olive, some rice from an opened vine leaf. who’s this? oh great the host – what’s that? ‘what do i do?’ ‘that's a good question...’ rub face, keep going ‘...this and that, you know? Actually, you’ll never guess what...’ and onwards, onwards. onwards as ever...’

My latest collection of short stories – The State of Us: An Anthology – is available now from Fly on the Wall Press and all good bookshops.