Ray Stubbs' Insomnia

RAY STUBBS' INSOMNIA

Can't sleep.

I get dressed and go for a walk along the Albert Embankment, heading
for St Thomas' Hospital in Waterloo.

Really, I should have a pistol by now. Guy had better be there by the
hospital.

I see Westminster bridge, the Houses of Parliament and the clock of Big
Ben.

Guy was supposed to come round to my place with the pistol.

I wanted to stay indoors and watch my recorded tapes of Football Focus,
presented by Ray Stubbs. When I can't sleep, Stubbsy, Lawro and the
boys make me feel safe, secure, restoring what I call my centre of
gravity.

Stubbsy is my rock. I have practised smiling like the anchorman and I
think the likeness is uncanny.

I reach the spot by the river next to St Thomas' Hospital. This is
where us insomniacs come to gather. Our numbers are growing. I
recognise the regulars and the additions, a couple of them famous like
Stubbsy (who I'm always too shy to speak to) and another sports
presenter, Doogie Donnelly; of the politicians, I think I recognise
Henry Kissinger. Either it's Kissinger or a dead ringer for Nixon's
former right hand man.

Predictably, Guy is here, looking at the Houses of Parliament and, in
his mind's eye, seeing the building blown to smithereens. I creep up to
him and, when close enough I shout: 'WHERE'S MY PISTOL?'

He jumps, frightened, thinking I'm MI5. He makes to run and then sees
it's me. 'Youuuuu tosser. You scared me to death,' he says.

We're too noisy for the insomniacs. Every one of them - all except
Kissinger - put their fingers to their lips and go, 'SHOOOSH.'

There aren't any rules here but its understood that, as in a library or
a church, quietness should be observed at all times. Guy and myself
apologise but some of the insomniacs are cowering behind a bench,
curling on the pavement into the foetal position, whimpering, sucking
their thumbs. Others carry on regardless, such as the woman kneeling on
a prayer mat, and a Rabbi is reciting the Jewish prayer for the dead;
Ray Stubbs is standing to attention, saluting Westminster and Doogie
Donnelly is saying: 'So let's see what the state of play is after
today's action?'

Again and again Doogie says this, hushed and yet repeatedly so it
becomes a mantra.

Kissinger walks between the insomniacs, saying: 'The communist threat
to democracy must not be underestimated. We must preserve the modality
of the ethical as represented by modern civilisation, to protect the
democratic foundations of the free world?'

On they go, chanting.

I turn to Guy.

He says: 'Can you fire a rocket?'

'No,' I reply.

'Shame.'

'Where's my gun?'

'What gun?'

'The one you said you'd get.'

'I never said that.'

'You did.'

'Yeah, right.'

'But you did.'

'Where would I get a gun?'

'You're the terrorist, you tell me?'

'I'm not a terrorist.'

'You are.'

'That kind of talk can get people into trouble.'

'You boasted about it.'

'Is that right?' he says, sneezing. He pulls a handkerchief from the
breast pocket of his coat and blows his nose.

Wearily, he says, 'A date's been set.'

'For what?'

He points to the Houses of Parliament.

'You're going to blow it up?'

'That's right. I can't tell you the exact date. All I'm saying is,
remember November.'

He gazes at parliament. 'Penny for the Guy,' he says with a shake of
the head.

'Okay, I say, 'surely it's fair that if I fire a rocket then in return
you'll get me a gun?'

He seems to consider a reply and, just as I think he is about to say
yes, Kissinger barges in and says: 'Do you know what a crime against
humanity is?'

I glance at him, the thick lenses of his spectacles, his black tie,
beige linen jacket and white shirt sticking to his obese, sweating
body. He doesn't bother himself with introductions. To Guy, he says:
'Tell me, what do you think is meant by a crime against
humanity?'

'Cutting off a bloke's pride and joy while he's alive and shoving it
into his mouth,' says Guy.

Kissinger smiles. 'Wrong,' he says with authority. To me, he says: 'Do
you know what a crime against humanity is?'

I have a think. It's the other night. Has to be. So I say: 'Ronnie's
Off-License across the road from me shuts at ten in the evening. I'm in
the flat and have half a bottle's worth remaining of Hungarian Red and
a bottle, or so I thought, chilled in the fridge. I decide against
going to the Off-License as I've been drinking all day and reckon a
bottle and a half will knock me out. I finish the already opened red
and fall asleep on the sofa watching Later with Jools Holland. Anyway,
I wake up on the sofa and it's half four in the morning, the tv is on
and I have a raging, awful thirst. I go to the kitchen to open the
fridge for that chilled bottle of Hungarian Red and it's not there.
It's gone. I've made a mistake in thinking it was there and I've no
support, no cheeky stash of tinnies as back up and nowhere, nowhere to
buy a bottle at that time of night. Was I gutted or what? Two hours I
had to wait for a shop to open before I could buy more booze and all
the while I knew it was avoidable, that if only I had got off my
backside and checked the fridge I could've spared myself the pain. Two
hours. I've never known anything quite like it. The fact that nowhere
was open. That's a crime if ever there was one.'

I can see from Kissinger's expression that I've said something to upset
him. He licks his lips, strokes his chin, adjusts his glasses and says,
'Hungarian Red, that's interesting. Why would anyone in a democracy
drink red, East European wine?'

'Whaooh there Kissinger, mate,' I say, 'it's not a political
statement.'

'This,' says Kissinger, 'is precisely the problem in an age when
standards have slackened. We must be strong. We must shore ourselves up
against complacency. A crime against humanity is appeasement to
communism, to tyranny, to the red menace. US intelligence shows that
Hungarian Red is an insidious communist weapon to pollute your true,
honest, western self. Drink white wine. White is good. Preferably
Californian. It'll clear your head, cleanse your soul and make you
understand what the evil red is doing to the sanctity of this
planet.'

I'm not accepting Kissinger's line. 'Listen,' I say, 'the manager of my
local Off-License, Ronnie, he votes Tory. He still believes Thatcher
saved Britain. He told me that both he and his wife, Fiona, think so
highly of Maggie that to this very day Fiona will dress up in her blue
two piece suit, putting on a wig to become the Iron Lady. Fiona wears
this outfit and barks orders at Ronnie, who wears a miner's hard hat
and jeans, his body smeared in dirt. She orders him about their four
bedroom semi in Hornchurch. He says he gets the biggest stalk on him
when his wife, in her fifties I might add, straps on her thirteen inch
red, white and blue dildo. She then orders him to play the Last Night
at the Proms and commands him to pull down his jeans and Y-fronts. He
gets on all fours and she says: "Where there is discord, may we bring
harmony, where there is despair, may we bring hope", and then she fucks
him up the arse to the rousing sound of Blake's Jerusalem.

'Knowing this, knowing what Ronnie is like, are you trying to suggest
that he is involved in a conspiracy, a communist one at that, if he
sells Hungarian Red?'

Kissinger grins. He thinks he knows everything. 'Communism,' he says,
'is a virus. Your generation fail to realise how vigilant you must be
to its multiple forms and guises. Today's bleeding heart liberals may
question America's history of pursuing a strictly ethical foreign
policy in South East Asia, South America, Central America and the
Middle East. Let me put it another way, if we hadn't bombed Laos, where
do you think we'd be now? We have to do whatever it takes to preserve
human rights. It may not always be without regrettable consequences but
it's our moral duty to make tough decisions and preserve democracy and
free trade against all types of tyranny and oppression, communist or
otherwise. Failure to live up to that noblest of tasks is a crime
against humanity.'

Kissinger waits for applause.

Guy sneezes and walks to the stone wall of the embankment to stare
across the river at the Houses of Parliament.

I want to go home and watch Football Focus. But then, I must have a
pistol.

'Do you understand?' says Kissinger.

He's scaring me.

'Do you?'

'Yes,' I say, weakly.

He shuffles away to rant at the woman on the prayer mat.

I go to Guy; I tap his shoulder. He doesn't respond. 'Don't ignore me,'
I say.

It's no use.

I smile at Stubbsy. He retains his statuesque salute, immovable.

I walk back towards my flat in Vauxhall.

Tomorrow, I'll get the pistol.

These are dangerous times for drinkers of Hungarian Red.