Talking Têtes

After two weeks of radio silence from our film correspondent, Terence Gunboat, Concrete Octopus has at last been contacted regarding his whereabouts. Somewhere in darkest Hackney, an organisation known only as The Feckless Hand have taken Terence captive, demanding £3000 in non-sequential bills as well as sixteen pounds of Kerrygold unsalted butter to secure his release.

We sent our culture editor—and renowned performance poet—Oscillation Jones to make the exchange.

Here I am, somewhere in the vicinity of what were once the Hackney Marshes—now the London branch of Octoworld©, the most tentacular amusement park in the solar system. Thanks to the carelessness of my subordinate, Terence Gunboat, I have been tasked with retrieving him from captivity. I am Oscillation Jones and this is a very special instalment of Talking Têtes.

On arrival, I am blindfolded and led by a man claiming to work for The Feckless Hand through what sounds like the entrance to the park, past what is unmistakably their world famous Lo Boob Oscillator ride—rated 9/11 by Concrete Octopus' very own Charlie Mongoose when it opened in August 2001—and down into a concealed subterrain, possibly somewhere beneath the bumper-cars.

??: Arms up.

I oblige, having nothing to hide and being no stranger to the practices of the criminal underworld—having interviewed many of their ilk in my time.

I feel the roving metal-detector skim over my arms and chest, whereupon it lets out an excited squeal. Instantly, two hands grasp the collar of my shirt and wrench it open, exposing my taut nipples to the cool evening air.

??: The fuck is that? Is that a fucking wire?

Oscillation Jones: No, no, that's my microphone—I'm a journalist. I assure you, it's only hooked up to my phone.

??: He's wearing a fucking mic. Jarvis? What should I do—could be cops on the other end?

Jarvis: Has he got the stuff?

OJ: In my bag.

Jarvis: Open it.

I feel my man-bag being hauled from my shoulder, hear the zip opening and the sound of foil being peeled from a fresh block of finest Irish gold.

??: Yeah, it's all there.

Jarvis: Good. Remove the wire and throw him in with the other one. Then get Karpal and tell him we might be expecting company.

The rough hands that so indelicately exposed my tender nipples to the cold grab me and thrust me forwards. I stumble and put up my hands to protect myself. They meet cold brick and dessicated mortar. Blindly, I shamble on until the hands pull me up short. I am whisked around to face my hidden assailant and a moment later, a sharp pain runs through my chest—they have torn my microphone from me, the duct-tap I used to secure it taking most of my chest hair with it. Hinges squeal and I am pushed forwards.

??: Got a friend for you, mate—stupid bastard was wearing a wire. Think on that while Jarvis and Karpal decide what to do with the pair of you.

Footsteps recede into the distance. Once out of earshot another pair of hands untie my blindfold and at last I am able to look around and take in my surroundings. I am in a large cage in what appears to be an electrical substation. I turn and find Terence Gunboat staring at me.

Terence Gunboat: You stupid cunt.

OJ: Terence, please, that kind of language is very unprofessional.

TG: Why the hell were you wearing a wire?

OJ: It wasn't a wire, it was my microphone. You know me, I'm always prepared for an interview, wherever I might find it.

TG: At a fucking hostage exchange?

OJ: Yes, of course. That's the difference between us, Terence—where most people see only the immediate goal of a hostage exchange, I see an opportunity. It's why you'll always be a feature writer, whereas I am the section editor.

TG: Fuck you.

OJ: There's gratitude for you.

TG: Gratitude? What do I have to be grateful for?

OJ: I came here, at great personal expense, to rescue you.

Terence looks around at our cell in mock wonderment.

TG: Well, good fucking job mate. And what the hell do you mean, “great personal expense”?

Terence makes air-quotes around the last phrase in a way that, to my mind, cheapens it.

OJ: I had to pay for my own transport and you know what the editor's like with petty cash—slips right through their fingers.

Terence snorts at the shared joke—his expression softens a little. This is what I do—this is why I am the section editor.

TG: So, what do we do now? You reckon head office will send someone else?

OJ: It's possible, but we have no way of knowing for sure. The best thing we can do is keep ourselves occupied.

TG: What did you have in mind?

OJ: How about we conduct your annual review?

TG: Oh god no. Please. Anything but that.

OJ: Come now Terence, don't be like that—we'll make it fun. You can interview me and I'll give you pointers as we go.

TG: That's what we always do and it's always bloody awful. Please, Oscillation, can't we just sit in silence for a bit instead?

OJ: No dice, amigo—that way madness lies. If, you're not keen on interviewing me, how about we get that bloke to come in here and you can interview him instead?

TG: Which one? Jarvis, Karpal or Cheese?

OJ: Cheese?

TG: I think that's his name. Cheese McCarthy.

OJ: Who calls their child Cheese?

TG: I know right—what a ridiculous name.

OJ: So, what do you think? Talking Têtes with Cheese McCarthy?

TG: Fine, if I have to.

OJ: That’s the spirit. Now, help me get his attention.

Together we succeed in drawing the attention of our captors—Terence, by singing the Jurassic Park theme song at the top of his lungs, I, by reciting Tassels, Bluebeards & Plaster Cheesecake from Iain Sinclair’s Saddling the Rabbit at an equivalent volume. I get as far as the eighth stanza of Gaudy Livers before the man known as Cheese McCarthy arrives on the scene.

Cheese McCarthy: What in the name of bloody fuckingdom is this? You two need to pipe the fuck down.

OJ: Sorry, Mr McCarthy, was it? We were hoping you might do us a small service.

CM: And this is how you get my attention? Going on about “skull suckers” while singing the bleeding Star Wars theme? What’s wrong with rattling the bars with a tin cup?

TG: You took mine away.

CM: Yeah, because you kept doing it and whenever I came in to find out what you wanted you asked to be released, which isn’t usually how a hostage situation works.

OJ: I admit the visceral imagery and free-verse stylings of Iain Sinclair are not to everyone’s tastes and I apologise if his lyric upset you, Mr McCarthy. That said, I believe you are confusing another of the inimitable John Williams’ film scores for the iconic Jurassic Park theme—an easy mistake to make, since when I say inimitable, I mean inimitable by everyone other than John Williams himself.

Cheese McCarthy considers my words before nodding agreeably—this is what we in the trade call “the opening of the mouth”; a vital process if you hope to get information out of an unwilling, or unfriendly subject.

CM: Fair enough, I stand corrected. And, for what it’s worth, I find the visceral imagery of Iain Sinclair quite effective.

OJ: Excellent. So we have found some common ground. Terence, you should be taking notes here.

Terence casts around the cell for a suitable writing implement.

TG: What with?

OJ: Mr McCarthy—

CM: Please, call me Cheese.

OJ: Cheese, can we trouble you for a pen and paper? I’m attempting to conduct an annual review with my subordinate—

TG: Colleague.

OJ: —and without adequate materials, I’m afraid it’ll be all for nought.

CM: Hmm… I probably shouldn’t, but since you asked nicely—and since I liked your rendition of Business Love—what the hell. Here.

Cheese digs a jotter pad and a ballpoint from his pocket and slips it through the bars to Terence.

OJ: Thank you, Cheese. Say thank you, Terence—it’s important to keep your subject on side and to be polite at all times. In fact, you should probably write that down as well while you’re at it.

TG: Thank you, Cheese.

CM: So, what’s this service you’re after?

OJ: My subordinate—

TG: Colleague.

OJ: —would like to interview you—he has much to learn, so I’ll be observing and providing feedback.

CM: You want to interview me?

OJ: That’s right.

CM: No one’s ever asked to interview me before. I’m… I’m touched, honestly. Most people think I’m just some nutter Jarvis and Karpal keep around to do all the dirty work. It’s always “please stop hitting me with my own severed arm” and “please stop pulling my fingernails out with those rusty pliers” never “how are you, Cheese?” or “can I interview you?”

OJ: This is all good stuff, Cheese. Terence, make sure you write a quick description of what Cheese is doing as well—paint a picture for the readers.

TG: I don’t do description, Oscillation—you know that. It’s not my style.

OJ: Terence, you’ve got to work with me here. I don’t want to give you a negative review, but if you insist on being combative, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

TG: Ugh… Fine.

Terence scribbles something in the jotter.

OJ: Read it out to us.

Terence squirms and looks away.

TG: I’d rather not.

OJ: If you’re embarrassed, I’ll read it for you.

I move to take the jotter, but Terence turns away, shielding it from my hand.

TG: No, I’ll do it, I’ll do it, for fuck’s sake.

Terence clears his throat and looks up at Cheese, almost apologetically.

TG: Cheese McCarthy, powerfully built, is reduced to tears by the notion of someone taking an interest in his well-being. The tears roll down his cheeks and yet, this interviewer cannot help but feel they will do little to absolve the man of his sins—these tears will not wash away the blood on his shovel-like hands.

CM: That… That was beautiful.

OJ: See, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Terence?

TG: It felt a bit forced.

Cheese sniffs and wipes away the tears from his cheeks—Terence is right in his assessment of this man, even if his way of expressing it was trite and contriv—

Jarvis: Cheese!? Cheese, where the fuck are you!? We’ve caught another one.

Cheese looks at us apologetically—the expression is mirrored by our own.

CM: We’ll continue this later.

OJ: Of course.

Cheese shambles away, ursine in his proportions—a war-bear with a heart of gold, straight from the pages of a cheap fantasy novel, gone to do their master’s bidding.

He returns a few minutes later with none other than Toe Mogan in tow. Toe seems unperturbed as he is pushed into the cage with us. Ignoring us, the world famous podcaster, asker of questions and political agitator takes a seat on the floor in the lotus position, eyes closed.

CM: Sorry, fellas—I know I’d said we’d continue the interview, but it’s my turn as lookout. I’ll be back in a few hours.

TG: No problem, Cheese. We’ll be here when you’re ready.

Cheese leaves once more, trailing the scent of transgression and regret—what secrets lie within his mind? Could it be that this man has the soul of an artiste? What delicate flowers bloom in his heart?

I made a mental note to look him up if ever Terence and I escaped captivity—perhaps we have inadvertently stumbled across this generation’s Jean Genet?

TG: Is that Toe Mogan?

Toe: I can hear you, you know.

OJ: Yeah, it’s him.

TG: What’s he doing here?

OJ: Ask him—this is the perfect opportunity to continue your annual review.

Toe: No one’s asking me shit. I made a promise to myself after I received my gold Youtube play-button that I would only answer a certain number of questions a year and you hit my quota a couple of weeks ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m practising transcendental meditation to get in touch with my internal Alpha male.

TG: You know all that stuff is bullshit, right? The guy who came up with the terminology—

Toe: I know, I know. It applied to wolves raised in captivity—why the fuck do you think I’m here? To achieve true Alphadom it stands to reason I have to live in captivity for a while.

TG: So, where’s Lamie?

Toe: I’m not answering that. Rephrase it as a statement, not a question.

TG: Er… Lamie isn’t here. I would like to know where he is.

Toe: Good, now you’re learning. Lamie isn’t here because I sent him for maintenance—one side of his body is starting to turn back into meat-glue—it’s fucking gross. Plus he kept asking me to install third-party software on his memory core—like I’m going to invalidate my warranty so he can know what love feels like, I mean seriously, the only love he needs to know is my two-and-a-half inches of Newark meat-steel in his tender boy-pussy each evening. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to imagine what it’s like to be a wolf in captivity, elected from amongst its peers to lead a pack of wild, but also captive, animals.

TG: You know the Alpha designation was just a way of labelling the breeding pair—the surrogate parents. It had nothing to do with—

Toe: Shut the fuck up! Who the fuck do you think you are? What makes you the fucking expert, huh? You think I give a shit what you have to say? I don’t, because I’m the Alpha here, not you and right now, you’re trying to dominate my narrative. No one dominates my narrative. Last person to do that got gogoplata’d into another fucking dimension—you know what that is?

Terence and I shake our heads—despite Toe’s obvious wrath, he hasn’t moved a muscle this entire time. I marvel at his self-control.

Toe: It’s where you choke someone out using your fucking shins and their soul leaves their body for a while—goes on a fucking adventure, like in Final Fantasy, or something. You ever play Final Fantasy, huh? You ever been to Balamb fucking Garden? Do you even know what a moogle is?

OJ: I think it’s probably for the best if we leave him alone for a while, Terence.

Toe: Do you?

OJ: Don’t answer that, Terence, it’s a trick.

Toe: Smart man. Real clever. Clearly the brains of the operation.

Terence opens his mouth to reply, but I quickly smother him with my hand. I shake my head emphatically and Terence seems to calm down—I have the touch when it comes to this sort of thing and I have used it to great effect many times before to sooth problematic subjects in the field. I remove my hand.

TG: So, what do we do now? We can’t carry on the review without an interview subject—and before you say it again, I’m not interviewing you, Oscillation, my nerves can’t take it.

Toe: Pussy.

OJ: Ignore him, Terence. You’re right, there’s no point carrying on. If only Milton Pisshatch were here. He’d know what to do.

TG: Who?

OJ: Milton Pisshatch—before your time. He was Concrete Octopus’ resident illustrator and head of drugs back in the early 2010s.

TG: Head of drugs? What did that entail?

OJ: I thought that would be self-evident. He went around making sure everyone at the office was off their tits. He'd come around every day—well, multiple times a day, actually—and make sure everyone was up, no one was down and everything was hunky dory.

TG: Why did they get rid of the role?

OJ: They didn't.

TG: Then why haven't I ever been offered anything?

Toe: Because you're lame. Hah! ZING! Write that down Lam… Oh, right he's not here is he?

OJ: You haven't been offered any free drugs at the office because when Milton retired, they assigned John to the role.

TG: John? You mean John Fuckface?

OJ: The very same. Now, you know why he's called Fuckface, right? I mean, it's literally his name, but apart from that, it's also because he's incredibly fucked, all the time. Like, constantly. I mean you've read his articles haven't you?

TG: I sort of assumed he was just a myth—like Santa Claus, or Jackalopes.

Toe: Jackalopes exist, motherfucker—I’ve shot at least twenty of the bastards out in the Sierra Valley. Bloodthirsty pricks—I’ve seen one rip the head off a gun-dog in three seconds flat.

OJ: Oh, he exists alright—in as far as you can call melting into a soup of psychic nonsense every waking hour of every waking day “existing”.

TG: And he never shares his stash? How does he get away with it?

OJ: Well, there is one person he shares with—Edgar Roseveare. God knows why, but he's the only one to get a taste of what John's packing—and usually, John's packing an absolute motherload. I mean, the guy's like a walking pharmacist.

Toe: I knew a pharmacist—best pharmacist this side of San Bernardino county. Prescribed anything you could want; Ritalin, octopine, Ivermectin, you name it.

TG: Is he going to keep doing that?

Toe: Wait! Shut up! I’m breaking through guys.

OJ: Breaking through what?

Toe: Don’t ask, just hand me that bucket in the corner.

TG: I feel obliged to tell you I’ve been shitting in that thing for the last couple of weeks.

Toe: Perfect, hand it over!

Terence gingerly hands Toe the bucket. Toe, in an impressive feat of gymnastic strength, raises himself on his hands and lowers his hindquarters over the bucket. Fart after fart erupts from Toe’s arse, as if he is passing the entire Horsehead Nebula through his rectum. This continues for several minutes and I am amazed at the amount of gas contained within the man’s digestive tract. Just as it seems like it will never end, Toe grasps the bucket by its rim, lifts himself into the air and raises his legs—still crossed in the lotus position—until his head is mere inches from the bucket’s filthy interior. So oriented, he starts to breathe deeply, huffing his own farts like a solvent addict huffing spraypaint.

Toe: Almost there!

Just then, three men enter the room—one is Cheese, the other two I can only presume to be Jarvis and Karpal.

CM: Oi! What the hell does he think he’s doing?

Jarvis: Karpal, get the Spas-12—we’ve got ourselves a live one.

The man named Karpal rushes from the room.

Toe: I am the transcendent Alpha, mine is the yiff that pierces the heavens, I will be reborn on wings of testosterone and male pattern baldness!

Jarvis: The fuck’s he on about?

We shake our heads, eyes fixed on Toe—his skin has gone the colour of a raw hot-dog and his veins are engorged, pulsing with life.

Suddenly, without warning, he springs from his precarious position, flipping in mid-air, uncrossing his legs to land on his feet, arms outstretched.

Toe: Ten out of ten! The crowd goes wild!

Jarvis: Seriously, is he okay?

Toe: Grab my deltoids!

TG: Your what now?

OJ: His shoulders.

Toe: That’s right, you beta-cuck bitch.

We oblige, feeling the power surging through his musculature, like a toad on amphetamines.

Toe: Welcome to the Toe Mogan Inperience, motherfucker!

What happens next is a blur. Toe lowers his head like a bull readying to charge. There is a bunching of muscle beneath my hands and then, he shoots forward like a cannonball, shattering the door to the cell. Jarvis stands before us. It is too late—he doesn’t have time to move out of the way before Toe has collided with him, reducing him to a bloody mist. I am momentarily blinded by a stray length of large intestine. By the time I clear my vision, we are outside, hurtling at an ungodly speed through Octoworld ©, through the streets of Hackney, down towpaths and across dual-carriageways before finally coming to a screeching halt outside the Bauhaus Warehaus on Dalston Kingsland Road.

We clamber from Toe’s shoulders and retreat to a safe distance while he uproots a bus shelter with his bare hands and starts to eat it. We have done all we can—with his assistance, we have escaped the clutches of The Feckless Hand and, with any luck, the grisly death of Jarvis Lautrec will be attributed to Toe, our role in the affair forgotten.

Terence and I exchange a nod. For a moment, it seems as though all of London has fallen silent. Then Toe runs headlong into a double-decker bus, destroying it instantly.

Terence and I turn tail and flee into the night.

Terence Gunboat will return to his duties as film correspondent next week with an exclusive interview with Martha Fugnugget, just as soon as he’s washed all the bone fragments out of his hair.

Oscillation Jones’ new poetry collection Virtually Here: A B-Minus Future in Retrograde is available to purchase from all reputable bookshops. Extracts can be found on the Poetry Corner section of the Concrete Octopus website.

Toe Mogan is still at large and is considered highly dangerous—if encountered in the wild, we urge our readers not to engage him for their personal safety and, for the sake of their sanity, not to ask him any questions.