…and Pineapple

Hamilton’s way of life was under threat. He was reminded of this fact virtually every second of his too long two day visit to the metropolis. The forces of destruction were everywhere. From the hideous spectacle of half-formed men camping in doorways, the constant babble of incomprehensible languages on The Tube, the Asian woman hidden by veils, the endless stream of smug cyclists, the girls kissing girls, the boys kissing boys, the girls wanting to be boys, the boys wanting to be girls; it seemed as though the world had broke itself loose from the moorings of morality and was floating in a gender-bending, car-hating, multi-ethnic, politically correct, storm cloud of confusion. He hated the place and wanted to get home.

A feeling of dislocation from the modern world stuck with him as he stood at King’s Cross waiting for the 17.10 back to Leeds, then home to Harrogate. To make matters worse he was hungry. He was always hungry. And even though his Doctor had recently suggested his obesity was reaching the morbid stage he couldn’t do anything to satiate his appetite. As usual the concourse was packed with commuters of every tinge waiting for the message board to reveal the platform before they could run to board the trains that would eventually allow them to escape this modern day Sodom. But he couldn’t leave this spot because if he did the platform would be announced and he’d have little time to board. He had to wait with the rest of the animals hoping to escape the slaughter house.

Leeds. Delay. 20 mins.

Shit. Of course it was. Everything in this huge fuck up of a county was broken and wrecked. There were simply too many people, clogging up the system.

He tutted loudly to himself.

“Fucking shit man. Tory bastard’s right?” The speaker was a young woman with a pierced nose and blue hair. Why was she speaking to him? He didn’t respond but made a hasty getaway. At least he could use his wasted time to get something to eat.

As he shuffled through the concourse on route to the ‘food court’ he thought about the woman’s hair. Why was it blue? Not blue in a ‘blue rinse’ like the old women of his childhood used to have but actually blue- bright electric blue. What did her parents think? Probably nothing, they probably paid to have it done along with the piercing and tattoos and all the other crap that the young went in for nowadays. This was the world he now lived in, a world where everything was allowed; everyone was accepted; nothing was denied. Except of course- him. Oh yes you could be anything you wanted to be other than a socially conservative, middle-aged, white man in a freshly ironed Boden shirt and smart Harris Tweed blazer. No, he wasn’t allowed.

And where could you even eat in this place? Everything was Sushi this and Tapas that. He needed food. Actual food: none of this foreign muck. He had less than twenty minutes now and if he didn’t eat soon he’d pass out. But where? There was nothing for a man like him, a man in his own country badly in need of sustenance.

They came for steak and kidney.

And I said nothing.

They came for beef dripping.

And I said nothing.

They came for suet puddings,

And I said nothing.

Then they came for the sausage rolls.

But there was nobody left to speak out for the sausage rolls.

It had to be said Hamilton’s love affair with the greasy meat based snack was a recent thing and was still in the stage of passionate intensity. He loved them, he truly did. In fact if anyone tried to take them from him they’d have to prise them from his cold dead porky fingers first.

Initially his infatuation had begun as an act of resistance after he discovered that the ubiquitous High Street bakery had started to stock something called ‘a vegan sausage roll’. Firstly such a Frankenstein’s monster was an affront to logic. A ‘sausage’ was made from meat- primarily pork but lamb and beef were also allowed. Whereas, a ‘vegan’ was someone who (for whatever perverse reason) only ate plant based products. Ergo– ‘a vegan sausage roll’ was a contradiction in terms. Secondly, it was a direct attack on his rights, rights he was prepared to defend to the death. Indeed, such was his commitment to the cause that over the past month or so he’d consumed on average three a day, more on the weekends.

He didn’t have to walk too far along Euston Road until he found the blue and white temple he was looking for.

“Can I help you?” He couldn’t tell whether the young female assistant was Italian, Portuguese or Brazilian. Either way she wasn’t English. No one was.

“Yes. Three sausage rolls. Please.”

He stood and glared and waited for a challenge to his gluttony but disappointingly none came so, when she asked ‘warmed-up’? He simply nodded and grunted his approval.

Of course, his self-appointed role as defender of all things sausage wasn’t entirely altruistic. As the joint owner of Bettabred– the North Yorkshire based animal feed company- his indulgence was also governed by the need to earn a crust. With frightening clarity he pictured the chain of events that would lead to his downfall. If no one ate animals they’d be no pigs, sheep or cows. Did the evil vegans realise this or did they somehow believe farmers would keep them as unprofitable and useless pets from the sheer goodness of their hearts? Of course they bloody wouldn’t. Life wasn’t some mad illustration from a Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet. Life was the cold hard facts of pounds, shillings and pence and the ultimate bottom line. No doubt about it- no meat-eaters- no animals- no animal feed- no Bettabred– no profit- no home. Result: Hamilton, his wife and his daughter dossing in a shop doorway drinking their own piss.

“Sorry. Could you make it four….five please?

“Sure. You hungry yes?”

“Yes. Very.”

Hamiliton was licking the buttery grease from his porcine fingers when the platform number was shown. Platform 8. And, like the rest of the impatient herd, who’d been delayed by fifty minutes, he ran as fast as his chunky legs could carry him to board.

Thankfully First Class was less than half full. He found his reserved table seat in the centre of the carriage. There was no one sat at the opposite table and he had his own two seats completely to himself. After the noise and endless movement of the station it felt good to be here in his  exclusive leather domain. He wasn’t sure how much the tickets cost- he never was as he left such mundane matters as making travel arrangements with Bettabred’s secretary Susan. Still, he had an inkling that they were expensive, particularly as he always booked both seats for himself so he wouldn’t be disturbed while he was working. A lesser man than Hamiliton may have considered booking two first class seats  excessive largess, unfair even (particularly as many Standard Class ticket holders didn’t have a seat and had to squat down in the spaces between the carriages). However, Hamiliton was not a lesser man and lived by the maxim that you didn’t make the poor richer by being poorer yourself. And in any case it’s not as if the plebs could afford a seat in First so the debate was purely hypothetical.

As the train shot past Alexandria Palace the first class waiter- a tall African man- asked if he would like anything to eat or drink.

“Yes. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and…I don’t suppose you have any sausage rolls?”

He turned on his i-phone and could see that it was virtually out of power. He sent Georgia a quick text telling her that he was running late, switched it off and placed it in his bag. The time was now completely his own.

The train was pulling out of Stevenage when he heard the announcement.

If any standard ticket holders would like to upgrade to first class please speak to the conductor…

He blinked sharply out of his slumber. His lap top was on, showing an Ed Excel spreadsheet of various suppliers and their associated costs. Next to it was an empty bottle of wine and a plate littered with buttery crumbs. What was this? Were they really going to allow anyone to come and invade his carriage?  How would he get any work done if more people came in and disturbed him? He pressed the sebum coated key pad and waited.

The first intruder was a young man in his early twenties in an orange puffa jacket and a bright purple bobble hat. He looked briefly at Hamilton but Hamilton glared at him, indicating on no account was he prepared to have him sat in the double table seats across the aisle. Thankfully, he didn’t and strode cockily up the carriage. Next was an old man in a beige overcoat struggling with a battered brown suitcase. Still Hamilton glared but it was unnecessary as he shuffled past with no intention of bothering anyone. That was the thing about the poor old, they knew their place. He didn’t belong here and was acutely aware of the fact. He waited expectantly, realising to his horror that the double table seat opposite was still unoccupied and they were no reservation tickets stuck in the top of the seats. He still had his though, maybe if he placed them in quickly any further invader would simply glance at them and believe they were all booked. He didn’t have time to put this plan into action though because in slammed a woman in her early thirties with two small children- a boy and a girl- in tow.

They immediately grabbed the vacant table seats.

“Here Mama?”

“Si, si, Pedro. Maria next to your brother.”

The two children quickly sat down. The girl was wearing an I Heart London baseball cap. She smiled at Hamilton. He didn’t smile back.

The more Hamilton tried to ignore this intrusion the tighter his jaw-line became and the wider his nostrils flared. Particularly as the woman had taken out a plastic tub of what suspiciously looked like cold Paella from her bag and was ramming huge forkfuls into her mouth, filling the carriage with the cloying stench of garlic. Then there was the noise as the two little brats noisily played snap on the table- whacking their cards down on the Formica with squealing glee. What was wrong with Europeans, couldn’t they plug their off-spring into technology like normal people? Of course he could move but why should he? They were, after all, his seats; not to mention, his carriage and his country. There had to be some form of redress. He was a relatively regular FIRST CLASS customer. Surely he had rights.

He was coming out of the toilet when he spotted the guard.

“Excuse me. I’ve got a complaint.”

“Yes?” Asked the ginger haired guard, who had a dark grease stain down the front of his pale blue shirt. “What is it?”

“Well it’s the first class carriage. I’m a first class customer. It’s about the other people.”

“What people?”

“The people who’ve upgraded, they’re disturbing me. Could you please tell them to move?”

The guard looked witheringly at Hamilton and pointed out it was company policy to let customers upgrade if there were seats available in first class. Were these people making an unnecessary noise? Yes, they were playing snap. Loudly?  Fairly loudly. Plus, they shouldn’t be there. But, it was company policy.

“I’ve booked two tickets.”

“Sorry, there’s two of you?”

“No. Just me.”

“Right. But you’ve booked two tickets?”

“Yes.”

“Right…well, I’m not sure there’s a lot I can do. Maybe next time you could book the whole carriage and you wouldn’t be disturbed at all. Look, I’m sorry but unless people are behaving in an anti-social manner…

“They are. They’re disturbing me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that Sir. Would you like me to fetch you a complaint form?”

Back in his seat Hamilton felt his temper build. The guard had been mocking him. Why would he want to book the entire carriage? He was taking their side against him. He was English. This was an English train. They were the second class customers and here he was being treated like his views didn’t count. And now this woman, this Spanish woman (he was certain of that as he glanced over at her lush black hair) was reading- in SPANISH-to the boy and the girl. Peppa Pig. Doing silly voices and tickling the children every time they got to an exciting bit. Was he supposed to just there for the next ninety minutes and put with this abuse of his liberty. Someone had to take a stand.

“Excuse me. Excuse me.”

The mother stopped reading and glanced over at him.

“Ye-es.”

“Could you be quiet. I’m trying to work.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll keep it down.”

“Good. Because I’m trying to work.”

“Sure. No problem. Though maybe you get more work done if you turn on your computer.”

Hamilton glanced at his screen and realised it had gone onto to power saving mode. The woman then went back to the reading in a slightly quieter voice.

He didn’t bother to turn it back on but instead just glared at his reflection in the screen. He could feel himself getting redder and redder. Like the ginger guard (probably Scottish or something) she was mocking him. Laughing at him. Trying to belittle the people who made the country what it is and what did he get for his trouble, nothing but laughter and abuse. It wasn’t even the noise but the mere fact his space had been encroached upon. And now, even though the reading had stopped, the boy was kicking his heels rhythmically against the bottom of his seat and the woman was listening to music. He could hear the tinny tinnitus trills coming through her headphones. The girl was scraping a felt tip pen against a colouring book as she filled in the psychedelic unicorn. It was getting louder and louder. Every single decibel was ringing in his ears, acting like a tiny hammer blow against his brain.

“Excuse me.”

The woman didn’t respond. The boy looked up briefly but still continued with his tap-tap-tap.

“I said excuse me!”

The woman sighed and pulled out one of her ear phones.

“Ye-es? What is it?

“Could you please sit somewhere else? I’m trying to work.”

The woman looked straight at him.

“No. You are not trying to work. You’re computer is off. What is your problem? My children are well behaved and-“

“-Well behaved. You call that well behaved…” Hamilton stood up and began to shout. He told them they didn’t belong in his carriage. He called the children little brats and when the woman responded he called her a Spanish bitch who shouldn’t even be in his country. It was when the small girl began to cry that the ginger guard reappeared.

“What’s the problem?”

Eventually the family agreed to move but only after much coaxing from the guard as he ushered them away from the fat and red angry man to the other end of the carriage. As he did so he turned back to Hamilton.

“You should be ashamed of yourself mate.” What? He was the one being vilified? He was simply standing up for his rights. He noisily pointed this out to the guard who looked at him with a profound sense of pity and merely shook his head.

It was gone twelve when the taxi finally pulled up outside Hamilton’s large stone built Victorian terrace and he was surprised to see that the lights were off. It was a Sunday night, where were they? Surely they hadn’t gone out? Had they gone to bed without waiting to greet him?

He found the answer to his questions on the kitchen table. A hastily written note ripped from a value note pad.

Hamilton, Alexa and I have gone to stay at Hettie’s. Alexa mortified! If you wish to know why try social media! P.S. There’s a cold pork casserole in the fridge. Georgia.

No kiss, nothing. What could this mean? Surely she hadn’t discovered about his brief fling with Susan in the office? A fumbling drunken affair that was virtually over before it began. No, she couldn’t have done. Susan had nothing to gain by disclosure. Possibly she’d found his separate savings account? But again, how could she? The details were hidden away on a secret file on the lap-top which he’d just dumped next to the note. Alexa mortified…About what? What had he done?

Social media? Suddenly it dawned on him that the note was somehow connected to his eventful journey home, Peppa Pig, and the aggressive Spanish woman on the train. He nervously plugged in his phone and went onto Twitter.

Usually he never bothered with his nonsense, leaving such early 21^st century crap to Paul his business partner. He was a face to face sort of man and couldn’t be doing with all the endless screen gazing. He did have access to the account however- @Bettabred62

There were 36 notifications.

The first one was from Paul.

Hamilton! What have you’ve done? Going to have to do some serious P.R. to limit the damage. FFS! #gammonontrain. 

It came to him, as the train stopped at Leeds he remembered the young guy in the orange coat walk past him smiling, thanking him for the ‘awesome footage’. What, had he filmed him without his permission? Was this was what it was all about?

Hamilton clicked the hashtag and felt his self being pulled down into a digital vortex from which there was no escape.

The clip showed a fat, red-faced, middle-aged man towering aggressively over a young Spanish woman shielding her crying children as he screams at them to move, telling them to fuck off back to their own country…It was an uncomfortable 2.03 minutes particularly as it felt so different from what had actually happened. Had the thing being doctored somehow, dubbed over? Yet the voice was unmistakable his voice, and the face (that face!) was his face. It had been shared over fifteen thousand times and there were over three thousand comments- most of them calling him the most terrible things imaginable. Apparently, he was a racist thug, a Tory bastard and something called a gammon.

Hamilton obviously was an expert in all meat based products and was acutely aware of what gammon was- the juicy underside of a pig that was particularly tasty when served with pineapple. However, he also quickly understood that it was some lefty term of abuse for white men who happened to disagree with their mad Socialist views. Of course the irony was they all seemed to be calling him a racist while racially abusing him for the colour of his skin. Which to be fair was the reddest he’d ever seen it. Anyway, how could he be a racist? He had a Lionel Richie album FFS! Plus gammon can’t be an insult- he accepted you could call someone a pig but gammon, it didn’t make any sense. It was like calling someone a fillet steak.

Two bottles of Rioja, a heated up casserole and 17 tweets later Hamilton felt better. He’d concluded that people didn’t really read this Twitter stuff anyway; it was just a fad like CB radio. There was nothing to worry about. He’d simply tell Georgia and Alexa that the film had got it all wrong and didn’t show the mental anguish he’d had to suffer prior to his admittedly over the top verbal assault. And as for Paul, well, what’s that they say- there’s no such thing as bad publicity. It’s not as if their customers would be in the least offended. They’d probably support his actions. To prove his point he’d come out fighting with #gammonandproud and had gained 47 likes so clearly there was some people who took his side.

People like @tommyssoldier- fuck the left, nazi twats and @gammonaction- the man had paid for first class and was right to stand up for his rights. THIS IS ENLGAND!!!! Decent and honest people. He was surprised to discover how many more people they were like him- the silent majority who’d had enough having to keep their opinions to themselves. Here was a world of dissent. A world not controlled by the mind controlling elites. He went down to the cellar and fetched up another bottle of Claret 1979 which he’d been saving for a special occasion. Well, wasn’t this a special occasion? The day Hamilton fought back!

By the time he eventually crawled up to bed he’d consumed five bottles of wine, the pork casserole, a further three frozen sausage rolls which he’d warmed in the microwave, a cheese and ham sandwich and a packet of Bacon Frazzles.

It was gone three in the morning when he woke. He felt strange, as though his flesh was attempting to burst out of his skin. He was sweating and everything felt raw. Somehow he managed to slide out of bed- he was unable to find any strength in his limbs, they were loose and devoid of muscle. He rolled and flopped out onto the carpet. He couldn’t stand- it was like he made of fatty jelly. He had to get to somehow get to the bathroom. It was impossible the only way he could move was by rolling, over and over- across the carpet to the en-suite where the light was still on. The rolling was indescribably painful, as though each synthetic thread of the carpet was tearing into his flesh, like a wire brush being scraped across an open wound. Yet still he rolled, over and over- not been able to stand- why, what was wrong with him, it was like all the bone and sinew had been removed from his body- he managed to reach the door which was slightly ajar and somehow, using the globular chunk of meat that once was his head to nudge, nudge, nudge it open.

And there he was laid out like a lump of meat on a marble butcher’s slab- inert and immobile on the floor tiles of the en suite bathroom and that’s when he saw it, reflected in the horror of the shower cubicle glass. His face reduced to a chunk of meat, his limbs useless lumps of fat, his fingers sausages, and around the studded cloves of his eyes the unmistakable rings of pineapple- no mouth, nothing to allow the scream that he was building in his body to enter into the world. I’m not a gammon he wanted to scream, over and over again but he couldn’t and there was only silence.