Liars' League

Lockdown Literature: Young & Old, Tuesday 14th April, online!

Are you sitting comfortably? Then let our host Liam Hogan begin ...

PLEASE NOTE: IN ORDER TO REWATCH THE APRIL 14th WATCH PARTY, YOU MUST BE A MEMBER OF OUR FACEBOOK GROUP, "LIARS' LEAGUE" https://www.facebook.com/groups/2959030028/

Feel free to join just for this if you like, and leave after ... sorry, that's just how these things work on Facebook, apparently. Also, if you're not on Facebook you can watch all the story videos here, listen to the podcast here, and read all the stories below (obviously). 

NB: This watch party is naturally free to view - but if you'd like to support the authors and (especially) actors involved, see below ...

TIPS & DONATIONS

Usually we'd use ticket sale cash to buy our contributors food, booze and/or books. As we can't do that this time, if you want to donate some £/$ towards the actors and authors who have dedicated time, talent and effort to entertain you, please do so via Paypal to liarsleague@yahoo.co.uk.

All donations will be split equally between all participants: if you'd like your money to go to a particular author, actor or story, just add a note to your donation saying so: named "tips" will be passed on to those contributors. LL won't be taking anything :)

Thanks and happy watching!

Exiled by Brian O'Hare

Exiled MP3

Read by Will Teller

Here’s a little secret: The Marine Corps needs enemies. It lives for them. Whether it’s banzai charging Japanese, Chinese hordes or boogeyman Viet Cong—it doesn’t matter. And when it can’t find an enemy? The Marine Corps eats its young. And for Lieutenant Colonel “Mad Mike” Madigan, Battalion Commander Lieutenant Francis Keane is perfect.

            It all starts back in August of ’91, just before the first Persian Gulf War, on deployment to Okinawa, when one of Keane’s Lance Criminals punches out an NCO over a bargirl. “Alcohol related”, as the logbook duly notes. Keane saves his ass from the brig. Mad Mike goes high and to the right. Because when the old man says ‘circle the wagons’—you circle the goddamn wagons.

            As payback, Keane suffers every shit job and indignity, until finally exiled to the BOQ, the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters and put in “hack”, a kind of house arrest, for violating the 7^th General Order of the Sentry—“to talk to no one except in the line of duty”—while serving as Officer of the Day. And so, into exile Keane goes, like some Biblical mystic, alone and barefoot.

Advice to my Child by Jo Gatford

Advice to my Child MP3

Read by Sarah Feathers

Carbohydrates are all well and good when you’re tired and hangry but they are not a substitute for a hug or a conversation.

Speaking of: call your mother more often. Or at least text. I have WhatsApp now, you know. I follow you on Instagram. You’re cute but vary the expression a little, why don’t you?

Meringues should always be left in the oven to cool, preferably overnight – like most things – if you really want that chewy centre and clarity of crunch.

Keep good accounts. Air your bathroom. Stay hydrated. Get a dehumidifier. Don’t waste time on books you can’t finish. Insure yourself. Overpay your mortgage whenever you can. If you ever get one.

Befriending by Irina Zahl

Befriending MP3

Read by Greg Page

I watch them walking up the hill. They are only starting on their journey. They sound happy. They are singing and swinging their arms cheerfully in time. I can't see from where I am, but I’m sure their skin is golden in the summer sun and their muscles bulge ever so slightly with every step they take. 

By a habit I didn’t know I had, I raise my hand to give them a wave. I catch myself half-way and put it down. They can't see me from where I am – from where they are – and they don't know me anyway. It's me watching life from my kitchen window; it's them living it. 

The worst thing about age is not the aches, not the persistent chills, not the sagging skin and not even the liver spots. The worst part is living in the past tense. I used to. Used to be, used to do. In the present, I'm nothing. An old man in his small retirement flat still able to take care of himself, but this is as exciting as it gets. It is only the past that gives me the meaning, that justifies my existence. In my present state, I am of no interest to the world … or to those lads walking up the hills.

She's Ended Up Middle-Aged by Alix Owen

She’s Ended Up Middle-Aged MP3

Read by Charlotte Worthing

Netflix is like fireflies in my boyfriend's glazed eyes. He's had a hard day at work. I've had a boring, overpaid one. We've been sat in silence for maybe an hour while a binge-watch mends our relationship. I'm nursing a smudged, warm glass of wine, flashing a flirty glance at him now and then, wiggling my feet on his lap, peeking up from my phone.

Am I paying attention? Am I being mindful? I'm not sure. Scrolling through Facebook, I'm half-heartedly wondering whether to go plant-based.

Hmmm. Let's think about this. I don't know if it suits me.

See, I’m that kind of mid-range millennial, around 30 (but in denial); sure, with a sustainable conscience but a reluctance to get rid of single-use plastics and a fear that zero-wasters are coming for our fun. That does not a vegan make.

The Blue Man of the Minch by Matt Barnard

The Blue Man of the Minch MP3

Read by Silas Hawkins

Just after eleven, Colin raced down the hill to tell Johnny Dey that one of Marjorie’s cows was calving. No more than eight years old, with hair cropped so close you could see the bones of his skull, his face shone with a look of wonder and self-importance. When he told Johnny the news, Johnny simply gazed at him with an expression of unselfconscious weariness. He was sitting on the front step, elbows resting on his knees, his stomach like a medicine ball between his thighs. The sun fell onto his face from the right making him squint a little.

     Colin stared at Johnny and felt like he did when he saw something strange emerge from the sea. He’d run down the hill with the message held like a special package, not sure exactly what it meant, only that it was important. It was unclear to him why he was telling Johnny Dey, and now, standing awkwardly in the mid-morning sun, he realised he didn’t know what he was expected to take back in return.

     ‘Aye, that’ll be Frieda,’ Johnny replied eventually, putting a large hand to his face to shield his eyes. ‘Tell Marjorie to keep an eye out and let me know what’s happening. Can you remember that, Colin?’

 

In the Round by Sarah Richardson

In the round MP3

Read by Carrie Cohen

The boot gleams in the firelight, its worn leather restored to black. Not dull black, like seaweed baked too long in the sun; no, today the boot’s blackness is rich and deep. Margaret lifts it closer to her face; inspects one side, then the other. That’ll do.

She sets it gently on the newspaper sheets in front of her — rows of type talking of politics and people she cares nothing for — and tightens the lid on the polish. Kiwi: the distinctive tang couples with the scent of men whose boots have lined the hallways of her life. Grandfer, Dad, her own Sid. This boot, one of Sid’s finest, is now the only one that calls on her labour, and she’s not done badly with it at all.

Resting her hand on the fireplace, Margaret eases herself up from her wooden dining chair and shuffles the few steps to the window. Away from the coals’ warmth, her breath causes the glass to mist: outside, spring is still tussling with the end of winter, and evening darkness has brought a crisp chill. At the end of the street, the gaudy lights that mark out the Ship and Swan sway wildly. The shrub they cling to strains in the wind.

Margaret checks her watch. Eight thirty: she should be heading over soon. She thinks momentarily of her grandchildren, 300 miles away in London; Andrew and Joanne will be trying to get them off to bed. Or at least, Andrew will. Her daughter-in-law, she has long suspected, is more after her own heart: holidays, Easter included, are a time for rules to be broken, clocks to be stopped.

A Fortnite is a Long Time in Politics by Callum Jacobs

Fortnite MP3

Read by William Foxton

When his remarkable talents had first been spotted, Sami el Zafar was just thirteen. Or possibly fourteen. Sami had arrived in England from Syria with no passport, no family and no English. He was given a place at the local secondary school and by all accounts he’d had a tough time fitting in. No surprise in that, all alone in the world and having witnessed who knew what horrors back in his war-torn homeland. He didn’t speak much about it. He didn’t speak much about anything.

It wasn’t until one day at After School Club, the repository for kids whose parents didn’t trust them to go home on their own, that Sami’s skills were discovered.

After School Club was set up with tables for students to complete homework or to read quietly but also, under certain conditions, to use the school’s PS4. Sami never got to use it, being too shy and non-verbal to ask, and too weird to be invited by anyone else. So Sami would stand and watch the other kids playing, hovering behind them and humming. It used to irritate the piss out of them.

Lockdown Literature: YOUNG & OLD, Tuesday 14th April - online!

Not much makes social distancing and/or self-isolation better, but fictional escapism sure helps - and this month, we have that in spades. So we're going ahead with our Young & Old show on April 14th, but online - because even the First Horseman (pestilence, but you knew that) can't keep a good short story down!

WINNING STORIES for YOUNG & OLD
(featuring ALL NEW authors)

Advice to my Child by Jo Gatford, read by Sarah Feathers
A Fortnite is a Long Time in Politics by Callum Jacobs, read by William Foxton
Befriending by Irina Zahl, read by Greg Page
Exiled by Brian O'Hare, read by William Teller
She's Ended Up Middle-Aged by Alix Owen, read by Charlotte Worthing
The Blue Man of the Minch by Matt Barnard, read by Silas Hawkins
In the Round by Sarah Richardson, read by Carrie Cohen

We have genius gamers, sassy mamas, Iraq War soldiers, elderly lovers, what-now? weddings, folk singers and cows giving birth: truly something for everyone, read by our superb company of actors.

It's obviously an unusual situation this month, so our mighty actors will be recording video and audio (at home) of our seven winning stories, so they can be released as podcast, YouTube playlist and text on the planned event date. Then we'll create a watch party at 7.30pm on April 14th on Facebook, so you can watch them "live" from home with popcorn and a drink.

(We're going to try and recreate the fun of the infamous book quiz too, maybe by publishing the questions after the third story and posting a book to whoever answers fastest - but watch this space! :)

Hull to Haddon Hall by Lauren Van Schaik

Read by David Mildon

Mick’s gold lamé jumpsuit reeked: of sweat, of beer, of that gummy stage makeup, in the armpits and down the crotch. He noticed when he shimmied into it in the green-room, zipping it to his sternum.

He could have had it washed, he imagined, but could you dry-clean a thing like this? He couldn’t imagine picking it up, in a swishy, loud garment bag; the winking looks from behind the counter. He couldn’t imagine even being in a dry-cleaner. Or a launderette: watching the gold lamé spin, like an astronaut tumbled in a rocket ship; like a man washing his Mam’s best Debenhams dress.

What Now? by Enzo Kohara Franca

Read by Kevin Shen

Some called it the Fourth Industrial Revolution. Others the Third Wave of Automation. Terminology aside, we all knew what they meant. Truck drivers, radiologists, abstract painters – all had been bettered by algorithms.

  And now it was our turn. “Amateur” adult actors.

  Many a journalist has interviewed those in our profession and come back with horror stories about our upbringing. Parents enslaved by opioids. Partners with a taste for extreme violence.

  Trust me. Those clichés aren’t true of us.

Aletheia by Katty Pearce

Read by Paul Clarke

It is not our custom to invite strangers here, you know. For obvious reasons. Except of course on our Treat Days. Every Leap Year our Keepers permit just one resident to invite a guest to join us. Given the general sense of irony in here, it’s always on Valentine’s Day. Read nothing into that. It is simply an institutional joke. We take it in turns. It staves off the loneliness and the despair that follows. Today the honour has fallen to me. You are my choice. My treat.

But why you? Well, I have read your column, of course.

I enjoy your hyperbole, your witty turns of phrase. And I do so enjoy your amoral stances on whatever little titbits you happen to pick up around town. A dying art these days, the art of the high society gossipmonger. ‘Aletheia’ – your pen-name amuses me. ‘The disclosure of truth’.

The Kiss by Brindley Hallam Dennis

Read by Sophie Cartman

The two couples, not often, but three or four times a year, would get together for a meal in a small restaurant or bistro café near the city centre. At that time of the early evening when the office workers have departed in their cars, or on their trains and buses, and the late night diners have not yet arrived, they would meet at whatever car-park was nearest. Traffic would ignore them, going in the opposite direction, eager for, or resigned to home. Buses lit up like chandeliers would pass them by. Pedestrians wrapped up in their thoughts against the chill would walk on. The scent of late flowers, overhanging the pavements and brushed against, wafted on the evening air. 

VALENTINE'S EVENT: Scoundrels & Scandals, Tuesday 11th February

Every second Tuesday of every other month five fantastic pieces of fiction by hot, up-and-coming new writers are read to a lively audience by our talented actors.

Our first event of 2020, on Tuesday 11th February, was saucy and sexy for Valentine's - featuring Brazilian amateur porn-stars, amorous avatars, Victorian vices, ambisexual rockstars, unconsummated lust and of course, our lascivious literary quiz, plus all the Love Hearts your, er, hearts could desire.

Want to hear it? Here's the Scoundrels & Scandals Podcast

Want to watch it? Here's the video playlist.

Want to read all the stories? (Old school)! Here they are. You're welcome :)
 

SCOUNDRELS & SCANDALS WINNING STORIES

Aletheia by Katty Pearce NEW AUTHOR - read by Paul Clarke
What Now? by Enzo Kohara Franca NEW AUTHOR - read by Kevin Shen
To All the Avatars I've Loved Before by Erica Buist NEW AUTHOR - read by Kim Scopes
The Kiss by Brindley Hallam Dennis - read by Sophie Cartman 
Hull to Haddon Hall by Lauren Van Schaik - read by David Mildon

Doors always open at 7pm for a 7.30 start and tickets are £5 on the door (currently cash only, sorry, but there's a cashpoint 2 minutes away). Drinks and food are available at the bar throughout. There's no pre-booking, but tables for four or more can be reserved by calling 07808 939535.

The venue is the downstairs bar at: The Phoenix Pub, 37 Cavendish Square, London W1G 0PP

Accessibility note: Access to the basement is via stairs: there's no lift, sadly. The Phoenix is 5 minutes' walk from Oxford Circus tube station, which is on the Victoria, Bakerloo and Central lines.

Sugar 'n' Spice Weekly Words, by J.A. Hopper

Read by Gloria Sanders (fifth story in podcast, here, or here if that doesn't work)

Dear Parents and Carers,

Happy Friday, Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and welcome to your Weekly Words from everyone at Sugar ‘n’ Spice Day Nursery! The children have had lots of fun this week exploring the world and embracing learning, and we have some lovely pictures in this newsletter later on! But first, some dates for your diary:

We know the children LOVE our dressing-up days, and the grown-ups love the photos (if not making the costumes, :) so next week’s nursery Christmas party theme is POEMS! Please bring your child to nursery dressed as a character from their favourite POEM, for example Stick Man by Julia Donaldson, The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson, The Gruffalo’s Child by Julia Donaldson … I’m sure you can think of plenty, even if they’re not by Julia Donaldson. Maybe we should just call it our annual Julia Donaldson party! :)

Bad Cakes by Roly Grant

Read by Carrie Cohen (fourth story in podcast, here, or here if that doesn't work)

The perfect apple cake, loved by grand-children, great grand-children and invading rats, needs six last-of-the-season English Russets. From where she lies, in the orchard’s long wet grass, looking up into the apple tree’s twisted limbs, she counts 74, 75, 76, their rough skins wet with dew. A snap, a breath, and a deep thump break the silence as another falls. 75. Falling on the heads of scientists. Given to princesses who fall asleep. Passed between Eve and falling Adam. And then they lie, rotting in neglected grass, waiting to turn the ankles of old ladies who fall, flat on their backs, as the moon rises.

She had been out there, in the garden after midnight, setting Bad Cakes for the rats. Six English Russets and, to make a good cake bad, a scoop of green powder from the red box at the back of the shed. The instructions said to put small piles of the stuff in the corners of outbuildings. But the rats weren’t interested in an old shed, full of rusted tools. They came from across the fields, sniffing out her fresh seeds just below the surface, digging up her baby plants. Poison put down outside just washed into liquid mess, weeping into the soil it was supposed to protect, dangerous for curious little fingers that might poke at it.

The Sugar Merchant by Lisa Farrell

Read by Paul Clarke (first story in podcast, here)

The night they banned it, I became the richest man in the city. Instantly, sugar was worth its weight in gold. I travelled around and sold pieces in back alleys and black markets. I exchanged it for silk, for jewels, for dowries and lifesavings. Nothing is worth more than that which we cannot have.

Soon I was decked like a festive tree, adorned with ruby rings and gold chains, and still I carried a sugarloaf in every pocket. I never partook myself of course, never let the white stuff pass my lips. I’d seen what one taste could lead to, seen the need in their eyes and decay in their mouths. I didn’t want my perfect teeth to rot. Who could sell anything then?

Yet, I got greedy all the same. That time was coming, Yuletide, when every merchant rubs his hands with glee or cries in desperation. You sell in the rush and make your fortune, or live like a pauper for the rest of the year. Not me, not this year, not now everyone wanted what I was selling.

The Snow Children by Peggy Lee

Read by Margaret Ashley (second story in podcast, here)

I hear the pitter patter of feet during the night, as I knew I would: the crunch of fresh snow; the whoosh of snowballs cutting through the icy air, landing with soft thuds on trees, on the brick walls of the house, on the glass of my bedroom window.

Are they calling me? Greeting me again after two long, long years. It did not snow last winter, and I have waited seven lengthy seasons.

I have missed them. Time dragged its feet to the rhythm of the grandfather clock in the hall and the dent in the armchair seat is noticeably deeper. I used to roam the house, wandering through the corridors in never-ending spirals, moving from one window to the next. Watching. Now that I can see every knot in the wooden banister in my mind's eye, every broken tile in the kitchen floor, I prefer to sit. The view from the living room’s French windows is encompassing enough. I can see most of the garden, the dark shadows of the forest. Behind me, the corners fill with dust, pale follicles of skin banking up like drifts of snow.

Think Fast, Sugar by Alan Graham

Read by Katy Darby (third story in podcast, here)

The line for the only toilet in the building is at least six people deep when I join. Christ alive, this place is a hole. A poky recording-studio in North London that has clearly seen better days. Outdated equipment, cramped facilities and one single toilet. Whoever designed this place in the sixties had no idea that one December, twenty years later, the entire British music industry would descend to record yet another Christmas charity single.

As I wait, I look through the lyric-sheet for the song we’re recording today, to find the couplet intended for me and my sister. I finally locate it, sandwiched between lines for Andrew Ridgeley and the girls from Bucks Fizz. I sing it once quietly to myself.

“Remember when we fill our bellies

Their starving faces on our tellies”

Jesus wept, you’d think they'd suffered enough?

Christmas event: SUGAR & SPICE at The Wheatsheaf, Fitzrovia, on Tuesday 3rd December

What are our Christmas stories made of? Sugar & Spice (click for Facebook event) and all things nice, that's what! Also Bailey's, snow ghosts, cocaine, feral toddlers, charity singles and just a pinch of rat poison. Delicious! And here are all the videos on our YouTube channel. Merry Christmas!

Our cosy Christmas venue was The Wheatsheaf, Rathbone Place on Tuesday 3rd December. Now, drum roll please ... 

WINNING STORIES for SUGAR & SPICE

The Snow Children by Peggy Lee, read by Margaret Ashley

TBC by Roly Grant, read by Carrie Cohen

Sugar & Spice's Weekly Words by J. A. Hopper, read by Gloria Sanders

The Sugar Merchant by Lisa Farrell

Think Fast, Sugar by Alan Graham, read by Katy Darby

 

Doors open at 7pm for a 7.30 start and tickets are £5 cash on the door. Entry includes a programme, participation in our infamous literary quiz where brand new books can be won, and of course all the mince pies you can eat. Drinks and food are available at the bar throughout. There's no pre-booking, but tables for four or more can be reserved by calling 07808 939535. The venue is the upstairs bar at The Wheatsheaf, 25 Rathbone Place, Fitzrovia, W1T 1JB.

Accessibility note: Access to the upstairs is via stairs: there's no lift, sadly. The Wheatsheaf is 5 minutes' walk from Tottenham Court Road tube, which is on the Central and Northern lines, and about seven minutes from our regular venue The Phoenix if you accidentally go there first ...