Brains for Sale

Written 25 years ago, not nostalgia, just a muse. 

            ‘Good morning doctor,’

‘Ah  Mr Chapman, welcome to the Brain Swap shop, do sit down.’ The Doctor stabbed a few buttons on his console and stared intently into a screen.

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘haven’t we met before, I seem to recollect your…’

‘Could have. I’ve only been doing this job for a month, used to be an astronaut, got me name in the paper, quite famous I believe. Had to give it up though, travel sickness you know’

‘Ah, that accounts for it, must have seen you on the tele.’

‘Probably, although I can’t remember anything about it of course. Change of brain cells and so forth.’

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I’ve been told I was the President of an African Republic once and can’t remember any of my Swiss bank account numbers.’

‘Terrible isn’t it. I sometimes wonder why we want to change our brains at all.’

The Doctor scratched his head, ‘It’s the novelty I suppose.’

Time I thought to drag the doctor out of his rumination. I leant forward. ‘Not in my case it isn’t,’ I told him. ‘This is caused by my wife’s change of circumstances. It is not novelty.’

‘Oh well,’ said the doctor, then swivelled around to his computer and stared at the screen. ‘Let’s have a look at your application form.’

‘I must say, ‘I said, leaning back, ‘You’ve been jolly quick with the paper work.’

The Doctor smiled, ‘Oh we’re quite proficient in this department now the Government has dropped the restriction on only allowing five brains per lifetime.’

‘Has it?’ I said.

‘You should know. It says here you’re the leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition.’

‘Am I?’

He jabbed a finger on the screen. ‘Says here you are.’

‘I wondered why I was chairing these high powered meetings. Mind you I’ve had a lot on my mind recently; what with Winifred’s condition and so forth…mind you come to think of it I did think they were a pretty rum lot, I wonder if…?’

‘Well the brain you’ve got now has a waiting list of six people, so you should be able to trade it in for something half decent.’ The Doctor jabbed at the key board, ‘but according to regulations I must ask you why you want to change?’

I looked at him. I rather hoped he’d not ask.’ It’s the wife,’ I said painfully, ‘she’s inherited her mother’s brain you see. The old bat left it to her in her will, and Winifred was close to her mother and feels obliged, as it were, to comply with her wishes.’

‘What is she now?’

‘A topless lap dancer.’

The doctor grimaced, ‘Hardly goes with your image,’

‘I should say not,’ I said, the fog suddenly clearing, ‘There I am chairing these dynamic meetings, discussing matters of state and what have you, when the wife comes in half naked, jumps onto the table and starts gyrating her navel and god knows what else into the faces of what I suppose is the Shadow Cabinet.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Seventy four.’

‘Good god, what happened to her mother?’

‘Fell off the stage at the Tocadero and drowned in a bath of Champagne.’

‘Very nasty,’ said the doctor.

‘They say she came up for air twice,’ I winced at the memory, ‘But I don’t believe ‘em… She only drank Gin.’

‘Is her brain alright?’

‘I think so they got it out before rigour mortis set in.’

The doctor sat back, ‘Well,’ he said punching some more keys, ‘I can’t see any problems, you pass all the criteria.’ He peered intently at the screen, ‘My word you’ve had some interesting brains in the past,’

‘Have I?’

‘One hundred and twenty odd brain years. Two Prime Ministers, The Archbishop of Canterbury, a champion pole vaulter and President of some obscure Republic inEast Africa, for a start.’

‘Pity we can’t remember past lives,’ I said.

‘Good job in your case I should think, you’ve been shot fifteen times  and run through with an assegai twice.’

‘Have  I?’

‘Yes…but no good dwelling on the past, what do you fancy now?’

‘Well,’ I said sinking back into the chair and putting my hands behind my head, ‘I thought about something in the arts field might be interesting.’

The doctor pressed some more keys and we watched as a printer gurgled into action. He read the print out. ‘You may be in luck,’ he said, ‘We have a ballet dancer’s brain just come in, it might suit you, sort of fits in with your wife’s life style, both working at the same sort of thing.’

‘Why did the ballet dancer want a change?’

‘It was forced on him actually,’ replied the doctor, ‘he only had one leg.’

‘How did he…?’

‘Oh we fitted him up with one of those artificial screw on ones of course, but every time he did an anti-clockwise pirouette he unscrewed himself. Very disconcerting for the audience.’

‘Let me think of that one,’ I said. ‘What else have you got?’

Well,’ said the doctor, ‘The trouble is most of the swaps in the arts field seem perfectly content at the moment and not many want to change with politicians.  Hang on we’ve got a pop singer, he’s been on the books for quite a while.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s stone deaf.’

‘Stone deaf?’ I gasped.

‘Yes he had six number one hits before anyone noticed.’

‘What is he now?’

‘Nothing…he’s in limbo.’

‘Can you do that?’ I asked, mind whirring.

‘Oh yes,’ replied the doctor, shuffling some papers, ‘Just leave the department with a list of preferred options and we’ll pop you in a freezer until something comes up.

‘How long can you stay in limbo?’ I asked, somewhat taken aback.

‘Three years is the maximum. After that we take a random brain and fit you up with that; a bit like the lottery really.’

‘Oh, I bet that leads to all sorts of…’

‘Well we can’t have bodies and brains cluttering up the place.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘otherwise people would stay here forever, frozen up and become a real drag on the tax payer.

‘Exactly ,’ said the doctor, warming to the subject. ‘It all started with the other organs of course. Livers, kidneys, spleens and so forth.’

‘I know, jolly handy when you can pop into a body bank and pick up a new part.’

‘Your so right,’ said the doctor,’ I’ve drunk myself to death regularly and had three new livers fitted.’

‘I’m on my third set of lungs,’ I said, ‘Lovely when you can smoke sixty a day and not give a damn about the old wheezing and coughing.’

The doctor gave me a conspiratorial sort of wink, ‘Tell you the truth I only wanted this job so I could get myself fitted out with a new set of family jewels.’ He smirked. ‘Perks of the job don’t you know. I’ve got contacts in other departments; they’ve promised to give me the nod when something decent comes in.’

‘Say no more,’ I said ‘but if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look much like a doctor.’

‘Oh this,’ he pointed to his forehead which was impregnated with a large purple tattoo. ‘Yes I must get it removed. Can’t go around doctoring with ‘Manchester United rules OK’ plastered across my face for ever.’

‘Bad for the image.’ I agreed.

‘Suppose I must have been a football hooligan a few brains ago,’ he muttered.

‘It never fails to surprise me,’ I went on, ‘I mean when you think what strides have been made in the last few years. Now you can just wander into any of these swap shops and get a whole new persona. Why, just a few years ago you had to go through life with what you started off with.’

‘It’s good isn’t’ he replied, ‘A quick snip here and there and the next minute you’re off the operating table sitting up in bed with a cup of tea and a biscuit and a whole new person inside your head.’

I nodded agreement, ‘But I’m glad that the powers that be stopped issuing synthetic brains,’ I added. ‘I mean who wants to go around with a computer stuck in your head.’

‘It wasn’t that. It was the weight of the batteries you had to lug around with you. It was all right when you could plug yourself into the mains at home or work but not much fun otherwise. I mean who wants to lug two bloody big lorry batteries around strapped to your back when you’re wandering around Tesco’s or jigging the night away at the local disco.’

‘To say nothing of the Olympics,’ I added, I mean bit of a disadvantage when you’re going for gold in the high jump.’

‘Exactly, mind you, tell you confidentially we’ve had a bit of trouble fixing bodies up with brains. People don’t always tell us the truth about any abnormalities they might have.’

‘I suppose you’ve got to be careful.’

‘I should say so. We’ve had some god almighty cock ups.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well we had in Interior Designer who didn’t tell us he was colour blind; created havoc wherever he worked.’

‘What happened to him?’

The doctor sniggered, ‘Fixed him up as a champion snooker player, just to get our own back.’

‘I suppose, ‘I said, ‘You get a lot of people in here applying for brains without thinking of the consequences?’

The doctor rolled his eyes, ‘Do you know, my predecessor actually fixed up a BBC football commentator who had an uncontrollable stammer. By the end of full time he was still trying to describe the bloody kick off.’

‘Gosh!’ I said.

‘Too right,’ said the doctor. He leaned back in his chair and gave me an appraising sort of look. ‘I could get you a very good deal on a juggler. These ones even got a guaranteed eighteen months circus contract.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ I said, ‘What’s  wrong with him?’

‘Cross eyed, kept dropping his balls.’

‘How very careless.’

‘They kept him on at the circus for a while though, as a catcher in a trapeze act, until we fixed him up with something.’

‘I’m glad I wasn’t his partner,’ I replied, mind boggling.’ But what I really want is something in the real arts.

’We’ve had a wine taster one that came in yesterday for a swap.’

‘Why did he want to change?’

‘He didn’t, it was forced on him. Kept getting the sack, an absolute alcoholic, chronic shakes, kept swallowing the wine, wouldn’t spit it out,’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I want something that will fit in with my wife’s routine.’

‘Well can’t you get her to change her mind?’ he asked.

‘No, she’s absolutely adamant. I think she quite enjoys it.’

‘Everybody to their own I suppose, but if you ask me I think she needs her head examining.’

‘I suppose there’s no use hanging around, for say, an opera singer?’

The doctor pushed another few buttons,’ we’ve got one here who’s looking for a swap; had him on the books for weeks now but I wouldn’t recommend him.’

‘Why not.’

‘Got a cleft palate.’

‘Oh right,’ I mumbled. ‘Anything in the classical Shakespearean mould?’

‘Only one, a dyslexic brain, it’s OK but can only play Falstaff, and that took the man whose got it five years to learn the part, so he has to wait for  Henry the Fourth to come round, which isn’t very often. He’s been on our books for months.’

‘Doesn’t sound too bad,’ I said, ‘plenty of time off…that’ll do me.’

‘Are you sure, I mean if you can’t learn your lines you are gong to be a bit stuck with this Falstaff chap? ’

‘No, I’ve made my mind up,’ I said. ‘When can you fit me in?’

The doctor looked at the screen. ‘Next Tuesday be alright, ten in the morning?’

‘Fine.’

‘I tell you what though, the surgeon will need watching.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘why’s that?’

‘He used to be the wine taster I was telling you about.’

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Ah, such is life.

I suppose knocking around the world for over 35 years firstly in the Merchant Navy and later mostly inEast Africa imbues one with a sense of the ridiculous. Ridiculous and funny, and funny stuff is what I write. I’ve run scuba diving trips in the Indian Ocean, sold books door to door inEngland, dug deep bore holes in the African bush, and earned $35 a night growling out jazz inNew Orleans. Managed a Vineyard inCornwall, been shot at in Somalia, run Safaris in African game reserves, tried plumbing in Wales and apart from being shot at, enjoyed every minute of it. I’m sixty six odd now and have been writing humorous short stories for years, mostly for my own benefit and now with no compunction to ever board another airplane or ship, see another exotic beach I’ve written a couple of books  and list within these immortal web pages a summery of short stories that are for sale to any bugger that’s interested

Writing Drivel

In days far gone, I always found that basking half-submerged in a bath, smoking a very large herbal cigarette, was a wonderful way of starting the old grey cells off. In the meantime, my fiasco (a far better description of my wife to be than fiancé) would sit on the loo seat, drink half a case of brown ale, and take notes of my creative thinking.

The herbal induced creativeness, aided by the extraordinary thought processes, inspired by the brown ale, would yield story lines of unimaginable drivel.

And yet…and yet, out of the plethora of scribbled, hardly decipherable notes, there was nearly always  a germ of  an idea that blossomed, nay sprang, into the most marvellous story line or  passage of prose. A piece that even a certain Mr P.G Wodehouse may well have ticked as sportsmanlike… but more of that later.

This bath was always taken at about four in the afternoon, after the compulsory two-hour, after lunch nap and mandatory bottle of wine or two. The evening was spent decoding the aforementioned notes and bashing away at an old Remington with another mandatory bottle or two of the grape and Duke Ellington or similar burbling away in the background. The evening usually finished with a self-induced coma, induced, in part, by resorting extensively to Mr Roget’s lovely invention, which although having no story line, at least explained every word as one went along.

The cold light of morning always brought an air of sober thought into the proceedings; when last night’s scribblings were analysed and put into some sort of order. This is when, if the nicotine and caffeine levels are up to par, the convoluted story lines etc, showed their true colours. The ideas, those that seem plausible, were put into some sort of order and re written into a state of semi comprehension.

At midday, the first of the wine corks flew across the room, indicating luncheon. Soon after the body had been refuelled, a horizontal pose was affected affording the mind the same sort of replenishment. Upon waking, the bath would be filled and the whole process started over again.

This mode or method of artistic creation can go on for months if not years. Indeed, when you are suffused with this way of life, birthdays, Christmases, New years and all the other holidays went by without a murmur. You didn’t notice them and certainly didn’t miss them.

Now the problem with this wonderful mode of writing best sellers, blockbusters and what have you, was the fact that at some time you had to go out and shop for replenishment, i.e., food and wine, not to mention brown ale. It completely spoiled the thought processes and threw you off the finely tuned balancing act, which the routine had imbued. The best method of shopping was to send out for it. If you could not, you made it quick and made sure that the thought processes were ticking over somewhere in the dark recesses of the cranium. We were married during one of the very few times we ventured out into the wide world, but neither of us can remember the year let alone the date… the twentieth century rings a bell though.

However all good things come to an end. Now we sit in front of a screen and the inspiration comes from surfing the net and suchlike, or in my case the occasional glance at  my on line bank balance.         Depressing isn’t it.

I think I’ll take a walk up to the herb garden, run a bath, and write this article.