I have reached the end of my class and was almost going to bed when I realised to my horror that I had not written to you.
I have, however, had a splendid lecture about writing scripts for radio, stage and film.
Expect to see some changes around here.
READER: What, really?
DIARIST: (with an edge of firmness) Yes. Really. You’ve had it all explained just far too easily up until now.
Apparently, you see, the art to writing scripts is not telling your audience things. I am not exactly sure that this is true. Imagine getting to the end of a Sherlock Holmes and he says: Ha ha, Watson, and then just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. I don’t know about everybody else but I like to be told things. I do not at all like this modern fashion for actors having intriguing expressions and we are supposed to work out what they are thinking. Half of the time they just look as though they have indigestion.
It is late, and I would really like to go to bed, so I am not going to tell you lots about my day, which involved putting the clean sheets on the camper van beds ready for our departure the day after tomorrow, and making a shepherd’s pie, and forgetting that I had hung the towels to dry in the garden so probably they will still be a bit damp when we get to our showers later on. Instead I am just going to give you Alan Dean to read, and apologies to Oliver if he reads these pages. He has seen it before and been something of a consultant about teenage boys and Minecraft.
It is called The Unicorn because you have to submit a title weeks before you write the damned thing, and of course I was going to write about Symon the Black, which did have a unicorn in it.
Here you are. That will save me a lot of diarising tonight.
The Unicorn.
This is a story about a magic lamp.
I expect you have heard similar stories before. You might even have watched them in marvellous Dolby colour-vision on your wide screen television at home.
I think I ought to explain, before we get started, that this isn’t exactly that sort of story. There are some stories that glow with hidden rubies. They thump along to the march of gloriously caparisoned elephants. They gleam with the seductive smiles of slender dancing girls.
This story is not like that. This is to those stories as a council estate in Blackburn is to Topkapi Palace. This is the Reduced price on eBay version. It is the sort of story that you might find in a plastic tray at the back of Age Concern, next to the cracked china rabbit and the ashtray from Morecambe.
It has even got a second-hand title purloined from somewhere else, and which really does not fit it very well at all. I shall send it back when I have finished with it.
The point is that it is sold as seen. There will be no refunds.
Once upon a time there was a boy called Alan Dean. He was fifteen years old, and lived with his mother and her new bloke in a flat above their laundrette.
Alan did not like her new bloke very much. He smelled of Lynx and beer, and watched football on the telly, and sometimes he could hear him doing sex with his mum, through the thin walls of the flat.
This made Alan feel irritable and cross.
Alan Dean thought about sex almost all of the time. Not about sex in the way that all the rest of us think about sex, in the oh-goodness-is-it-Friday-night-again-already? sort of way, but in the sort of way that he imagined the Kardashians, or perhaps Beyoncé, might do sex. There were always lots of long brown legs and interesting nipples when Alan Dean thought about sex. He knew that his mother was not possessed of any of those attributes, but still her smelly football-loving new bloke was getting a chance to Do It, which was more than Alan was, and it made him feel grumpy, and disinclined to speak to his mother at breakfast time.
When he was not thinking about sex, Alan Dean was thinking about Call Of Duty Black Ops Four, and Red Dead Redemption Two.
He was almost never thinking about his GCSE mock examinations, although he knew, in a small guilty part at the back of his mind, that he ought to be, at least sometimes.
Of course his mother, although not privy to the more interesting features of her son’s imaginative adventures, knew this perfectly well. Hence she was unimpressed when one Saturday morning, her new bloke asked Alan if he would come and give him a hand lugging their old sofa down to Emmaus, and Alan objected that he had to do his homework.
“You can do it when you get home,” she said. “I’ve got to mind the laundrette, and he can’t hardly get it in and out of the van by himself, not with his bad knee. You haven’t lifted a finger in here this week and it’s time you did. In fact you can go and get your washing right now, and all the plates and cups you’ve got lying around. There were only two mugs left when we had breakfast, and there should be six. Off you go, and put your jumper on before you come back, it’s chilly this morning.”
Alan Dean went, crossly.
The new sofa was being delivered tomorrow, and the old one had got to be taken downstairs, carefully, so as not to chip any of the new paint off the walls of the stairway.
Alan Dean dropped four sticky mugs in the sink with a clatter and appeared in the living room, where after a few unhelpful shoves, and some swearing and short temper from his mother’s new bloke, he managed to push the sofa into the coffee table.
It fell over and the lamp broke.
“For fuck’s sake,” said his mother’s new bloke. “Go and get the dustpan and brush. We’ll have a look while we’re at Emmaus and see if they’ve got any nice ones.”
This was what they did. Alan Dean went upstairs, and his mother’s new bloke went downstairs, and when they met up by the cash desk they were both carrying a lamp.
His mother’s new bloke had a tall, elegant lamp, almost exactly like the broken one now in the dustbin at home. Alan Dean’s lamp was small and squat and rounded, with some mysterious symbols painted around the edge.
It looks like this because it is relatively uncomplicated for our story’s Props Department to arrange. They would have to do a lot of scouring of second hand shops to come up with the traditional version, which I have always thought looks rather like a gravy boat.
“What the fuck’s that?” asked his mother’s new bloke. “Go and put it back. It’s filthy.”
Alan Dean glared at him.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he said. “I want this one.”
His mother’s new bloke rolled his eyes. Kick off was in exactly forty seven minutes, and he still had to call in at Tesco for beer.
“Whatever,” he said. “It can go in your room if you like it so much. Come on, let’s get moving.”
They got moving, and when they clattered back up the still nicely-painted stairs to the flat, Alan’s mother looked at the two new lamps.
“That’s lovely, pet,” she said, and then to Alan: “You’re not taking that upstairs until it’s had a good clean, it’s filthy. Get a cloth out from under the sink. And don’t forget you’ve got homework.”
Alan’s mother disappeared back to the laundrette, and her new bloke disappeared into the living room to sit on a kitchen chair and watch the football. I am afraid he had to put up with watching Wrexham playing against Oldham Athletic, because as you have been warned, this is an economical sort of story, and Manchester City or Arsenal are way out of its price bracket.
Alan Dean got a cloth out from under the sink.
I wonder if you can guess what happens next. I would be disappointed if you didn’t, although you may need to make some allowances for the limitations of our budget.
Alan Dean rubbed the lamp, and nothing happened. Then he plugged it in to see what it might look like if it was lit, and rubbed it again.
There was a small, but nevertheless decisive bang, rather like the noise you get if you drop a plastic cup on a worktop. Then there was a small flash of light and a tiny puff of green smoke.
Alan Dean jumped guiltily and unplugged the lamp, which was rather more sensible than his mother might have predicted of him.
When he looked back there was a man sitting at the kitchen table, squinting at him through wire-rimmed spectacles, which he took off and began to rub on a crumpled handkerchief.
He was a fairly small sort of man, not much taller than Alan Dean. He was balding, with wisps of grey hair around his ears, and dressed in a tweed jacket, with a waistcoat and check shirt.
I told you this was a low budget story. Costumes are expensive, and if you want ear rings and a blue muscular torso then perhaps you should consider forking out the £89 for an annual streaming subscription. An under-dressed genie is the unfortunate consequence of meanness.
To say that Alan Dean was astonished is a writerly understatement. He was every bit as surprised as you would be to find an unexpected elderly schoolmaster polishing his glasses at your kitchen table.
There has already been quite enough bad language in this story, employed by Mother’s New Bloke, because I felt it was an importantly telling aspect of his character development. However, my own mother might read it someday, so we will not use any more here.
“Oh my goodness,” said Alan Dean. “Where on earth did you come from?”
“I am the Genie of the Lamp,” said the elderly gentleman. “I expect that you are Alan Dean.”
“Yes,” said Alan Dean. “What are you doing in our kitchen?”
Here we will employ another writerly conceit, because practically everybody on the planet knows what the Genie of the Lamp has got to offer, and so it is scarcely credible that Alan Dean does not, but for the purposes of storytelling, we will have an explanation anyway.
“I am here to give you Three Wishes,” said the genie. “Apologies in advance. I know I ought to be speaking in rhyming couplets, but I understand there is a deadline by which we have to be handed in. We are cutting it a bit fine at the moment, so I hope you won’t mind if I don’t.”
Alan looked at him blankly, as well he might.
“Whatever,” he said.
“Jolly good,” said the genie encouragingly. “Wouldn’t want to spoil your big moment of fame. Pleased to say that you’ve got plenty of choice as well. Most people generally waste the first wish getting themselves out of whatever pickle they have got into when they were getting hold of the lamp in the first place, but that doesn’t seem to be a problem here. So, then, what are they to be?”
“What are what to be?” asked Alan Dean, who was not the sharpest tool in the Black & Decker collection, which was why he really should have been getting on with his homework.
“The Three Wishes,” the genie said, putting his glasses back on his nose and looking over them at Alan, with a touch of impatience. “Here you are, three wishes, pick anything you like. Well, almost anything. No Kardashians, I’m afraid, because of import difficulties and financial constraints. Local wishes only at the moment.”
Alan’s mouth dropped open, which was not very flattering. After a moment he closed it again, and scowled, which was his habitual expression when he was thinking hard.
“Well what about Sophie Amundsen in Year Ten?” he said. “Or no, better still, what about Rachel Henderson?”
“Very good,” said the genie. “What about her?”
Alan reddened a little.
“Well…you know…” he said.
The genie shook his head.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said. “These days I’m afraid one can’t just hand over a girl as if she were a Big Mac and fries at a drive in window. Girls aren’t birthday presents, and you might not be exactly grateful if you were given one anyway, troublesome creatures, worse than puppies. What exactly did you have in mind?”
Alan’s pink face deepened to scarlet. The genie looked over his glasses again.
“I don’t want to hurry you,” he said kindly, “but you need to know that we only have three thousand words, and they’re running out fast.”
“I’d like a date with Rachel,” said Alan, brightening suddenly. “We could go paintballing. That would be good.”
“Certainly,” said the genie, looking more cheerful. “Did she refuse when you asked her last time?”
“Well, no,” said Alan. “I mean, she hasn’t refused. I haven’t asked her.”
The genie took his glasses off his nose and looked hard at Alan.
“Well I’d just like to know she’d say yes if I asked,” said Alan, defensively. “I mean, I don’t want to ask if she was going to say no.”
“I see,” said the genie. “You want a date with a young woman who is only agreeing because she has been enchanted into it. My charms rather than yours, as it were?”
Alan was quiet for a moment.
The genie looked at him kindly, and waited.
“What about a YouTube channel,” Alan blurted out suddenly. “You know, so people can watch me playing games online.”
“Fine,” said the genie, looking satisfied. “I expect that’s quite easy to arrange. Just a minute.”
He unearthed a mobile telephone from his inside pocket and pushed his glasses back up his nose. He tapped a few keys and scrolled up and down for a minute, his lips mouthing as he went.
He looked up with a bright smile.
“It’s really quite remarkably simple,” he said. “Look here”
Alan leaned over.
The Google page read:
Create a personal channel
- Sign in to YouTube on a computer or the mobile site.
- Click on your profile picture. Create a channel.
- You’ll be asked to create a channel.
- Check the details (with your Google Account name and photo) and confirm to create your channel.
Alan looked up.
“Well, I already know all that,” he said, crossly.
The genie looked surprised.
“You know?” he asked.
“Yeah, obviously,” agreed Alan. “I mean, everybody knows that. See. It says it there. Any idiot can read it.”
“It does,” agreed the genie. So…umm, forgive me, why haven’t you done it already? I mean, they are your wishes, and you can use them any way you like, but it does seem something of a waste of a wish, for something you could do perfectly well in – let me see – four or five clicks.”
“I don’t mean that,” Alan objected. “I don’t mean that I want a YouTube channel. I mean I do want one, except that I want thousands of subscribers. Lots of people watching it. You know.”
“Watching what?” enquired the genie, looking back at him with interest. “Are you asking me for thousands of subscribers for a YouTube channel that you have not yet even set up, never mind performed any, umm, game playing.”
Alan was silent.
“If you don’t mind my saying so,” continued the genie, “it does seem to me that if you really wanted a YouTube channel with your whole heart, you might have considered setting one up yourself already. We could get to the subscribers afterwards, if you were still interested. Shall we move along?”
In the living room there was a bellow of disappointment as somebody in Wrexham failed to score a goal.
Alan looked at the door with dislike.
“I’d like him to go away,” he said, sourly.
The genie nodded
“Well, I can arrange that if you like, disappearances are fairly simple. Seems a bit of a shame, though, I understand your mother quite likes him.”
“She does,” Alan agreed. “Don’t know why. He’s a moron,”
“Indeed,” remarked the genie, “although she will probably be sad at his departure, moron or not. Tell me, would you like him to disappear now, or perhaps hang on until after the new sofa arrives? It would be very unfortunate if your mother had to try and carry it up the stairs by herself. And I believe the fan belt on the van needs changing. You are going to have to fill that gap yourself, I’m afraid. Perhaps you should set a date by which you think you might have finished with him.”
“Right, right, maybe no, then,” said Alan, hastily. “Maybe not that. I don’t know.”
“I do,” said the genie. “That is three wishes, and they all seem to me to be complete nonsense. You are asking for an audience for a channel you haven’t created, a date with a girl you haven’t invited, and the disappearance of a gentleman who seems to me to be making your mother very happy. Really, young man, I think you ought to think about your wishes a little more carefully.”
Alan Dean looked very crestfallen.
“Well, I dunno,” he said sadly. “I can’t think of anything else.”
The genie looked thoughtfully at him.
“My dear boy,” he said gently. “I think that not having any wishes one can’t put right by oneself is really quite an enviable state, don’t you think? Rather splendid. Perhaps I should come back another time. When you have had time to think a bit.”
Alan nodded sadly.
The genie patted his arm and disappeared. Alan sat at the table for a little while, looking at the place where he had been, and went to his room to play Minecraft with his friends on Discord.
We are now, as the genie pointed out, beginning to draw near to the end of our three thousand words, and so we had better start coming to a conclusion.
Conclusions can be anything you like. Whilst drawing this one I have one eye on the fact that its chief prospective reader mentioned that she especially liked the sort of bitter-sweet conclusion where the hero got not what he thought he wanted, but what he truly deserved.
I am sorry to say that what Alan Dean truly deserves is detention when he gets into school on Monday, because an observant reader will have noticed that he has still not bothered with his homework.
I would not be so unkind as to inflict upon people the ending that they deserve.
All the same, there should always be a little mystery in a good conclusion.
When Alan’s mother came home from the laundrette that afternoon, she looked at the grubby old lamp, which had made a black ring on the table. She decided that Alan had probably forgotten all about it by now, so she dropped it into the dustbin, where it broke.
That afternoon, when the football scores were being read out, and Alan Dean’s mother’s new bloke was carefully marking them off on the back of the newspaper, Alan Dean in his bedroom and his mother in the kitchen were suddenly disturbed by a yell that almost shook the house.
They both came rushing to the living room to see what was the matter.
He had eight score draws and had won the football pools.
He had won half a million pounds, which is where the bulk of this story’s budget has been squandered.
It is always important to remember that whilst it is very important to get on with life and make things happen for oneself, there is nothing to beat a bit of a leg-up. To pretend otherwise is ridiculous and is the sort of opinion that might predispose a person to membership of the Militant wing of the Liberal Democrat party.
Alan Dean, his mother, and his mother’s new bloke, all had a holiday in Blackpool, and Alan Dean won a teddy bear on the shooting range, which he gave to Rachel Henderson, who smiled, and blushed.
He filmed himself on the Pepsi Max, and dancing bravely up and down on the terrifying glass floor at the top of Blackpool Tower. He put the video on YouTube, and got three hundred and sixty two Likes, which he thought was a very good start.
The mystery that I have left behind for my readers to consider was whether or not these things might have happened anyway, or whether they were thanks to a bit of charitable extra magic on behalf of the departing genie.
We will never know.
