"A Vision of Utopia" is a comedy novel exploring the afterlife adventures of a piano teacher. The central character of the story becomes a guardian angel to a reformed alcoholic - and here is a sample (not for the squeamish!)

Chapter Twenty-six

The afterlife is, in the main, a wonderfully utopian experience.

The overriding frustrations of the left behind physical world is now

a distant memory, as combinations of happy meetings with passed-

over friends and relatives, reliving the ghosts of the situations of

days gone by, and participation in positive new life experiences

were bountiful.

The physical need for sleep of my previous existence was now

replaced by a purely spiritual and mental need for this

replenishment and recharging of the batteries.

A major bonus of spiritual life is having the burden of sexual

desire offloaded. My final months on Earth were hardly an

unqualified success regarding sexual fulfilment, and to have the

slate wiped clean of the resulting angst made things far less

complicated.

Dreaming during sleep was the time where I was given the

hotline to the other half of my consciousness that was intertwined

with another’s back on Earth.

Mike finished his day’s business outside the supermarket at

about six o’clock. He walked around the side of the store that ran

next to the overland tube line, climbed a few steep steps to reach

street level, crossed the road, walked a few yards to the right,

descended a few more steep steps, and the tube station entrance

greeted him about forty yards in the distance. He purchased a zone

six single journey ticket inside the station, opened the automatic

barriers with its insertion, and made his way over the footbridge to

await the next Metropolitan or Piccadilly Line train destined for

the functional concrete of Uxbridge.

Eight minutes later a train honed into view from the east; its

driver wore the expression of an auto- pilot. The doors swished

opened, and dozens of commuters returning from the weary

claustrophobia of central London stepped out onto the platform.

Although disembarking passengers heavily outnumbered the

boarders, there were still a few examples of people attempting to

enter the carriages before allowing the masses off. Mike wondered

why people showed such mindless lack of courtesy; after all, there

would be plenty of seats available, and these people seemed to

work on the logic that the train would leave sooner because of

their haste.

Mike was tired. It was an unusually warm spring day, and

he’d been on his feet for several hours. His day passed by with

little incident. He sold a regulation amount of copies that day, and

the only slight inconvenience was one of a couple of young lads

who replied “bless you” in reply to his “Big Issue?” He’d heard

this reply more times than he cared to remember, though the

giggling teenagers seemed unaware of this fact as they made their

way past him to enter the store. Their intent was to buy nothing

other than a full bottle of vodka and four cans of Red Bull.

About ten minutes after boarding the tube, Mike reached the

terminus of Uxbridge. He took the Heathrow bound A10 bus in

order to reach his modest subsidized bedsit a mile or so away.

Once inside, he reached for his Erik Satie CD, and

programmed his player to tracks one, two, three, four, five and six

in order to let the eerie ‘Six Gnossiennes’ wash over him as a kind

of aural alternative to bath time. His soulless urban life needed an

antidote of sheer tranquillity.

I awoke to the remembrance of Satie’s Gnossienne No.5

whirling around my head in all its cyclic beauty.

I recalled Terry stating that guardian angels are assigned to

people with similar traits and ideals, and I definitely saw parts of

myself in Mike’s personality. One thing I didn’t share with Mike

was the misfortune of chronic alcoholism.

It must be difficult to get a life back on track without a drug

that was more desired than every other earthly desire put together.

Mike had to constantly remind himself of the pain he caused

himself and others during the dark days of four years ago. As long

as he did this, he gave himself a sporting chance of permanently

defeating his demon.

Mike found himself sitting at the bar of the pub. He ordered

full bottles of scotch, gin, vodka, rum and cream sherry. He was

disappointed when the landlord informed him that they were out of

methylated spirt, brake fluid, aftershave and Toilet Duck.

“Special Occasion?” The landlord enquired as he nodded his

head to gesture at the impressive display of booze laid out on the

bar.

“I’ve got to be at the TV studios in an hour.” Mike informed

the happy landlord.

“I’m on ‘Supermarket Sweep,’ and I need a bit of Dutch

courage.”

Mike necked the entire liquid feast in front of him, and the

dozen or so other people scattered around the homely little pub

broke into spontaneous applause.

Mike spread his arms wide and slowly shuffled around in a

circle to acknowledge the applause from all corners.

“AND FOR MY NEXT TRICK!!” Mike excitedly bellowed.

He proceeded to vomit all over his shoes, the floor, and the

foot rail of the bar. Droplets of puke dripped from the rail and onto

the carpet. The volume of vomit was such, the splash marks on

Mike’s trousers came up to his knee.

An old flat-capped man walked over to Mike from the far

corner with his mongrel dog in tow. The old man ordered a packet

of ready salted crisps, tore the bag open, and emptied its contents

amongst the pool of mess on the carpet.

The old man’s dog swished its tail madly to convey sheer

enjoyment as it wolfed the crisps, and found the sauce to be a

delicious accompaniment.

The old man laid his hand on Mike’s shoulder, and spoke

slowly and emotionally.

“I’ve got to say – I’m an old man who’s seen it all, but that

moment will stay with me for however many years I’ve got left.”

The old man’s sincerity, depth of feeling and warmth moved

some of the other customers to tears. The old man kept his hand on

Mike’s shoulder for several seconds before reluctantly removing it

and returning to his seat.

“Thanks so much for coming in mate, and I wish you all the

best on the telly!” The landlord spluttered in gooey appreciation.

A car horn was tooted a couple of times outside the pub, and

as Mike made his farewells, the customers raised their glasses as

one to wish Mike good health as he made his way to the TV

studios.

The taxi driver was delighted when Mike threw up all over his

windscreen and dashboard.

“Better out than in!” The driver giggled.

“Ere y’are mate, this’ll sort you out.”

The driver offered Mike some Windolene, and he gratefully

glugged the full bottle of thick pink sludge.

“I dunno what me bleedin’ cleaning bill’s gonna be! Still, well

worth it!”

Although Mike didn’t feel too good, the appreciation he was

getting for his efforts made his nausea no more than a minor

inconvenience.

The taxi driver stopped outside the TV studios, shook Mike’s

vomit stained hand, and asked him for his autograph.

Unfortunately there were no writing implements in the vicinity,

so Mike decided to throw up all over the driver’s jacket and

jumper.

“I’ll make sure I never wash these clothes again!” The driver

replied with star-struck awe.

Inside the building, Mike was sick over the reception desk, a

potted plant, and the sink in his dressing room.

During the short walk from his dressing room to the set, he

was ill over the sound engineer, floor manager, and one of the

cameramen.

Mike stood next to the show’s host, seventies star Larry

Grayson; and Grayson enquired as to what types of items Mike

had in mind during his frantic trolley dash.

“Well, I’m looking for a bit of everything really; booze, drink,

alcohol, turps, bleach……”

The audience laughed louder with each addition to the list.

Mike then undid the flies of his trousers and urinated all over

the studio floor.

“Seems like a nice boy - and you thought Lulu the elephant

was bad.” Mr. Grayson whispered at a close-up shot from camera

one.

“Oooh, he’s had a skinfull – I just hope he hasn’t eaten

anything!”

The audience loved the camp host’s one liners. Some sections

cheered, others gasped in astonishment, and some screamed

deliriously.

Eventually the moment came where Mike could do his trolley

dash, and he surprised one or two people by going straight to the

‘household cleaning’ section. He picked up tubs and bottles

including Ajax, Vim and Mr. Muscle.

At the moment Mike decided to finish with this section, he

leaned on his trolley, turned to the audience, and ad-libbed,

“Not only will this stuff fuck me RIGHT up, but I’ll smell good

too!”

The audience was in hysterics.

Mike then shot across to the booze section and crammed the

remaining space of his trolley with bottles of spirits and cans of

cider.

As it turned out, Mike won the show. Mr. Grayson reminded

Mike that this show was for charity, and enquired of him who his

beneficiaries were going to be;

“I’d like to donate the contents of this trolley to……my

stomach!”

The host turned to the audience and declared,

“Ooh, isn’t he lovely?”

The audience heartily agreed, and produced a blend of wild

cheering, shouting and wolf-whistling.

As the credits rolled, the host and contestants waved and

smiled at the camera. During his waving, Mike vomited once more,

all over Larry Grayson’s legs.

The host turned again to meet a camera close-up, rolled his

eyes heavenward, then signed off with,

“Oooooh, what a lot he’s got! – Thanks for watching

‘Supermarket Sweep,’ see you next time – I love you all!”

Mike then opened his eyes and was concerned at how blackly

surreal his dreams were becoming.

The funny thing was that the more extreme the dreams Mike

had about drink were, the more he seemed to wake up having his

desire satiated. Obviously the deep wanting of alcohol was still

there, but surely it was healthier getting this desire out during the

night than it was in the real world.