Fic: Flying Lessons (6/12)
Flying Lessons (6/12)
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG, this chapter
Word Count: 1131, this chapter (7455 so far)
Warnings: Dan Ashcroft's novel
Disclaimer: I don't own Boosh, I don't own Barley, but strangely I think I own Dan Ashcroft's novel.
Author's Notes: This is a chapter. I have a mad craving for Chinese food and nboody wants to go get some with me. This makes me sad.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Jones was rather used to talking Dan down. Though things were never so dire as that time Dan jumped out of a window and landed himself in hospital, there were still certain circumstances he sometimes found, let's say... triggering. Circumstances like, say, large parties full of the sorts of superficial bottom-feeders who liked to grow rich riding the creative coattails of people with talent (real or imagined), parties full of the sorts of idiots whose collective IQ tallied up to about Dan’s shoe size, parties where such people would no doubt find ways to make Dan the reluctant centre of attention, always misinterpreting his disdain as being utterly fucking squeezebox, or whatever the fuck euphemism for cool they were using these days. Circumstances, therefore, like Dan's dreaded Book Launch Party.
Dan stood uncomfortably in a corner of the crowded room, clutching his tumbler of Scotch as though he were afraid it would float into the air and evaporate if he loosened his grip. His outfit was as brilliant as Vince had promised, but much more understated than anyone had given Vince credit for: black shoes, black trousers, grey shirt, and braces, which, Vince had told him, made him look proper intellectual. He still felt odd, regardless. Jones was with him, all smiles and support. Howard was trying to flag down one of those folks carrying about plates of hors d'oeuvres for another of those little crab cakes, and Vince was idly playing with a strand of his hair and searching for a reflective surface to check himself out in.
“Dan, it's going to be brilliant! They're going to love you!” smiled Jones.
“That's what I'm afraid of,” said Dan, taking a long drag on his cigarette.
The four of them were joined by a dark-haired woman in a billowy red dress and earrings that were very nearly the same size as her head.
“Dan Ashcroft?” she asked, addressing Jones.
“I'm Jones, he's Dan Ashcroft,” said Jones, pointing at Dan.
“Sorry,” the woman blushed, “I guess you have a bit of that writery look about you.”
“Me?” scoffed Jones.
“Him?” asked Dan.
“Actually, I've done a bit of writing myself,” Howard spoke up, adding “maybe you might be interested in - “
“Oh. Umm, good for you. Dan, I'm Helen Torres, from the New York office obviously, we spoke on the phone a few times,” she said. “So, in about five minutes, if you're cool with it, I'm thinking I'll introduce you, say a few words, then you can give us a little reading, say something, yadda yadda yadda, then drinks. Cool?”
“I guess,” muttered Dan.
“Wicked. Loved the book, by the way. I think you're going places, Mr. Ashcroft,” she enthused.
“Thanks,” said Dan.
“Right, umm, hi everyone,” Helen said quietly into a small microphone that had been set up at one end of the room. “What can I say about Dan Ashcroft's new book? Dan Ashcroft's writing is like taking esctasy in reverse: he seeks to dig out the places where we disconnect, where everything is shit, and no one can communicate with anyone else. That's where Dan Ashcroft's writing lives. Dan Ashcroft's characters don't inhabit neat little arcs where things happen in deliberate sequence and then their story is resolved. Real life doesn't have story arcs either: things stop and start arbitrarily, time skips, we live one big run-on sentence that just sort of stops when we die. Aaaand on that note, here's Dan Ashcroft.”
The room was filled with polite applause and subduded chatter. Dan reluctantly stepped in front of the microphone, holding a copy of his book.
“Umm, hello,” he began, wincing at the screeching feedback that came from the microphone, before it was adjusted to acceptable levels. “I'm Dan Ashcroft, and this is my book. Which is the point of this party I guess, except maybe the free drinks. So, umm, I guess I'll read some of it.
“Out of time, out of gas, then out of breath. Running on fumes, then running on empty. Running on pavement. Ben would be late for work again.
“The tube station ticket machine wouldn't take bills, as usual. He would get a sandwich from Marks to make change, and catch the next train. He had planned to buy lunch that day anyway. Whatever. He stuffed the bill back into his wallet, just past a handful of probably expired coupons, a few of those Caffe Nero stamp cards he never remembered to use, and a sliver, a glimpse of something that had been in there so long that the edges had gone ragged and soft, so burned into him in such vivid detail that spying that ragged edge of it was enough.
“It is a ghost, it is a memory, it is a photograph of long ago, of that trip to the seaside, when Benna was there with her skinny arms and her sundress, and it weighs against him and weighs him down: a necessary burden. He endures such things because the risk of what endurances may come without them is too great.
“Like so many of the youths of his generation, he spent a year drinking his way across the continent, getting by on mangled French and even more mangled German (and not even attempting Czech, for fear of inciting an international incident), discovering along the way that drunks were the same no matter where you were, and that the main character from Tropic of Cancer was truly an utter wankstain.
“When she told him her name was Benna, sat on his squeaky hostel bed, he thought she was taking the piss. What, after all, were the odds that Ben would meet Benna? He smiled and told her it was as though they were destined to find each other. She coughed out a cloud of thick cigarette smoke and told him not to be so fucking sentimental.”
The audience either stared disaffectedly at him, or talked amongst themselves, oblivious to his presence, or seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. Maybe it was the English accent. It sometimes threw people off. He had forgot his subtitles at home, and the room was brimming with Idiots.
“Yep, that's my book... and I wrote it. Such as it is,” mumbled Dan.
What was no doubt meant to appear as a smile on Dan's part came out looking something more like a terrified grimace. Jones looked on with quiet encouragement, cringing internally. Dan hated this sort of thing.
“Yeah, so, umm, thanks,” he continued. “Fuck. Uhh, free drinks, go mental,” he concluded, and proceeded to run from the stage area to hide in the bathroom.
At least the other attendees seemed happy to take him up on the offer of more free drinks. And that was that.
Chapter Seven
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG, this chapter
Word Count: 1131, this chapter (7455 so far)
Warnings: Dan Ashcroft's novel
Disclaimer: I don't own Boosh, I don't own Barley, but strangely I think I own Dan Ashcroft's novel.
Author's Notes: This is a chapter. I have a mad craving for Chinese food and nboody wants to go get some with me. This makes me sad.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Jones was rather used to talking Dan down. Though things were never so dire as that time Dan jumped out of a window and landed himself in hospital, there were still certain circumstances he sometimes found, let's say... triggering. Circumstances like, say, large parties full of the sorts of superficial bottom-feeders who liked to grow rich riding the creative coattails of people with talent (real or imagined), parties full of the sorts of idiots whose collective IQ tallied up to about Dan’s shoe size, parties where such people would no doubt find ways to make Dan the reluctant centre of attention, always misinterpreting his disdain as being utterly fucking squeezebox, or whatever the fuck euphemism for cool they were using these days. Circumstances, therefore, like Dan's dreaded Book Launch Party.
Dan stood uncomfortably in a corner of the crowded room, clutching his tumbler of Scotch as though he were afraid it would float into the air and evaporate if he loosened his grip. His outfit was as brilliant as Vince had promised, but much more understated than anyone had given Vince credit for: black shoes, black trousers, grey shirt, and braces, which, Vince had told him, made him look proper intellectual. He still felt odd, regardless. Jones was with him, all smiles and support. Howard was trying to flag down one of those folks carrying about plates of hors d'oeuvres for another of those little crab cakes, and Vince was idly playing with a strand of his hair and searching for a reflective surface to check himself out in.
“Dan, it's going to be brilliant! They're going to love you!” smiled Jones.
“That's what I'm afraid of,” said Dan, taking a long drag on his cigarette.
The four of them were joined by a dark-haired woman in a billowy red dress and earrings that were very nearly the same size as her head.
“Dan Ashcroft?” she asked, addressing Jones.
“I'm Jones, he's Dan Ashcroft,” said Jones, pointing at Dan.
“Sorry,” the woman blushed, “I guess you have a bit of that writery look about you.”
“Me?” scoffed Jones.
“Him?” asked Dan.
“Actually, I've done a bit of writing myself,” Howard spoke up, adding “maybe you might be interested in - “
“Oh. Umm, good for you. Dan, I'm Helen Torres, from the New York office obviously, we spoke on the phone a few times,” she said. “So, in about five minutes, if you're cool with it, I'm thinking I'll introduce you, say a few words, then you can give us a little reading, say something, yadda yadda yadda, then drinks. Cool?”
“I guess,” muttered Dan.
“Wicked. Loved the book, by the way. I think you're going places, Mr. Ashcroft,” she enthused.
“Thanks,” said Dan.
“Right, umm, hi everyone,” Helen said quietly into a small microphone that had been set up at one end of the room. “What can I say about Dan Ashcroft's new book? Dan Ashcroft's writing is like taking esctasy in reverse: he seeks to dig out the places where we disconnect, where everything is shit, and no one can communicate with anyone else. That's where Dan Ashcroft's writing lives. Dan Ashcroft's characters don't inhabit neat little arcs where things happen in deliberate sequence and then their story is resolved. Real life doesn't have story arcs either: things stop and start arbitrarily, time skips, we live one big run-on sentence that just sort of stops when we die. Aaaand on that note, here's Dan Ashcroft.”
The room was filled with polite applause and subduded chatter. Dan reluctantly stepped in front of the microphone, holding a copy of his book.
“Umm, hello,” he began, wincing at the screeching feedback that came from the microphone, before it was adjusted to acceptable levels. “I'm Dan Ashcroft, and this is my book. Which is the point of this party I guess, except maybe the free drinks. So, umm, I guess I'll read some of it.
“Out of time, out of gas, then out of breath. Running on fumes, then running on empty. Running on pavement. Ben would be late for work again.
“The tube station ticket machine wouldn't take bills, as usual. He would get a sandwich from Marks to make change, and catch the next train. He had planned to buy lunch that day anyway. Whatever. He stuffed the bill back into his wallet, just past a handful of probably expired coupons, a few of those Caffe Nero stamp cards he never remembered to use, and a sliver, a glimpse of something that had been in there so long that the edges had gone ragged and soft, so burned into him in such vivid detail that spying that ragged edge of it was enough.
“It is a ghost, it is a memory, it is a photograph of long ago, of that trip to the seaside, when Benna was there with her skinny arms and her sundress, and it weighs against him and weighs him down: a necessary burden. He endures such things because the risk of what endurances may come without them is too great.
“Like so many of the youths of his generation, he spent a year drinking his way across the continent, getting by on mangled French and even more mangled German (and not even attempting Czech, for fear of inciting an international incident), discovering along the way that drunks were the same no matter where you were, and that the main character from Tropic of Cancer was truly an utter wankstain.
“When she told him her name was Benna, sat on his squeaky hostel bed, he thought she was taking the piss. What, after all, were the odds that Ben would meet Benna? He smiled and told her it was as though they were destined to find each other. She coughed out a cloud of thick cigarette smoke and told him not to be so fucking sentimental.”
The audience either stared disaffectedly at him, or talked amongst themselves, oblivious to his presence, or seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. Maybe it was the English accent. It sometimes threw people off. He had forgot his subtitles at home, and the room was brimming with Idiots.
“Yep, that's my book... and I wrote it. Such as it is,” mumbled Dan.
What was no doubt meant to appear as a smile on Dan's part came out looking something more like a terrified grimace. Jones looked on with quiet encouragement, cringing internally. Dan hated this sort of thing.
“Yeah, so, umm, thanks,” he continued. “Fuck. Uhh, free drinks, go mental,” he concluded, and proceeded to run from the stage area to hide in the bathroom.
At least the other attendees seemed happy to take him up on the offer of more free drinks. And that was that.
Chapter Seven