Gimpo – as ever – was the one who had to keep an eye on everything while the other two swanned about. After beating the bounds and congregating, he sent us all towards the Ferry while he made off back to the van. It wasn’t the best evening for a Krossing on the Ferry. It was rough as fuuk. With each step I took the boat would either rise to meet my foot, or swoop away causing me to wobble and go off-kilter. I stood close to the Panda and kept one eye on my precious niece. By now she had submerged herself into the madness and was wearing a retractable traffic cone on her head, tilted to the side like a fine hat and fastened underneath the chin. Like me, she was no stranger to mishaps. She had the biggest of smiles as she took in the madness around her. I could still feel her pain though. We were all called to silence as the roll call of names ensued and the lights from the Liver Buildings shone bright across the water. We gasped and gulped as my brother’s name was read out among the names of those to be Mumufied this year. A reminder that he was gone.

I’ve often gathered my family together in the autumn months to take the Ferry ‘cross the Mersey to remember our Dad/Grandad/Great Grandad. At least one or two were obliging most years. I didn’t go back to Liverpool much since I left in 1994 when I was 21. I tried to keep it to once a year. If someone died, was born, married or had a significant birthday then I was usually persuaded to return more often. I like a family party, even if it is a wake. It is nice to see everyone together and remember those who have passed. Talking about the good old days.

One year, on a bright and balmy October afternoon, I managed to get at least 10 of us together, and we took the Ferry to the other side, and back. We never got off the Ferry, straight back to Liverpool and then off out for tea: that was our tradition. This time our Ray even made it. He never had before, and he never made it again. This year he was on his best behaviour and made it to the Ferry terminal to meet us all there. He wasn’t even gouging out or rattling too badly. We posed for photos, all four siblings, even some of our kids. My mum loved it and thanked me for arranging everything. Just as we were about to pull back up at the waterside, before the sound of the chains, and the smell of the oil, Raymond disappeared into the toilet. We all got off the Ferry and looked around for him. Eventually, he came skipping down the gangplank. He was fuuking muntered. He was smiling and laughing. My Mum announced his full name while rolling her eyes. Most of the family muttered in unison, “Oh for fuuk’s sake”. I took him by the hand and led him along with me, asking him how he’d been and if he was buzzing? “Yeah!” he nodded. I was long past being angry with him for being an addict. I saw it as a potentially permanent, terminal illness that deserved empathy, understanding, the odd chin wipe and a constant stream of £20 handouts. As I said, I didn’t see them often, so it was never too onerous to endure. I loved my brother dearly; we were best friends all our lives.

Dad was still holding my hand as we walked off the Ferry. I felt him walking slower than me, so I tried to slow down. It had been like this for a while now, but I didn’t ask too much about it. I just walked slower or sometimes I would take a step forward and then back – a bit like Scottish dancing where you take two steps in the same place before you move along – but slower and still holding his hand. I noticed how Dad’s hands had become smoother than they used to be, even the traces of oil were gone from his nails.

He hadn’t fixed a gearbox in ages. I missed having a Scania parked at the end of the path. I was always proud to show off Dad’s lorries to my mates when he brought one home and would use my acrobatic skills to get up to the cab, informing my friends that they were not allowed up here. I’d smile at myself in the large wing mirror and enjoy the smell of the cab.

We walked along the waterfront, looking across to the other side, Dad informed me correctly that it was the best view in the world from over here and the poor sods from Birkenhead didn’t have it all that bad: at least they get to look at Liverpool. The view from our side of the water was pretty grim. We called Birkenhead the Badlands. It was really fuuking grim in the 80s: everything was. Dad had to sit down. I could see it was upsetting him, so I declared it was time for another sandwich and some of Auntie V’s homemade delights. He agreed and I was even allowed to hold the Kiaora bottle this time. We sat looking across the water, thinking to ourselves, munching away on Viennese Whirls and Battenberg. Dad finished off the butties too. Divine.

Summer came and went. Dad took me to see my other aunties, one by one. We had a lot of days out me and Dad that summer. I had to start the big school. It was a convent school. I was dreading it. I had heard about the Nuns from my sister. She was 12 years older than me and had been taught by the same nuns and so had my brothers. The Sisters of Mercy. I had been informed they were merciless. A few weeks into term, Dad got a date for his operation that was going to make him better. I was assured by everyone that he would soon be right as rain. I love rain.

At last, I heard the chains clunk. We were waiting by the exit keen to get off. A girl ran past and shouted “Fuuk that boat!” as we disembarked. It was a rough crossing. As instructed we walked slowly and in an exaggerated manner along the landing pier and out towards the Badlands. The choir from Toxteth was waiting on the other side singing aloud, informing us that “one day like this a year would see me right, for life”.

Me and my niece locked into a hug and wiped each other’s tears. “That fuuking boat though!” we laughed and wretched in unison. The ice kream van chimed the tune of Justified and Ancient, and a police van tore towards the terminal with its siren and lights. It wasn’t for us. We were all surprised. Flares were going off, smoke and colours. We collected my brother’s brick. He was heavy, I’m not going to lie. The pyramid led the way, on a forklift truck of course. I followed the crowd and I found myself walking along a strip of the waterfront I hadn’t walked down since 1983, when I was with my Dad. I thought of everything in a flash that had been and gone over the 40 years since I was last here. What had life taught me? I realised all at once the knowledge I had gained, the stories I had seen unfold. I wasn’t sure how, but for that moment, I knew. The tears streamed down my face. The Panda saw them and wiped some away and nodded his big Panda head. That Panda took care of me. He fermented foods for me: pickles. I like pickles.

Dad died just before 8 pm on Tuesday 25th October 1983. Karma Chameleon was number one in the UK Charts and Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers were number one in the US Charts with Islands in the Stream. I sat in my bedroom with my pull-out poster of Boy George. I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry for years after that, not properly.

CHRISTINE, 4 May 2024

Pamphlet 38 of the 52 Pamphlets

Part of the answer to question 18 of the 23 Questions

This concludes Christine’s wonderful SaveAways trilogy

The crowd gathered around the Pier Head at 5:23 pm. It was pissing down and we were soaked wet through after having the bright idea to walk along from Toxteth. It wasn’t raining when we left, but by the time we got to the gates with the little turret on top of a bigger turret the wind swooped sideways from the Mersey through the Kings Dock. Intense sharp rain right in the face, drenching the clothes through. The ice kream van went past a while ago heading towards the waterfront, playing their tune as they got close to us. They must have noticed the flashes of hi-viz on our attire, or maybe it was because my husband was wearing a giant Panda head. He got a lot of attention that day and it kept him dry from the rain. We gathered and danced and sang together, some played the drums. We were all from the same tribe, all banded together in our madness and grief.

The bus pulled in at the Pier Head. I was sat on my hands clenching myself to the seat trying not to focus on the tea splashing around in my belly as we took a wide corner into the bus stop. I fixed a smile on my face so as not to have the focus shifted to my very full bladder. Tea goes through you very quickly. While I didn’t want to spoil the day by being demanding, I couldn’t risk wetting my pedal pushers. I looked smart when I left the house this morning. Mum had left my blouse and pedal pushers out on the side for me, all ironed and smooth, with white knickers, a vest and some frilly-edged socks. Dad commented, “Sunday best!” when I got dressed. It wasn’t Sunday though, it was Monday so I didn’t have to lie about going to church today.

Dad took me straight into the landing terminal where the ferry embarked from and took me to the turnstile of the toilets, waiting for an old lady to come to the gate at the same time as us. Dad took 2p out of his pocket and passed it to the old lady we had never met. She knew what to do. She stood me in front of her, put the 2p in the turnstile and then pushed me up close to the bar and we both poured into the public convenience together, two for the price of one. I didn’t feel the need to do any handstands in these toilets. Instead, I hovered over the seat and aimed in the general direction of the loo, just like Mum had taught me. “Do not sit on that seat!” she would always remind me. She wasn’t there to remind me today, but I knew it was dirty and I could not tolerate smells. I gagged at the stench and quickly pulled my sleeve down to cover my hand while I unlocked the door to get out of there and buried my chin and mouth in the ruched collar of my blouse. I washed my hands and breathed in the smell of the council soap. It was the same smell as the soap at school, and every other public toilet. I pulled tongues at myself in the mirror as I rubbed my hands together, splashing the suds between both hands. I looked down realising I had covered myself in water from the sink. I tried to rub it dry with the cotton towel. I pulled a clean bit around, scrunched up my wet blouse and rubbed it with the towel. It didn’t dry it. Now I just had a scrunched and wet blouse. Oh well. I shrugged to myself in the mirror and walked on my tip toes with my arms in the air out of the public convenience.

Dad was waiting for me. He looked like he’d missed me because his smile was beaming at me as I used my belly to push the bar to get out. I was tempted to do a cartwheel then but as I looked down at the floor it was dirty with cigarette butts so I decided against it also knowing that those types of “acrobatics” as Dad would call it, had no place on the street. Instead, I took giant steps still with my arms in the air until I got closer to Dad. He took my hand and pirouetted me around on the spot. I bowed to him and then walked normally, or as best as I could until I tripped on a flagstone, falling to my knees.

The best thing about pedal pushers was that I didn’t rip them as I fell. Instead, I just had a spot of blood on my knees from the graze. Dad took his chequered hanky out of his pocket, still folded in a square and neatly ironed with his initials on the corner, WJF. He gave it a rub and said, “It will be a pig’s foot in the morning!”. We snorted and laughed.

We started to walk away from the Ferry terminal, at which point I asked, preparing to be disappointed, “Are we going on the Ferry Dad?”

“First I want to show you something”, he replied.

It was only a short walk along the Pier Head to the War Memorial. We walked slowly. Dad sat us down in front of the War Memorial and put the Kwik Save bag on his lap. He took out the sandwiches wrapped in tin foil. Some were cut into quarters, in a triangle shape and the other sandwich was cut in half, not in a triangle. He passed me one of the small triangles. I bit into it, left the crust hanging out of my mouth and smiled at Dad. He took a bite from his buttie and said “Divine”. I knew he was referring mainly to the butter and not the whole buttie. Dad loved butter. I checked once by holding a buttercup under his chin and right enough, it shone golden yellow on his big grizzly round face. He loved butter.

Dad reached across and took the crust from my mouth, knowing I wouldn’t eat it anyway. He checked and there was a bit of chicken still between the crusts which he took out and popped into my mouth. I said, “Amen!” and swallowed. Dad finished my crust and wrapped the foil around the rest of the sandwiches. He took the lid of the Kiaora bottle and held it to my mouth while I took a sip. “That will do”, he said, and safely took the bottle away from me to avert any further mishaps, I presumed. Dad started towards the War Memorial and began telling me a story. He asked how old I was now, “almost eleven, in eleven days” I replied.

He began: “Well when I was 7, I had a Dad. He went away to sea to fight the Gerrrrrmans. He never came back”. I felt his sadness. “I was just a little boy”, he said looking up at the War Memorial. Dad walked around the outside edge of the Memorial, there were hundreds of names all around, and on the inside too. He found the list of names of the Seamen who lost their lives on HMS Manistee and pointed to a name on the list. It was written “W. Flanagan”. “William John Flanagan the first”, he explained. Dad was the second, my brother the third and I had the cutest little nephew just one-year-old. He was the Fourth. Bless him.

“Did you cry?” I asked.

Dad said, “No, I didn’t cry for years”. I thought that strange but didn’t push for any clarification. I went down the list reading all the names out loud, most of them were Irish-sounding names, so they were easy for me to read. Dad walked to the water’s edge and leaned onto the poles looking over the water at Birkenhead. He reached into his pocket took out the small medicine bottle and popped one of the tiny tablets under his tongue. He looked exhausted. Had I worn him out already? It seemed I did that these days. We walked slowly back towards the Ferry terminal and showed our SaveAways to the man at the turnstile. He let us through and pressed his little clicker twice.

Dad found us a seat on the deck. The sun was shining on the water and the view of the Pier Head suddenly became enchanting as the boat took off. We were on the Royal Iris. I’d heard a lot about her but this was my first time going over the water.

The Pier Head building was huge and it didn’t seem to get smaller as we moved away from the water edge. I could see the Liver Birds on top from this distance without straining my neck to look up. I imagined them flying away with the other birds and then realised that would be sad if they were gone, so I flew them back. I put my arms out like wings as I stood on the deck, feeling the sway of the water beneath us. The sun shone on Dad’s face as he raised his chin up and smiled, the wind catching his curls on his full head of hair. I sat backwards between his knees and let him cuddle me for a minute. I rubbed my soft cheek on his spikey chin. Dad got a shave every morning but by lunch time would be able to annoy me by rubbing his stubble on my face, making me giggle. It didn’t annoy me today. I rubbed back and forth slowly, bobbing along on the water over the waves and looking back towards our hometown. The sound of heavy chains and a sudden bump brought me to my feet as I realised we were on the other side. We got off the Ferry hand in hand both of us looking out for things that I could potentially trip over. I smelt the most glorious of smells, one that will always remind me of my dad: engine oil. I breathed in the air and remembered the days when Dad would come home late for tea with bags of sweets and his overalls still on. I would try to intercept him at the door so I could get a cuddle while he still had the smell of engine oil on him. I loved that smell. It was warm and cosy.

Christine, 1 May 2024

Pamphlet 37 of the 52 Pamphlets

If you would like to contribute a pamphlet or an answer to the 23 Questions then please get in touch.

We counted the pile of 10ps on the table. We had enough for two SaveAways. Adult and child. Adult all areas. Child was All Areas anyway.

Dad made the butties while I was dawdling and doing handstands against the bathroom door, making sure it was locked. Dad had a proper sulk with me the other week when he knocked me flying into the living room because I was on the other side of the door doing a handstand when he walked in. I made it worse by doing my dying fly act, expecting it to be one of my brothers who had tried to kill me and knocked me into the brown Formica table. After a moment of screaming “Look what he did to me” I opened my eyes to find the man who usually comes to my rescue, scalding anyone in his path. The bathroom door was the only door in the house with a lock on it.

After brushing my teeth, rubbing my face with a wet and warm flannel coated in Palmolive soap and rubbed together to form a froth, gargling along to the tune of Ave Maria with a teaspoon of salt in a glass of warm water; I spit! Prepared to leave the bathroom and face the day with my Dad. It was going to be a good day, just me and him. I did a jiggle, a giggle, one last handstand quietly against the door, rolling into a curl onto the floor, pirouetting up, raising my leg over the sink, smiling in the mirror, touching my nose with my tongue, wriggle my shoulders, touch one ear to one shoulder and then the next, stand up straight, feel uncomfortable, wriggle about again, unlock the door. Blink my eyes. One, two. Not bad. Smile. Don’t blink again all day.

It was a bank holiday, so we had chicken butties with chicken left over from Sunday lunch. The doctors had said that due to Dad’s heart condition he wasn’t allowed butter. I know we both had butter on our butties that day. We agreed they wouldn’t be butties otherwise. They would be margarineeees, and no one wants to eat one of them. A bottle of squash and chicken butties, with salt and butter and medium sliced bread. Divine.

Dad had been out of work since his company went bust. He was a haulage contractor and a commercial mechanic on the Dock Road in Liverpool, doing very well before I came along. By 1983 everything was gone. There was no longer any income. And there was a new baby to support. Dad got angry when he saw politicians on the telly. He said they were all arseholes. If you’ve read some Kurt Vonnegut you will know what an arsehole looks like already.

I may not have been drawn to write about this day, had my mind not recently been jolted back to a walk I had with my father in 1983. One of the last walks I had with him. My Mum used to say that life goes round in circles, taking you back to places you need to revisit. It does seem that way. We do tend to find ourselves walking down the roads we have previously been down, just as a reminder and to get a better understanding of the last time we were there. To see deeper into a situation long since passed.

It was November the 23rd 2023. A day I had planned for. Awaiting messages, clues, codes. What was it going to be? I don’t know when I started waiting for that day, but it was likely a few years before. 2017 probably, but that period was all of a blur, given the circumstances. I couldn’t ever reliably remark on what happened that year. I survived, and so did those that I entered into it with, that was our blessing. We’re all still here, but one. But that’s another story altogether.

It was cold, the wind swirling around the Pier Head, rain changing direction between every building. Rain often fell sideways on the waterfront. We congregated, waiting for the hour and for the Ice Kream van to appear again and more importantly, the Pyramid. Dazzle was waiting at the end of the landing pier. “Get in! Is right! It’s fuuking Dazzle!” I squealed. I hadn’t come to terms yet with my power of manifestation.

Dad dropped the pile of 10ps on the bus conductor’s tray. We got on at the Douglas Drive end of Moss Lane. We were on the 310 out of Maghull. This is when we had our best times, just me and my Dad. Maghull held tensions. It was indeed a nicer place to live than Norris Green but it was still fuuking grim. The bus driver handed over the two Saveways. Dad checked the date with the bus driver just to be sure before he started instructing me to rub off my silver panels. Monday 30 May 1983. It was my birthday in 11 days. I counted it out in my head and on my fingers and nose to be sure, yeah 11 days.

We got upstairs before the bus turned the corner into Foxhouse Lane. Sitting in the front left seats, my feet dangled from the chair. I was next to the window and squished my face against it, breathed out and watched the condensation from my breath spread out across the window, blurring my view. I sat back and drew a smiley face on the window then looked through the eyes to see the houses below with their gardens with big trees. I love those trees, all of them. They’ve been there all my life. Dad looked on the opposite side of the road, his favourite pub was over there. It was too early now for it to be open. I wondered if Dad would pop out for the last orders tonight. As we drove past the bungalows, I remarked how they looked like cute little doll’s houses with paper flowers all around the edges of their neat gardens. My mum loved neat little front gardens. Ours was a neat little garden, although my Dad and my brother often messed it up by parking cars on the drive to fix them, pouring oil down the path and then taking the wheels off and letting the car sit on bricks for weeks. I don’t think the neighbours liked it much either.

As we turned the corner onto Hall Road, Dad squeezed my knee, partly to stop me from kicking the panel of the bus in front of me so I didn’t annoy the driver but also to make me laugh. It got me every time. I didn’t want to laugh. I hated the sensation of having my knee squeezed but Dad did it anyway. I laughed and used it as an excuse not to look at the senior school I would be joining at the end of this summer hoping Dad wouldn’t ask me if I was excited. I wasn’t. I swung my jaw up in the air opening my mouth until my ears felt squeezed, then twisted my jaw to the side while bringing my shoulder up to my ear and then again in the other direction with the right ear towards the right shoulder. I wriggled, and squeezed Dad’s knee between my thumb and index finger and whispered “The Clutching Hand”. We both laughed. Dad put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in. Being my prickly self I quickly sat up straight and placed my hands on my knees. I tensed my shoulders and held them back until we were safely past Pat Thompson’s Dance Studio: the best thing about Maghull until the roller rink opened. We were safely out of Maghull for the day.

Maghull was pretty in comparison to the rest of the journey into town. Arriving outside the Bus Station, the stop after Old Roan, you could feel the warmth of the day beginning to ascend on us. It was almost 10 am. The industrial fumes from the docks seemed to make it to these parts: it always smelt funny to me. You never knew if you were going to have to sit and wait for a driver while the bus engine was left running to add to the smell. Maybe that was the smell: maybe I couldn’t smell Bootle from here. I got impatient and opened up the bottle of juice, squeezing it as I drank ensuring it ran down my face and blouse. Dad took it off me, placed the lid back on the Kiaora bottle and rubbed my sticky chin. I was wriggling again and didn’t realise I had started kicking the panel until I felt the knee sensation. I tensed, sat straight and concentrated trying not to do those things.

The houses were dirty along the next bit of the road, from all the passing traffic I assumed, and not being cleaned. “I need a wee”, I said. We were at the Black Bull. Dad nodded. He waited for the bus to take off and he pressed the button and stood up. I followed. We got off the bus at the next stop. Dad said, “Let’s go and see Aunty V for elevenses, we should be just in time.”

We crossed over the road, over the bridge and down the road to the cleanest house on the street. We knocked on the door. Uncle Martin was by the vestibule door with his coat on: he was just going out with Alan. We said, hello and goodbye in a brief exchange and then me and Dad wandered down the back of the house to find Aunty V in the kitchen. We’d passed the dining table on the way through. It was set for elevenses with cakes all laid out. Aunty V jumped when she heard Dad’s voice, expecting it to be Uncle Marty. She threw her arms around him repeating his name, “Billy, Billy, Billy” only stopping when she saw me in the doorway behind, slowly walking past the cakes with bigger eyes than usual. She kissed me on the head, spun me around into a chair, put a lovely china plate in front of me and reached for a doily to cover the plate. “Which one do you want first?” she asked. This was an informed decision and one that was easy to make, “Can I have the Victoria sponge please Aunty V”. I knew I couldn’t travel far with a slice of that and the others looked like they could be wrapped in a doily.

Dad and his twin sister went off to the kitchen while she made a fresh pot of tea. I could hear them talking while my finger scooped the cream out of the middle of the cake and popped it in my mouth. Aunty V made me a cup of tea too, which reminded me I needed the loo. I asked politely then made my way upstairs. It was just a loo on its own, with tiled walls, no lock on the door and no room whatsoever to do a handstand. I went down the stairs on my bum and did a roly poly towards the vestibule door, being very careful not to kick it. When I walked back into the kitchen Auntie V was saying to my Dad, “Well the world won’t be the same without you, so do your best Bill”. Her eyes turned towards me as she nodded to my Dad.

Homemade Battenberg and Viennese Whirls were wrapped up in doilies as we made our way onto the next bus at 11:12am from the Vale. Next stop the Pier Head. I know I am going to need another wee by the time I get there.

To be continued…

#GANTOB2024 number 36 of the 52 Pamphlets

This is #GANTOB2024 Pamphlet 35. That means that we are two thirds of the way through the 52 Pamphlets. And it isn’t even the end of April 2024. The end stages of GANTOB (the project) are rushing on. These pamphlets are contributions towards the third GANTOB book.

We are therefore 2/3s of the way through the third of three books. On publication of 52 Pamphlets (the book) GANTOB (the project) will end. That will probably be sometime towards the end of July 2024.

It is therefore time to start taking stock. The GANTOB Pamphlet Committee calls it “evaluation”. “Securing the GANTOB legacy”. But that’s just jargon from The Benefaktor. It makes the project sound like the London Olympics or something else much grander than it is. Though there are certainly times that GANTOB (the project) feels like a marathon.

Luckily, Question 22 of the 23 Questions gives us a route into exploring the project’s impact. Skellbert’s Pickles has asked “GANTOBBING: HOW WAS IT FOR YOU?”

I like that.  GANTOB has become a verb as well as an anonymous participative art project. It hadn’t dawned on me that the present participle of the verb “to GANTOB” would have two “B”s, but it makes sense.

I want to hear from people who have participated in GANTOB (the project).

First up, it’s Christine. Let’s make our introductions.

After this pamphlet I am handing over to Christine (AKA Missi Formation) for a trilogy of personal pieces.

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GANTOB was born on 27 July 2023, a few days after reading about the refresh of The KLF Re-enactment Society, and while ploughing through The JAMs’ book 2023: a trilogy for the first time. On 13 August 2023 Christine followed GANTOB’s Instagram account.

GANTOB messaged back that same day:

Many thanks for the follow. If you’d like to enter the Grapefruit Are Not The Only Bombs 2023 Kompetition please send a message via Instagram or an email to 100percentvinyl2@gmail.com, asking a question about how you can improve 2023 for yourself or others, giving a bit of context to the question, your name and address. The 23 winning entries will be sent a copy of the book by post, which will include a quote answering their question. Examples already submitted include “How can I improve my swimming skills?” and “Will AI develop empathy during 2023?” Please ignore this message if you have already submitted an entry. It’s not always easy to match up name and Instagram identities. #GANTOB2023

The rest, as they say, is history. Over to you Christine…

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17 April 2024

Shwmae GANTOB (The Original),

I’ve been rather busy lately, what with the house and the garden and slaying the mud monster that tried to destroy my polytunnel.  I’ve also been busy writing, something that a year ago I would have laughed out loud if you’d have told me I’d be enjoying. Ha!  I’d have snapped!  I have always struggled to write, I got through my studies with one-to-one support from my dyslexia tutor and tears and tantrums before deadlines.  I have no confidence in myself, and the times I’ve been treated like I’m stupid still resonates through my brittle ego. I felt most things I say are shit and meaningless.  I’d rush to finish my sentences so that people didn’t have to listen to me for any longer than needed. 

Then one day I got a calling to throw a leaflet into the very river I had been out protesting and singing about to defend it from the rubbish it was having pumped into it. “Our waterways are losing wildlife, plants and flowers, we can save it we have power”, I sang again as I let the paper plane fly from my hand taking a sharp turn downwards into the mud at the side of the river, just out of my reach.  I felt bad and good, unruly and accomplished.  Such a tiny act got me out of the house and doing something as instructed to perpetuate some madness about to stir.  I liked that. 

The antics of a grapefruit got me all excited too. I’ve always given substance to inanimate objects, talking to them as they appeared in my path: “hello chair, you’re looking pretty today sitting there with your shiny legs”.  I have a whole drawer of googley eyes for inanimate objects that look a little lifeless. It helps others to understand why I am talking to the objects I see around me.  Anyway, I started writing about the Grapefruit, as you know. No one seemed to mind at GANTOB the project if my writing was shit, rambling or silly.  So I just wrote.  Then when I saw it in a book, I couldn’t read it because it was in a book, I flicked through looking at the pictures and examining the tables, placing my finger under the odd line of someone else’s text, which I felt compelled to read.  Then the second book arrived, this was even more off-putting. I flicked through the pictures and put it down, leaving it for my husband to read.  He assured me I had read most of it anyway as I had been reading the blogs.   Blogs are easier for me to read and I never feel guilty about not finishing one if it is too long. I scroll on.   I love books. I’ve got hundreds of them. I have read most of them, but often from the back to the front.

There were talks about a third book, and invitations to write and contribute again, except it all seemed to get way too serious and the main characters lost the round and squishy pinkness I had become fond of.  I was bored. 

I had several pages in my Google Drive where I had started a sentence or two, but often clicked them closed when I next opened my MacBook.  I was very bored by now.  Waking up in the middle of the night is a speciality for women my age, often catching a glimpse of the clock at 3:23 am.   On March 6th this year, it was my dad’s birthday. I was feeling particularly emotional and couldn’t get back to sleep, so by the time it was 5 am I started writing to settle the boredom and to keep me quiet. I’ve been known to move inanimate objects around in the night. The screeching of table legs on hard floors is annoying in the middle of the night, or so I have been informed. 

So this night, I wrote and it flooded out. Poured. Oozed. Dribbled and dropped, right out of me. It hasn’t stopped since and I don’t know quite how to deal with it.  Compliments on my writing‽  Absurd!  Unheard of.  It has been an emotional year.  I’ve struggled with grief for most of my life and this year challenged that pain, and brought it to the surface for me to examine again.   I didn’t want my story to be about the KLF. They really bore me. Not just the band, but the KLFRS and their lack of inclusivity.  However, the facts were, on 23rd November 2023 I walked down a road I had not been down in forty years. Life had taken me on a huge journey to complete this circle returning me to the same bit of waterfront I had only ever walked along once before. 

I would like to share with GANTOB some of the writing I have done since March.  GANTOB certainly inspired me. You should be careful doing that!  Going around empowering others to do their thing, it’s dangerous and beautiful, and very kind.  I wasn’t going to share it with you, but when Gillian informed us through her blog today, that GANTOB will not exist after the next book, I just wanted to let Gillian know that she did good and I would like to thank you/her/him/them/it.

Diolch yn fawr iawn.

Cheerio and thanks for all the Grapefruits.  

Christine

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I replied a week later.

24 April 2024

Dear Christine,

I have been thinking about your email of 17 April.

Here is my response to some of the themes and points you raise.

When I was newly hatched as GANTOB, back at the end of July 2023, the world was new, brightly coloured and full of new people to meet. It was fun. I was working, with a reliable salary, in a comfortable house. Bursting with creativity, guided by The JAMs’ imagined version of 2023 (from their 2017 trilogy), I tried out a lot of new ideas. It was all paper aeroplanes and the liberation of destrukting a kollektion that had taken Ali (and latterly me) decades and £+++ to gather. I was on fire. I burnt out.

The Benefaktor took over. He funded and printed my early work in the first book. We spread the load, coopted others from our circle of friends, family and associates, and then from across the world through the process of Demokratisation, and knuckled down to document our 2023, in real time. This became the second book. The inner circle of GANTOB pretended to be artists/animators/writers even though we knew that we weren’t really. It was fun pretending, and to be knocking about with people who are properly creative and sparky. The second book has some differences from the blog – there is less of the snipping and art, more of the backstory, through The Philatelist’s chapters and the trip to Vienna that Ali and I took over Hogmanay. I don’t know if they are of any interest to you or others – but they certainly helped Ali and me understand some of the mischief that The Benefaktor had perpetrated and some of the quirks in the life of Ali’s father Curt Finks.

The 400-word snapshots in the second book were all very well, but they didn’t allow elaboration, even if we strung a few posts together. I wanted to give myself and others the opportunity for longer pieces. This gave birth to the 52 Pamphlets idea for the third book. Some early pamphlets meant that the writing took a literary turn, through William Blake (whose work I didn’t know, but I have now explored via Stuart and Urs’ contributions) and Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle (which was a connection back to my much younger self). It has helped me understand why I have kept coming back to topics like the 1960s and The KLF throughout my adult life. (+) It has corrected some misconceptions and poorly remembered ideas. And it has helped me read, process and write new thoughts down much more rapidly.

I have enjoyed reading the pamphlets that others have contributed, and have been inspired down completely unexpected paths. I have certainly engaged my creative side in ways that I could never have anticipated and have met some lovely people, albeit via email and social media. Unfortunately, I have to I accept that anonymity is absolute as GANTOB (the person). I am proud that the combined power of GANTOB (the project) has unofficially completed the 9 Missing Years in Bill Drummond’s memoir. I am pleased that some of the output of Curt Finks is in print, including in Vipers Tongue Quarterly. Once the Muons pamphlets are complete I will be able to file the rest of Curt’s writing away as “curios”. There will no doubt be some GANTOB writing that will go the same way.

There have been times when I have been very busy with other things, when I have had to force myself to sit and think, devise creative challenges, write and print pamphlets and personalise them and remember to post them and update the social media feeds. Recently, with the evenings getting lighter and bird song pulling me outdoors in my spare time, I have had to remind myself that I have made a commitment to other contributors, to The Benefaktor as funder, to readers of the blog. I am on “task and finish” mode. I am empowering people. I am inclusive. The power of positive thinking drives me on.

The paper aeroplanes have all been launched. My kollektion has been Destrukted. I have developed and shed my childish ways. GANTOB (the person) now has baggage, commitments and deadlines to meet. Over the past 9 months our youngest child has flown the nest, I’ve changed job, moved house, settled into a completely new way of life with none of the old certainties. My father’s health is failing. I can see the effects on my writing. I am now exploring the past, relationships, loss. I am finding a philosophical streak. I try to write in a way that will interest others, but perhaps we are all really writing for ourselves. When I read the first draft of the third book – which the Deputy General Manager of GANTOB (the project) has committed to having on my desk a few days after the final pamphlet – I am not sure that I will be able to be objective about this work. Perhaps I should ask you, as my most frank critic.

So what? That is always the question, though not yet one of the 23 Questions. Perhaps I will add it today. Having written this all down I realise that your path may have followed a similar trajectory to mine. From cuddly representations of cartoon grapefruit that can swim and converse in pubs and clubs you have moved to a very touching exploration of your life and family. I am delighted to include your trilogy as part of the 52 Pamphlets, and am very grateful for your feedback. I will have to think how I can capture the spirit of early GANTOB as we reach the project’s end.

Thank you for everything,

GANTOB

Pamphlet 35 of the 52 Pamphlets

Part of the answer to questions 22 and 23

Stay tuned to the blog for Christine’s trilogy over the next few days, and consider making your own written or artistic contribution to The 52 Pamphlets, the 23 Questions, or feeding back about your experience of GANTOBBING. You can navigate your way through the different parts of this project using the menu at the top of this page.

(+) I am not sure if I am brave enough to attempt the same type of approach for the other itch that I really want to scratch before GANTOB’s work is done – The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon. I read that at around the same time and have felt it tugging at me recently. The intrigue, symbolism and nonsense in that book may explain a lot about The KLF and GANTOB.

As a final point, GANTOB (the person) would like to say that in her experience The KLFRS has always been very approachable, supportive and inclusive.