Day Two Hundred and Ninety Nine: The Stolen Thought Gang

This was written in creative writing earlier on. I post it as a first draft as I plan to work on it and expand it. I’m posting it for three reasons.

1) we were first asked to write an opening sentence then the most striking one was picked by the class. My opening sentence was picked even though it’s a rather long sentence.

2) it is directly inspired by Tibor Fischer’s The Thought Gang which was apparently completely subconscious and I only realised it afterwards

3) it took me 12 minutes to write this. I think it’s a pretty good start for an interesting story.

It’s currently untitled – I’ve not thought that far ahead yet.


If I only ever give you one piece of advice, when lying face down on the floor surrounded by police for reasons unknown, it is be jovial about it. I say this because if you are anything less than polite one might find oneself with a knee in their back and a sweaty, frustrated, coffee scented police officer snarling a raft of obscenities into your ear.
This happened to me fairly recently and it put a damper on my day. Things got off to a bad start when I awoke with a blazing hangover and stripped down to my vest, boxers and socks in a flat that did not belong to me. My confusion was compounded when the police barged down the door and seen it fit to reprimand me. Given the fragile state of my health, naturally I was less than civil and an hour later I found myself lying face down in a jail cell with a bruised back and a powerfully nauseating headache which could only be cured by consuming the copious amounts of booze from which I was currently bereft.
I’ve had better mornings.
A couple of fairly decent police officers later told me, by way of ushering me into a questioning room and giving me the third degree, that the flat I was in belonged to someone who had recently gained a reputation for being one of London’s most notorious pornographers. A man, they said, that they had yet to identify. Things didn’t look great, but my pleas of innocence were lent a particularly air of legitimacy by my lack of attire and presumably the striking colour of my finest bright red boxer shorts. I thanked whichever God may or may not be there for giving me the foresight to pick my best underwear the night before. I was released on bail a short time later, and delivered home by a furiously blushing female police officer.
To be honest, the outlook was grim. Although the events of last night still occupied a space in my mind to which my consciousness was not privy at this moment in time, I still felt as though I should leave the country in case they tried to pin this whole thing on me. I’m not known by the police in any major capacity, and bar the odd drunken transgression I didn’t want to graduate onto any list where I might attract considerable attention to myself. I packed a bag, put on some clothes and headed for the Eurostar. Spain seemed a safe bet, but that of course meant travelling through France. The size of my headache made the thought of flight rather unappealing, and I knew a few people in France who owned a couple of vineyards. I don’t care much for the country, but I cared rather a lot of their wine and it would be a nice little stop off en route to Barcelona, where perhaps we could engage in some proper liver crushingly ruckus drinking.


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