A Dream Come True

A short story by Vince, written 1982

The heat from the ground rose defiantly, shimmering above the winding road, the distortions playing havoc with the clear cut edge of the tarmac strip.

A feint roar could be heard from the distant horizon.  The noise grew louder and louder, now heard well above the relentless chanting of the birds and insects.  A glint of light was caught in the distance and as the rumble drew closer it could be observed that a motorcyclist, resplendent in his white leather jacket, was riding his mount rapidly towards the ancient monument half a mile away.

As the rider rode faster into the foreground it could be observed that this was no ordinary day tripper.  The open megaphone type exhausts echoed a note reminiscent of track racers, the rapid acceleration shattered only by the tortuously hard braking for his next corner belayed an experienced street racer.  Each gear change was just a flick from his right boot just a fraction of momentum lost.  At every corner the hot black rubber of the tyres scrabbled for grip, the footrests causing sparks to be flown from the tarmac.  Then again the rider pulled upright rapidly towards the next bend in an ecstasy of speed and tormented delight.

This frantic moment of riding soon came to a close.  The rider having pulled out of a sweeping right hander screwed open the throttle, laid on the tank and watched the long straight unfurl in front of him.  The speedometer needle indicated seventy, eighty, …ninety passed as his right foot forced the next gear into operation.  The black chromed exhausts bleated out in beautiful harmony as one-hundred and ten showed.  Ton-twenty and the motor screamed for more, the airstream battling with the rider for control of the machine.

The needle peaked at one-hundred and twenty-five as the next bend loomed into the distance. Within a split second the rider’s right hand was gripping the brake lever.  The motion abruptly spoiled as the black calipers grabbed the shining twin front discs.  The front end dropped as the weight fell on the front wheel, the forks diving in pain as ninety, seventy, fifty passed.  Then a quick gear change and the bike cruised gently round the next bend.

Now that the riding was more sedate the details of man and machine could be seen.  The rider wearing his black crash helmet, bearing the mark of a Greek God painted delicately in gold, faded blue jeans and studded leather boots was haunched over a mainly black bike.

The heart of the bike, a mighty V-twin motor, thumped it’s power through a huge chain and was converted to power by a massive oversize rear tyre.  The front end, braced by two powerful looking forks, boasted a huge tyre, twin discs and rather unsubstantial but neat looking mudguard.  Above, the double headlights were gripped in a small nose fairing suggesting night racing but were taped over as it was a sunny afternoon.

Above the unburstable black motor lay a shiny, glimmering petrol tank.  As with the rest of the machine it was gloss black and only the golden letters broke the monotony.  The name reminiscent of by-gone days where the engine once ruled the roads, now emblazoned on the most beautiful bike in the world, read…VINCENT.

vincentconcept
The Vincent motorcycle concept I envisaged for this story in the early eighties.  The café racer is influenced by the Vincent Black Shadow, the Moto-Martin CBX and Ogri

Vince was proud of his bike.  Very proud.  He had read how customers spend hundreds of pounds and thousands of hours churning out visually appealing machines, only to be torn to pieces and then re-built in time for the next custom show.  Also, like it as not, they don’t run, or can’t because they have sixty-nine carat gold plate on the rear sprocket or something.

But Vince’s bike ran, and it ran well.  He remembered how his old CX500 used to bounce and weave along this, his favourite stretch of road.  Even the Suzuki GS750 seemed to wallow above eighty on these curves.  But his Vincent, that he was riding now, seemed to eat potholes and white lines as though it were stood still on a bowling green.  Most bikes seemed like a roller-coaster on speed compared to this machine.

And what a machine it was.  A speed machine, an accelerating machine, an enthusiast’s machine, a reliable machine…?  Vince pondered on this for a while as the shining black beauty purred slowly into town, the passers-by admiring the immaculate lines and enviously noticing the smug look of it’s pleased rider.  The reliability, he thought, was probably the machine’s weakest point, although this would probably be complimenting it’s other features.  The speed was electrifying, the finish superb, the handling perfect.  Even the fuel consumption was favourable compared to the modern multis.

In reality, Vince thought, nothing should go wrong with his bike.  After all he had built the engine and bike from scratch, so he knew it inside out.  He remembered how his grandfather had nearly thrown out the old engine.  Now neatly restored, painted black and brightly polished it looked like it had been brought just yesterday.  It’s one-thousand cc’s of sheer muscle seemed to ooze character as it fired it’s cylinders in turn after every second lamppost on the pavement.  Beautiful, Vince thought.

Up ahead were traffic lights.  They were about forty yards away by now and Vince knew that if he opened the throttle the black sensation would roar easily through before the red, even if the amber showed up now, but he was in no hurry.  Vince used to scream along at fifty or sixty in town on the Suzuki thinking he was a king, but on this machine he knew he was and therefore had no need to prove it.  He casually glanced down at the large Smiths speedo and read twenty-seven miles an hour.

Sure enough the lights turned red and Vince pulled up resting his front wheel just short of the white line.  The traffic system was a slow one so Vince knew he would be able to look around, revelling in the fame this bike seemed to bring him.  When he stopped in the street it was almost as if every male over the age of fifty had owned one when they were young.  So strange that there was only one other Vincent in the country now.

He noticed his reflection in the mirrored glass of a shop front, the bike’s weight resting gently on his left boot.  Vince placed his right foot down and raised his left, seeing his reflection as though he were riding.  He crouched low over the tank and smiled as he imagined Brands Hatch wind around in front of him, the chequered flag waving as he passed the finishing line well ahead of the competition.

Today however, the only competition was the buzzing RD250 that had pulled up right next to him.

The Yamaha was the usual two-fifty seen around suburban streets.  Vince himself had owned something similar when he had started motorcycling just a few years ago.  This model, being about two years old now, and obviously thrashed, was naturally tatty.  The scratches, twisted footrests and bent handlebar levers seemed to compliment the Vincent perfectly.

The rider too was the standard eighteen-year old Vince had been three years back, with his painted polycarbonate hat and Foster-Grants.  A wry smile told the message Vince was expecting.  The rider rocked backwards and forwards revving his engine and grinning widely.  This guy wanted a race.

Vince casually clicked the gear-lever into first and gave a quick blat of the motor to show the competition that he meant business.  The revolutions died down to it’s normal thumping tick-over as he held in the clutch and watched the ominous red light.

The Yam owner was now sweating.  He loved racing cars and bikes away from the lights and considered himself good at the ‘sport’.  After all he had only been beaten once and that was because he had missed a gear.  A criminal act in the unwritten law of street racing.  And today he was challenging no ordinary Escort.  This black monster next to him seemed to ooze power, even stood still.  His eyes locked onto the lights, only blinking to remove the sweat gathering on his eyelids.

Suddenly the red light was joined by the amber.  The Yamaha owner dropped his clutch holding five-thousand revs.  The front wheel pawed the air, nearly sending the rider off the back.  Seven-thousand on the clock and the rider plucked his next gear from the box, the front wheel again falling to the ground.  Another seven-thousand was showing and again the front tyre was losing traction with the tarmac as the rider flicked a higher ratio into operation in a frantic dash for victory.

The red and amber had now dissolved and had been replaced by green and Vince knew he could now start.  He had not been tempted to jump the lights with his opponent, after all he did have the capacity advantage over the Yamaha.  He noticed that the other rider was across the other side of the junction and was only about fifty yards away from the narrowing gap, caused by the parked cars, which they were racing for.

The huge motor only showed two-and-a-half thousand on the tachometer when he slipped the light clutch away from the left handlebar.  He knew that he had over seventy miles an hour in this gear so it was now down to his right hand.  Vince preferred to release clutches gently and let the motor do the work rather than lose valuable forward motion trying to control senseless wheelies.

The tachometer was showing four thousand now and the scorching black rubber of the rear tyre was acting like a clutch as a plume of white smoke emitted from the back.  Vince leaned forward onto his forearms to prevent the aerobatics of the front end and watched as the little Yamaha appeared to be coming back towards him.

It was now only twenty yards to that gap and the Yam had the best line, with the rider obviously happy as he seemed well ahead.  Having jumped the lights and gained that extra twenty or thirty yards he was confident that it would take something pretty special to beat him past that red Cortina parked ahead.  The juggernaut approaching the other way prevented any alternative route and as his front wheel was way ahead of any competition, which was the only thing that mattered, he guessed that the other rider was braking fiercely.

The competition, however, was something pretty special and Vince wasn’t going to loose easily.  The gap may have been only fifteen yards away and they may have been travelling well above fifty by now but Vince knew that his bike only needed a gap of about nine feet to get through and saw that his front wheel was in line with the Yamaha’s rear and he was accelerating like he had never experienced before.

With the throttle against the stop and the motor now screaming in delight he was being physically stretched by the power.  His arms seemed to be pulling from their sockets and his eyes watered with the pain at the tremendous G-force, pushing him against the moulded seat hump.

The bikes were level now and the red Cortina seemed all too near.  With his acceleration Vince knew that if he were to back off now he would have no time to stop or swerve.  It was now or never.  His right hand forced the throttle harder against it’s stop causing the rubber to twist painfully, as the bikes edged closer together, the gap drawing nearer.  Now even the Vincent’s front end lifted as the two battled for first place.

Luckily for Vince his front wheel was now ahead, but the Cortina was very close, however, rules are rules and he decided to swerve towards the gap, just missing the car by a few inches.  The Yamaha rider sensed this and threw his right fist forward, shutting off the throttle and grabbing the brake lever.  The tiny black caliper clutched it’s shining disc and sent a thin black run of rubber down the tarmac.

Vince had won, but only just.

Further on down the road the mighty Vincent pulled up at another set of traffic lights.  It burbled away on tick-over as it’s last competitor silently drew up next to it.

Vince looked at the Yamaha’s owner and smiled confidently.  The rider gave a return nod.

“Nice Motor.”

“Thanks.”  Replied Vince.

“Quick…”  he continued “…isn’t it?”

“Quick enough.”  Confirmed Vince.

“What is it?”  Asked the Yam owner, as the lights turned to green.

“A dream come true.” Vince replied, dumping the clutch.  The mighty motor again responded and he roared off into the distance…

Author: Vince Poynter
From the Fiction section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 17 Aug 2018
Written in the early eighties but first published in Mar 2010
The first half written in 1982 for an article in Southampton and District Motorcycle Club magazine under the title The Ultimate Ride with the remaining penned to fit the requirements of Bike magazine, but sadly never published meaning the writer had to get a proper job
At the time of writing the Southampton and District Motorcycle Club was based in Woodside Avenue in Eastleigh.  It can now be found via sdmcc.net
The header photograph shows the author squatting next to an immaculate Vincent Rapide motorcycle.  The Rapide was produced between 1936 and 1955 and remains a collectable bike.  The more famous, faster Black Shadow model had black enamelled engine casings.  The photo was taken by the author’s wife in Skegness in April 1996
The sketch was drawn by the author to demonstrate the bike envisaged in the story.  It was influenced by the Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle’s V-twin motor sat in a frame similar to the eighties Moto-Martin CBX1000.  Also there is just a bit of Ogri in it.  Orgi was a cartoon character drawn by Paul Sample for Bike Magazine between 1972 and 2009.  Ogri actually rode a Norvin, a Vincent engined Norton café racer.  Actually he didn’t as he was just an ink drawn character.  Ogri continued in motorcycle magazine Back Street Heroes until 2012

Vision of Death

Vision of Death – An Explanation

The following story idea was commenced in the early eighties and then subsequently uploaded to the vinceunlimited website.  It is currently incomplete but if you wish to read the rest let me know and I’ll cut out some more words from my dictionary and thesarus.

Vision Of Death

A Novelette Fiction By Vince written in the early eighties

I can’t remember why we were there, but we were and that was all that mattered at this moment in time.  Across the table all I saw was his cold, calm face and crossed arms.  He looked so easy, so relaxed, although I figured this must be an act as I myself was trying to portray an air of calmness even though deep inside I trembled.

On the table were just three objects.  The candle lighting his sinister features, the Magnum and a lethal bronzed bullet, shining in the eerie flickering light.  Silent.  Deadly.

His hand moved slowly towards the gun and raised it pointing in my direction and with a quick and near professional flick of his wrist released the magazine chamber.  His other hand, now in view, picked up the bronzed cartridge and held it tantalisingly upright by the base for what seemed like several seconds.

I could now feel my collectiveness deteriorating as a bead of sweat trickled slowly down my forehead lodging itself neatly in my left eyebrow.  His eyes, however, showed no sign of detecting this as he stared singularly at the capsule of death in his left hand.  I longed for just one brief moment, just one millisecond of freedom from his icy presence to hide my fears.

Finally he looked up again into my eyes and slid the bullet gently into the cold steel chamber.  My eyes couldn’t be taken from that small dark hole, the daunting prospect that next time the chamber was emptying I could be at the receiving end.

He placed the weapon back on the table, this time with it’s carved wooden handle nearest to me.  He refolded his arms and cautiously smiled, although this revealed a weakness as I noticed the far corner of his lips quivering nervously.  This released a portion of my own anxiety as I relaxed back slightly into the chair.  Now it was my move.

I placed my hand gently over the gun’s handle and paused a moment.  I had the upper hand now and was determined to make the most of my time.  I discounted a smile though to ensure no lip tremble disturbed my lines.

I lifted the Magnum, suddenly realising it was no toy.  It’s metallic weight seemed reluctant to allow me to lift it from the table.  A strange sense of scalding seemed to burn my palms as I considered it’s deadliness, which made my fingers sticky with sweat.  I raised the gun, pointing the barrel at my adversary, my index finger resting gently on the cold trigger.  I felt so powerful.

To be continued…

Author: Vince Poynter
From the Fiction section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 14 Aug 2018
Written in the early eighties but first published in Mar 2010
 

The Driver

The Driver

Fiction By Vince

Written July 2006 as a submission for a BBC radio writing request held during the 2006 football World Cup.  In all the BBC received over 1100 entries but they didn’t think this eligible for publication.  I do, so have done so here.  Belligerent?  Damn right.


 

The author photographed sitting in a blue Mercedes AMG GT V8 powered sports car
A professional driver. A powerful car.  All that’s needed is an empty road

Can you hear it?  Just there, right now.  That eerie silence.

Normally right here about this time there would be a cacophony of sound.  It was there just a few minutes ago but now it’s all gone.  All gone with the rest of them.  Just me.  And that beautiful silence.  It’s about time I changed all that.

[The sound of V8 engine rumbles into life]

Now that’s even better.  The purest sound known to people like me.  You can forget your whale song, newborn and opera, this is the best sound available to mankind.  At least if your veins gush with four-star and you pray to the God of Clarkson.  And for us true petrol heads right here, right now is when we can get our biggest fix.

You see to really appreciate a car like this you need, well first off, a car like this.  A thrilling combination of beauty, power and performance.  But just as important you need space.  Space to fulfil your dreams.  Space to stretch her legs.  Space to touch the edge of the envelope.

And don’t go thinking that the reference to stretching her legs is some sort of sexual suggestion.  No, for the true purist you can forget your Kirsten Scott Thomases and Angelina Jolies.  Right now I wouldn’t even have the gorgeous Vicky Butler-Henderson sat here.  What I’m about to do is at its best as a solitary pursuit.  You can’t say that about many things.

It is indeed a rare occurrence, blue moon, haystack needle sort of thing and I’m about to make the most of it.  I’m at odds with the rest of the world but at peace with myself.  On the starting grid of something truly spiritual.  Outside, rebellious, dangerous, exciting.

This has all happened because of football.  It’s never been my kind of thing really.  Of course I sound authoritative discussing some points with my peers and often watch a publicised match or two.  I even casually follow my local team’s progress.  However, I have a sneaking admiration for those that truly no nothing of the beautiful game and believe that the overpaid superstars really ought to get a proper job.  But right now, when communal fervour has driven everyone inside and off my road I am truly grateful that it is our national sport.

[The V8 revs]

Did you hear that?  Primed and ready to rock and roll.  Not that I’m going to play any music.  Truly great driving sounds come from pistons, intakes and exhausts.  Motorhead has nothing on a V8 in a tunnel.  And a tyre squeal sings better than Led Zep.

I’ll have to be careful though.  I won’t quite be the only one out here for the next ninety.

I’m not talking about other demons like me.  We are a rare breed and share an instinctive support for each other.  If we pass there will be no tantrums, no drama.  Fast at speed maybe, but in total control as only a true driving god is.  We may kick at the speed of light but we know where and when it is right to go for a goal.

Even the mortals in their Sunny one-point-twos quietly going about their daily business, as oblivious to the tournament as they are to life in general won’t be a problem.  My sudden presence then disappearance would only shock if they actually had the ability to react.

No, my real problem will be those boys in blue who are forced to miss the moment that everyone will be talking about for the next forty years.  This will instil a deep rooted jealousy that can only be satiated by persecuting a man like me.  I’ll have to be on my game.

Kick off in five minutes time.  Just like the others but for other reasons I’ve etched this time firmly in my psyche.  Sat here in this lay-by counting down the minutes, then the seconds.  Watching the fading remnants of morons racing past to get to their phosphor alters.

Nearly time to go.  Nearly time for life to take its true meaning.  Nearly there.  The road ahead clears.  No-one around.  Empty silence.

Dip clutch…first gear…final check over shoulder…ease out clutch…and we’re off.

[The V8 rumbles]

It is totally clear ahead and my freedom beckons.  I can go any route I chose, like an eagle soaring through the skies.  Left or right at this junction, the choice is only mine.  Floor it now…

…With any luck I’ll make it back in time for the match.

Author: Vince Poynter
From the Fiction section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 26 Jun 2018
First Published: Version 2.04 in Dec 2006

Written July 2006 and submitted to the BBC as part of a radio script submission request

The Dog

Fiction By Vince

The following article was originally written for the radio format.  However only your imagination prevents use elsewhere.  I, for instance will use it later to prop open the door to get some fresh air.

The piece was written as a submission for a BBC radio writing request held during the 2006 football World Cup.   In all the BBC received over 1100 entries but the BBC decided against entering it into the final so, in sympathy, my beloved England team did the same. I think.  It is only two to three minutes in length so it should not take you long to judge for yourself whether they were the mutts nuts or the dog doo-dahs.

As the author, I, not the BBC, own the copyright to this entry and will defend my right to the ©  If you wish to distribute, perform or publish this article have the decency to contact me first.  However, if you wish to link others to this webpage then I shall feel honoured.

Also, look out for other submissions I made using the titles ‘The Ball’, ‘The Driver’ and ‘Turnstile Girl’.


 

A young Yorkshire Terrier puppy playing with a red ball.  A plastic bone is nearby
Dogs have no idea on how to play football. They just copy Suárez biting techniques

Something’s going on, I’m sure of that.

It’s the little things that you notice, like all the rushing around and the general buzz of excitement.

Something’s going on, I’m sure of that.

It’s the little things that you notice, like all the rushing around and the general buzz of excitement.  Little things, like them coming home early but then not having dinner until late.  It may be alright for them but I’m a regular sort.  I like things as they were yesterday, as they were last week, last month.  It’s mad enough at weekends and at holidays such as Christmas, but at least I get extra grub at these times.  Right now I’m just being completely ignored and I’m not best pleased.

I’m aware that they all like to sit and stare aimlessly at that strange, noisy box in the corner of the room and mostly I’m happy with that.  After all, getting my own head down is a skill I’ve mastered to a fine art.  Those lazy hours can always be punctuated with the odd wander around for a bit of attention, or if I’m feeling a little mischievous I can always pretend to snore… Or fart.

This is different though.  My dinner’s late, my stomach rumblings are genuine and every time I even get near that noisy box someone yells out quite unnecessarily loudly.  Only yesterday I nosed over to see what all the fuss was about and I got a flying slipper for my trouble.  Even my failsafe lay out on my back with my ears flat out and legs in the air doesn’t seem to attract their attention.  But worst of all, now I want to go.

There may be tension in this room, rising and pitching like someone just found a key to a huge secret larder, then lost it again, but for me all the tension is in my bladder and it just keeps rising and rising.  I learnt a long time ago not to use this room and that it really was in my best interests to wait until I go out.  But I’ve waited nearly ninety minutes and there is no sign that anyone wants to go ‘Walkies’.

Mind you, just now, even when I do get out in the park for a bit of a run there are always far too many kids there.  All of them running around, kicking a huge ball and shouting at each other quite a lot.  I wouldn’t mind if I they let me join in but when I try they seem to get so upset then pretend I’m the ball and try to kick me.  Not that they stand a chance against my speed and manoeuvrability.  And what is it with this ‘Rooney’ name they shout?

I really hope this state of affairs doesn’t drag on all summer.  In this heat that pungent smell of canned lager in this room is starting to overwhelm my sensitive nostrils.

What on earth can obsess these people so strongly?

It’s only been two weeks but I’m starting to think that if anyone else pointlessly shouts out ‘Come on Engerland’ I’ll bloody well bite them.

Author: Vince Poynter
From the Fiction section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 22 Jun 2018
First Published: Version 2.04 in Dec 2006

Written July 2006 and submitted to the BBC as part of a radio script submission request

The Ball

Fiction By Vince

The following article was originally written for the radio format.  However only your imagination prevents use elsewhere.  I, for instance, might try it on a pizza with a little olive oil.

The piece was written as a submission for a BBC radio writing request held during the 2006 football World Cup.  In all the BBC received over 1100 entries but much like the England team my entry didn’t make the finals and The Beeb decided not to broadcast my efforts.  The fools.  It is only two to three minutes in length so it should not take you long to judge for yourself whether they were on the ball or off the pitch.

As the author, I, not the BBC, own the copyright to this entry and will defend my right to the ©  If you wish to distribute, perform or publish this article have the decency to contact me first.  However, if you wish to link others to this webpage then I shall feel honoured.

Also, look out for other submissions I made using the titles ‘The Dog’, ‘The Driver’ and ‘Turnstile Girl’.


Here we go!  Here we go!  Here we go!

That’s all I’m hearing lately.  It’s alright for the fans and those infuriating footballers but speaking from my particular point of view I’d be happy to stay where I am.  I do realise that hasn’t been the view of all balls in this World Cup, flying here there and everywhere, but personally speaking I’d rather just sit here on this grass lapping up the sun.

You see, being a ball in the World Cup isn’t all it’s made out to be.  I recall discussing this with my grandfather, a leathery old sort who claimed to be at the World Cup in 1966 when England won.  He said us balls have it made now, what with our lightweight construction and weatherproof coating.  Not like in his day when they had to carry half a rainstorm with them in the wet and constantly ran out of puff.

Granddad claimed to be in the actual final that year.  Well he would wouldn’t he.  They all do.  Mind you, he tells a convincing account of how he swerved to get Geoff Hurst his second goal.  He thinks that he changed the course of history but I feel that’s going a bit too far.  Could I change what happens in this game?  Could I help to change the course of history?  Well possibly, but I really can’t be bothered right now.  Those boys have stopped kicking me about for a while now so I’m happy to take the rest.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not always on the move.  Agreed, sometimes I get kicked up and down this pitch so often I get dizzy and end up spinning past the side line.  At least I get a rest now whilst one of my mates takes over.  Granddad reckoned he had to keep going the whole match.  At least he had a good long retirement afterwards, sat in some warm cabinet for the rest of his days.  I’ll probably end up on e-Bay.

That happened to one of the guys the other day.  Booted right up in the stands he was, then smuggled out under some chap’s sweaty shirt.  Think about it, would you like that?  Not nice at all.  I expect he ended up being kicked against some concrete wall by an ungrateful kid.  I think of that every time I get hoofed up there myself.  Mind you, most of the time up there in the stands is good.  I quite enjoy that pleasant ride around the stadium jumping from fan to fan.

I would like to be on the pitch at the end of the match though.  Just think, picked up by the ref, then onto the changing rooms to have all those signatures added – I think that looks real smart.  Or, even better, I’d love to be involved in an actual goal.  Granddad said he scored them all, even the German ones that day, but nowadays there are so many of us involved that actually getting in the comfort of that net would be a real privilege.

What I need is a Beckham free kick, and then I’ll be straight in there.  Oh, yes, you didn’t realise that did you?  We are the ones responsible for bending it, not Beckham.  Legend has it that when he was very young he pulled an unloved ball out of a river and gave it a new lease of life.  He loved that ball so that is why we love him.  Even the way he caresses his foot on our side, it’s a magical touch and we always respond when he gets involved.

Hello, we seem to be moving.  My rest in the grass seems to be over.  Whatever they were all arguing about seems to be sorted out.  So where do we go from here.  Oh, it looks like I’m being placed down again.  And fantastic news, the grass here is white, I’ll just roll about a bit… Oh yes, definitely it’s a spot – I’m going to take a penalty.

Now, who is it taking the shot?  I need to decide whether to go sideways, or up.  Some wag I know reckoned they did this to Gareth Southgate in an important England match, reckoned that he punctured a ball when he was a kid.  That’s murderous talk to a ball.

Oh, I’m replaced back on the spot.  Just time to check out the keeper and pick a side.  Concentrate now.  About to be whacked.  Here we go….

Author: Vince Poynter
From the Fiction section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 21 Jun 2018
First Published: Version 2.04 in Dec 2006

Written July 2006 and submitted to the BBC as part of a radio script submission request

Loch Ness

Monster Storytelling – A Screenplay Treatment

Please note that this is an incomplete fiction about the discovery of the Loch Ness monster.  It was written circa. 1995 after seeing what effects could be achieved with the film Jurassic Park which was released in 1993.

However, continuation of the story was sadly abandoned when the big screen movie, starring Ted Danson, called Loch Ness appeared in 1996.

At the time of writing the author has never seen the aforementioned film so any coincidences are purely that.  Coincidental.


Loch Ness

By Vince Poynter

The story is about a man, who after a bad argument with a long standing lover, treks off to get some peace and quiet.  He travels to Scotland and ends up near Loch Ness.

Whilst looking across the Loch he notices something move.  It turns out to be nothing but driftwood, until he turns away…

He books into a local hotel, recounts his story and is amused by the stories of Nessie and of the local’s stories in the bar.  The stories grow more absurd as the evening wears on and the drink flows.

He begins to notice an attractive American woman staying for a few weeks in the same hotel, as a great niece to the landlord, but the drink and his memories of his recent lover cause him to be more embarrassing than attractive.

To seek solitude he spends some time near the Loch and again spots something.  This time he is certain and decides to investigate further.

He tells the woman but she is less than impressed, dismissing his sightings as drunkenness.  Only an old man seems to agree with his thoughts.

The men agree to search for the monster.  Next morning they hire a set of diving gear from a local watersports centre and despite never having dived before set off, on a hire boat, to search the depths.

After several hours, suffering from cold and with faulty dive equipment they decide to abandon the search.  A storm blows up and they set back only to have their boat blown to a remote part of the Loch near an unusual landmark and capsize.

In the dark and severe weather the two struggle to grab driftwood to survive.  A darkened shape comes from the depths and the man tries to take a photograph or two but the old man is suffering and attempts to rescue him become a priority.

The attempts are fruitless and the old man is lost.  The man tries in vain to keep himself afloat but starts to sink.  He is just losing consciousness when he is accelerated at high speed through the water.

The next morning the woman is strolling across the beach and finds the man washed up on the shore.  As he recovers in her bed he recounts the story.

Whilst his story is too far fetched for her to believe she begins to fall for his charm and as they console themselves about the fate of the old man they embrace and begin to fall for each other.  They are rudely interrupted by the landlord who on hearing the story decides the police should be called.

In the Police Station the man is given a hard time about the loss of the old man and responsibilities given the huge depths of the Loch and the dangers of weather.

Whilst he is at the inquest, giving evidence about the circumstances, the woman receives the post, which contain the man’s photographs.  She rushes them to the inquest and presents the evidence.

A local reporter, an evil man, awakened by the thought of fame, causes a disturbance and steals the photos.  The next day the papers and news are full of the story and the reporter is given top publicity.

Within days the area around the Loch is totally transformed.

Multi-million pound projects are commenced with the thought of huge publicity rewards.  Major sponsors advertising boards are put up everywhere and the character of the place is wrecked.

The man and woman are horrified by the invasion of the world’s publicity and are hounded by reporters whatever they do, particularly the evil reporter.  They hear that the monster will be hunted at any cost and see explosives being off loaded and used to cause sonic shock waves.  A submarine is airlifted into the area and flotillas of the locals boats are used to trawl the Loch.

The man and woman decide that they need to find the monster before anyone else.  The problem is that they realise that they wouldn’t stand a chance given the searching power of the rest of the teams.  They need a head start and the man recalls the landmark he noticed just before capsizing.  They set off to find the landmark.

The landmark is at a far end of the Loch and when they discover it they find some wreckage of the boat.

They look into the water and see the monster, which appears to look back at them.  By moonlight the sight is wonderful but is interrupted by a helicopter with big searchlights, carrying the evil reporter, plus many approaching boats.

The man and woman disguise the find by quickly removing their clothes and going for a swim to distract the hunters.  The hunters leave the two in peace and head away to search another part.  Inevitably, the man and woman make love on the shore, the monster diving around in the background.

Next morning, over breakfast, the two plan to disrupt the search by discrediting his original story.

They realise that this could jeopardise the original claim of an accident but they figure that the risk is worthwhile.  They decide that the first thing to do is move the boat debris to another place.

They drive to the place where the accident happened, collect some debris and take it to another part of the Loch.  They return to collect more but whilst doing this they are spotted by the evil reporter who follows them to the site of the accident.

As he steps from his car he gets a gun out of the glove compartment.  He follows them to the shore where he confronts them.

An argument ensues about the morals of discovery and financial gain against destruction of the local environment.  A struggle occurs and the woman is shot in the head.

The man is about to be shot by the reporter when he dives in the water.  As he struggles to hold his breath underwater and swim to a safe place the bullets fly through the water around him.

He suddenly notices the monster nearby which when startled by a bullet dives off toward the edge of the Loch and disappears.  He follows, parting the underwater plants and discovers a large hidden underwater shaft.  He realises it is his only hope and swims down it.

Meanwhile the reporter, realising what has happened, cleans off his gun and throws it down near to the woman and drives off.

You will have to commission this story to see how it ends…..

Author: Vince Poynter
From the screenplays section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 2 Jan 2018
Written around 1995 and first published in the vinceunlimited.co.uk website version 1.01 in Jan 2004 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The image depicts a monster at Loch Ness, the monster being the author’s large Jaguar XJ8 photographed at Loch Ness in 2000

Short Novel

The shortest story of all time, written by Vince before Oct 2003

The most difficult thing when writing a novel is to start.

And now that I have I can finish.

The end.

Please note that due to the brevity, this story is not embedded in a downloadable file, saved in .pdf file format or zipped.  It is also not available in paperback or at any bookstore, whether good or not.  No translations have been made and copies are not available.  The author would not like to acknowledge or thank anyone for their assistance.  Frankly, he’s embarrased at even being mentioned.

Author: Vince Poynter
From the fiction section of the vinceunlimited.co.uk website dated 14 Dec 2017
First Published: Version 1.00 in Oct 2003 and reproduced here in full, unedited
The image depicts a smart ForTwo car in a short stay parking bay. It was taken by the author in Mar 2016.  It was added on 14 Dec 2017.