Does there have to a reason?

Honestly, why is it always a problem? I really don’t know. I took a newspaper, free and expendable to provide a distraction to my general confusion. Now, bang up to date with an intoxicating assimilation of local murders and recommended burger joints I’m as distracted as ever.
Failing to say thank you, I even failed to look the vendor of this free crap in the eye. How do those guys even do it? Paid beggars looked down upon by media fat cats touting cigars in giant glass paperweights on this, their sodden product. Side by side we readers assimilate the information of yesterday’s harvest riddled with attainable vice with mutual contempt and symmetrical footsteps, oiling the machine.
Recent acts of goodwill are doing me the power of good emotionally and yet, the person supposedly closest to me is becoming ever more distant. To put it another way, pissed off. Here am I, essentially becoming a better person - well don’t you agree? So who cares if the adrenalin for this surge in magnanimity was a text message? A message intended for someone else - for Yorg.
“Stop attempting to be someone that you aren’t Chris, for God’s sake, be your own man will you. You don’t even know this bloody Yorg”.
Well, I’m starting to. In fact, I reckon that I know him as well as any of his real friends.
I walk to Warren Street tube station every day ruminating on the usual list of tasks that I will never complete, and indulging in my fondness for angles and geometric surprises. Clipstone Mews possesses one to treasure as the BT tower, that giant pencil in the sky, is left in this childish Spirograph, a trail of blissful nonsense left behind it.
The feeling, illusionary or not, of being alone in the city, the Wally, felicity. Find me with my stupid pink and blue hairy hat – I joke that it makes up for my lack of personality, like my socks. Some think that there is no joke inherent in that sentence. Still, distinct from the mass, a white blood cell in a mass of red I feel comforted that I am not merely bait for the line. Becoming Yorg.
Take this walk that I am enjoying. Feeling pretentious with my music thumping away at my inner ear, thoughts like waiters in a busy restaurant, my fool’s brain in its element. My friends would say that I am an idiot. I originally thought that I didn’t care less but now, well, I’m not so sure. Yorg will help me, I am certain. He has been doing that. Providing guidance – how to be a better person. I have never heard Yorg speak, seen his face, or heard his footsteps. In fact, I have never seen his text typeface on my phone but our relationship is close.
Good God, I hate places like this I really do. Warren Street tube station epitomizes my pet hates. Surgical lights struggle to light the corpse of beseeched gum and regurgitated filth. These yellow titles disturbingly resemble my teeth. A Big Mac carton lies strewn, half of the sesame bun still inside, some last minute attempt at self-control and worth. Now a pigeon is attempting it; entering the domain of people. It walks towards it, stops, pretends to walk away, stops, walks back. You get the point, but it always makes me laugh how they think that nobody is watching. Somebody is always watching. Take that grumpy looking old man with the pimpled pink nose in the ticket booth, staring at his companion controlling the crowd. Pride or mockery? It is always mockery.
Any way, back to my kinship with Yorg.
Only a few weeks back I began to receive random text messages. They were not from family or late night chat lines - simple random numbers. In each instance they were intended for someone else, it transpires Yorg. At first, like an offer for a Penis extension, I ignored it - I do ignore those messages - although of course I read them. I am a fully-fledged member of this consumer society. After a week or so the messages were still arriving and in almost every instance the sender was expressing gratitude.
‘Thanks again dear Yorg’. ‘You really shouldn’t have Yorg.’ An enigma, jealously multipliedFriends joked about what my best chum was up to now – how I should think about becoming more like dear Yorg. After all, I’m a plain chap with basic faults. I’m no Yorg. I don’t really help people. Who does? You?
Well, it hit me, why not become more like Yorg? I felt like I was getting to know a new friend. Besides I read on a tube train advertisement that afternoon – ‘In jealousy there is more of self love than love’. My mind was enriched.
It was difficult at first, this ‘becoming Yorg’ scenario. I mean, how do you really become someone else, assimilating their best traits and ridding yourself of your worst? I had decided that whatever Yorg would appear to be doing I too would mirror in some discernable way. The trouble is; I always venture on these tasks. They are never completed, just elicit another anecdotal sman in the pub. Well, so I thought until a strange, disturbing night in The Florence.
We love this pub. Small, intimate and covered head to toe in wood you feel like you are inside a giant tree of knowledge when everyone is talking on a busy night. Inside The Kinks were playing:

I'm lost on the river,
the river of no return,
I can't make decisions,
I don't know which way I'm gonna turn,

The faces of the staff are well known to me. Strange that on this instance there was a face that I have never seen before, a face that you would never forget. Her nose was like a genetically modified Parsnip. Smiling like a catatonic dog at a teenager’s house party her eyes span and twirled, a two-tone roulette table underneath purple candy floss - a strange intoxicating aberration.
‘Five, seven, five, the town has come alive so what will it be? You can tell me?’ This lady was beyond anything that I could dream of.
‘Follow me down the sink, you are on the brink dear man wash those thoughts down the drain.’
Drawn in through the pupils I became a willing student instantly. No wish to complain, I was on a plane transfixed.
Previously, the ear of the bar and its inhabitants resembled a sardine can flush with intoxicating brine, pickled as a congealed salty mass. Feeling drugged in an environment once so dear there was suddenly nothing but this apparition. Comically, a dwarf arrived at her side dressed as a gnome from an English country garden singing:
‘My old man said ‘follow the van and don’t dilly dally on the way’.’
Like any one distinct from the norm, I could not take my eyes of him. Sporting a fez and monocle he eyed me back. All I could think about was a VHS that I wiped by accident years ago as a child. It had my Fathers favourite film on it – Time Bandits.
‘Well, how are we to be of service? You don’t mind if I hurry you along? Ali is on strict time,’ bellowed the lady in a deep baritone.
I think that I did mind but I muttered a tame, ‘No, of course not…’ It is just easier to reserve my intolerance for those closest to me. I am a coward .
‘Maybe it is easier if I just guess. We don’t have time for those who dilly dally right now.’
‘For those who follow the van blindly’ complied Ali in a sharp tone, arms crossed and monocle targeted in my general direction, a satellite withdrawing my inner monologue.
‘I much preferred Mr. Bacon Miss,’ he brazenly declared.
‘Ignore Ali Baba if you want,’ she addressed me. ‘He is just annoyed that no one had a song to sing. It helps him to sleep. Now, here is your teapot and there are your glasses. Pour a drink, see if your soul stinks.’
Well, as I have said, it was the eyes. I don’t like to look people in the eye. It feels awkward. I have nothing to hide but self-confidence. Yet, you could not help but to stare into the abyss. A child nervously glancing at the forbidden pond at the end of the garden, puzzled and curious.
Stare into your own eyes in the mirror for a sustained period of time. Facial features melt, pupils dilate and swamp the mirror. Your fathers’ eyes gaze back at you, attacking the senses as anxiety grows. My own blood thickens as cells remain frozen. Judgment is delivered. Drawn into this Kangaroo court similar feelings were now present. The lady picked up a large golden telescope, a golden gavel.

In the dock suspended;
Time assisted by no clock.
Feeling bruised by confusion,
Disbelief fuelled in devils fusion.

I’m walking north, over the bridge where you can feel life pumping through a London artery; it feels like it may have a coronary any day now. Perhaps Euston Tower is an adrenalin shot.
‘Come on Chris, time tight, propositions no longer to fight, inside you know it feels right’. My fazed senses could not even respond to ask her how she knew my name.
A boxer’s eyes primed for the fight and last body blow that has for so long been trained for; it was time. Somehow, it felt right.
The drink poured from grey ceramic into glass that spiraled and twisted like graphic, cartoon DNA. Yellow, then green, then red, any colour you can describe came flooding from the spout.
Solemnly the lady stared, beating the golden gavel in to her right hand now adorned with a glittering white glove. I felt guilt before her surge within me.

‘If you, sullied anew,
Embark to forget, start fresh.
Patrons scatter.’

‘Well, it is a noble quest Chris. One that is sure to be a pest. Yet, the glass in bedlam displays a soul un-kept. We will to show you how souls repair it’s only fair. Not easy, maybe queasy but be certain of this: becoming Yorg is a road to eternal bliss,’ she sang.
Yorg! What is this?
At that, the gavel smashed, shards of gold rained down on to the bar. Looking up I could find no trace of the lady or dwarf. Disappeared together with the fragments of gavel. To my left and right patrons reappeared – laughing. It became obvious that they were laughing at me.
‘Are you with us son?’ I did not see the face that owned the voice but a tall pale man, with fiery hair was evidently finding something hilarious. Was that woman an elaborate bar trick? I’m such a gullible man. As in any situation of public embarrassment I become horrendously shy, my eyes searching for sanctuary, which they luckily found, Trigger.
‘I think that he may have had enough matey.’ No, neither my inner consciousness, nor Trigger, but the words of the barman an overweight throw back to a 1970s Hells Angel aged and lacquered like his bar by years of Ale and Scotch Eggs.
Trigger asked what was going on; he was bound to. I had only had three pints of lager so to be told by Love knuckles that this lightweight had had enough was odd - a popular word right now.
Who could I tell what had happened? I would resemble a lunatic, an idiot, and a piano out of tune. I needed to digest what had happened before I attempted to recite the story. For some reason all I could think of was Daffy Duck; my Dad used to resemble Elmer Fudd. An arm outstretched from someone, wrapping around me like a snake with bait.
But then, pop! Ears were uncorked and drained as if plucked from a spell in the pool. The familiar din once more reverberated in my ears, conversations congealed to sound like warming pipes in an old basement. Yet now, eyes were on me.
‘Don’t’ worry…’ I was lying when the bulbous white cheeks of the man with fiery red hair began:
‘He’ been stud ‘ere fur five minites ‘olding is face in is ands singin a song bout Ali Baba an er furty thieves or sumat. Den e neked is drink an shouted ‘I’m readie’. Redie for the Loony bin peraps.’
Trigger, thankfully, just burst in to laughter. ; Karma prevails in his eyes; I am still a fool. Reassured he shot off towards our friends, beckoning me to follow. Desperate to remove myself as the object of mockery I followed as if attached by shackles but I noticed an advertisement for a local circus in Finchley. A man wearing a monocle was pointing his finger at my fellow patrons and me. A midget Lord Kitchener.
‘Come on Jones you fool.’ Attention broken I headed for the pack of wolves. Almost on cue my back jean pocket jumped alerting me to a text message: intended for Yorg.
‘Thanks for the help at the shelter, most kind. C u Sat for drinks, Bx.’ Well this was it. I was becoming Yorg.
Tell me, do you see that elderly woman underneath Euston tower? Wet and haggard she is stood there holding that sign: ‘my cage remains my freedom.’ What a sight, she resembles an extra from a medieval museum. If she is asking for money the fashion saps in this part of town may well oblige - beggars chic. I’m putting my head down.
‘Rules are made to broken; does their have to be a reason, or time, for kind actions? You may be judged but you have the freedom of decision. Use it and abuse it because only regret lies in compromise Chris.’ She spoke to me and walked off.
Paralyzed I knew and my attention was slipping. I must forget my previous selfish self. I have chosen a journey – it is time for another kind act. I really am improving as a person, don’t you think? Thanks to Yorg.