Last Action Zero

By George Ryder

Last Action Zero is a unique and comedic take on growing up during the New Labour government. From tuition fees protests to earning worthless degrees to joblessness, it chronicles a young man’s disillusionment and his eventual coming of age. If you’ve wasted months of your life to video games, done a catalogue of crap jobs and messed it up with ‘the one’, Last Action Zero will show you how it’s really done. Spanning a decade of bumbling failure, you’ll journey from drug-fuelled raves to retail hell to the degenerate sands of Pattaya. Protagonist Christopher Lawrence is a hapless student whose only concern is winning the heart of the beautiful Natasha Saunders – a girl barely aware of his existence. He follows her to clubs in the vain hope that the concoction of alcohol and pills will somehow bring them together, but he only ever sees her get off with other guys. Despite all the evidence that she’s not interested in him, Chris never gives up hope. Blinded by desire and a total lack of life orientation, his adventures see him endure humiliation, parental disgrace and supreme ennui, with only a roster of degenerate friends for company. Last Action Zero is a coming-of-age tale showing just how much love, and the truth, hurts. It will appeal mainly to readers in their twenties and thirties, and will resonate with anyone who’s suffered from the painful affliction of unrequited love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Nov 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781784627782

George Ryder

George Ryder is the author of the coming-of–age comedy Last Action Zero. He has a Masters in International Studies and currently works as a copywriter in London.

Book preview

101

PART 1

1

I can’t feel anything. It’s like being on a rocking horse, but less fun. Alison’s lying on her back, eyes shut, offering all the incentive of a blow-up doll. I imagine Natasha in her place: her long black curls, emerald-green eyes, mocha-coloured skin, soft button nose and dazzling smile.

You know it’s only ever been you, I say. There could never be anyone else.

Soul mates, she says soothingly, running her fingers through my hair. Without taking her eyes off mine, she takes hold of me and guides me in. Our mouths lock violently. She smells of rose petals. I want to ingest as much of her bodily fluids as possible. She rakes her nails across my back, sending pulses of electricity through my nervous system. Making love with Natasha is like being in a thunderstorm. And then it’s over.

Natasha vanishes and I’m left with Alison’s heavily breathing body beneath me. The strength dissipates from my arms and I collapse on top of her.

2

So did you poke her? Miles enquires from the couch.

Alex is sitting on the settee opposite him wearing nothing but his pants, belly spilling over the elasticated waistband, eyes glued to his laptop screen.

"Yes, Miles, I did – I poked her," I say, trying to convey my distaste at his choice of word.

Sound, he says and nods, which means he’s guessed I just lost my cherry. May see you later, he adds before tucking into a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.

Yeah, I say, and leave for campus.

3

The library computer room is packed but I manage to find the last seat. At the doorway a queue is forming. Someone taps me on the shoulder from behind.

The Beach, Saturday, Jason says when I turn round.

I admire Jason. Guitarist, DJ and sexually successful.

I don’t know, dude, I say. I have to focus on my studies.

I can see you’re focusing very hard, he says looking down at the WWE.com window filling my screen. Pete’s got a new dealer, he goes on. Amazing pills. They’re Lotuses.

I’ve got a lot on this week…

I know you, Chris. You’ll be there, you always are.

Jason goes off to join the queue and I close the browser window showing The Undertaker tombstoning The Rock. Behind it is the article debating the case against the euro that I should’ve been reading in the first place. I click Print, accept the fifty-five pence charge and collect the warm sheets of paper that the printer spits out.

Fifteen minutes of Escher doodles later, I give up and log off. Before I leave the library, I search the main study areas on the first and ground floors. No Natasha; not today and not for the last five weeks. How she spends her days I don’t know, but she certainly doesn’t spend them in the library.

Outside, across the square of greenery in front of the library, I spot Miles’s tall frame strolling along nonchalantly. It’s 14:02 and he’s late for his French seminar, but he won’t run. It takes a lot of effort to be that carefree.

I won’t see my other flatmate Alex here today. He works from home doing statistics – well, strictly speaking, he’s playing Championship Manager, the football management simulation game. That’s what he was doing when I left the house. It’s a game of stats and figures, and it records the player’s dedication to his team. Alex averages eight hours a day, seven days a week. When I return from university in the afternoon he’ll still be there on the couch, sandy head focused on the screen, taking Roma to Champions League glory in the year 2047.

Before I head back home, there is one last thing I have to do. In the Language Faculty, past the common room, down two flights of narrow stairs and halfway down the corridor is the board that displays the passport-sized photographs of each member of the School of African and Asian Studies. Unfortunately, the photos are protected by a transparent sheet of Perspex. So I stand as close as I can, my nose almost touching the plastic, studying Natasha’s face: hair pulled back in a ponytail, head tilted at a slight downward angle, her face an orchid in full bloom. Her eyes glitter with life, her coffee-coloured skin is luminous from the flash, and she is giving me a carefree, hazy-summer-days smile. I can’t take my eyes off her. Hers is the only face that shines out from a sea of dimmed candles. She is the sun that consumes my heart with fire.

4

Alison’s blonde head bobs up and down from beneath the duvet as I grimace in agony. It feels like I’m being fellated by a cheese grater. I endure her for as long as I can before pretending I want to kiss her. Anything to get her to stop.

Pressed up together in my single bed, me on my back and her on her side, she grabs hold of my cock and begins to jerk me off. She gets an A for effort. Maybe it’s my fault that this does nothing for me. Maybe I’ve wanked so much I’ve actually ended up desensitising myself.

Ten minutes of monotonous tugging later, I decide to give her a helping hand. Even when I’m with a woman I end up tossing myself off.

5

WHAT DO WE WANT? NO FEES! WHEN DO WE WANT IT? NOW!

I’m chanting it almost as if I care. The two hundred-strong demonstration marches onwards, our No Fees placards sporadically sprouting up among us.

NO CUTS, NO FEES! yells the rasping voice from the megaphone. Leading the fray is Sussex University’s own answer to Che Guevara. Every university has one – the Marxist revolutionary determined to smash the system. Clad in a black anti-Iraq War t-shirt, green combat trousers and black boots, the tall, unshaven radical pumps his fist in anger and waves us on towards the Chancellor’s office. I feel short-changed: he’s not wearing a beret.

Personally, I couldn’t care less about the hike in student fees, because whatever happens Dad will pay for it, like he pays for everything else. I don’t even agree with the protest; if the government wants to send everyone to university the money has to come from somewhere. I’m here because as a student – a politics and economics student at that – I should protest about something. In fact, I think that protesting should be a compulsory practical module on the politics course, with extra marks given for propelling a brick through a Starbucks window.

Next to me, shouting her head off, is Celia. She has a round face, rosy cheeks, doe-brown eyes and long chestnut hair, and is dressed in black jeans and a grey sweatshirt with a Free Palestine badge on it. She’s in my politics seminar group and is one of the many women to have rejected me.

Camped outside the library, Che jumps onto a bench and begins his rallying cry, one hand gripping the megaphone, the other hand hacking at the air.

Once again we see the poor being oppressed, the poor being marginalised, being denied the chance of further education. And for what? he asks the crowd. Brief pause. So Tony can rain down death showers on Iraqi children!

YEAH! the crowd roars, some whooping, a few stray voices shouting, NO WAR!

New Labour has betrayed us, he goes on, sweeping his hand out across the mob. New Labour is the Tory wolf in Labour clothing. It’s up to us, the people, to make the change. We’re the ones who can say: no more. Enough war. Enough LIES. He punches the sky with his fist.

The crowd suddenly falls silent and a sense of anticipation fills the air. Walking up the path from the Language Faculty is the Vice-Chancellor, a man in a brown tweed suit with wild greying hair. The whispering crowd parts as he makes his way to the front. Che jumps down from the bench, his gaze never wavering. Though it’s admirable that the Vice-Chancellor has left the safety of his office to try and reason with us, he has forgotten one important thing – he who hath the megaphone is king.

You do not represent us, says Che through the loudspeaker. You do not represent those who could not otherwise afford university. You do not work in the best interests of students.

The Vice-Chancellor tries to reply but he’s drowned out by the sonic superiority of our leader.

We’re not going to give in to a Thatcherist agenda, says Che. We’re not going to let education become the elitist preserve of the rich!

Again the exasperated Vice-Chancellor tries to speak. His mouth moves but the words get lost among the jeers of the loud and restless crowd.

We will fight until ALL have the right to higher education! We will fight to stop this war!

The Vice-Chancellor’s shoulders sink and he looks towards the crowd in the vain hope, perhaps, of seeing some students who want to hear what he has to say.

Sensing the kill, Che barks: "WHAT DO WE WANT?’

NO FEES! responds the crowd.

WHEN DO WE WANT IT?

NOW!

Realising the futility of the situation, the Vice-Chancellor retreats, head down, a lonely, pathetic figure. Emboldened, Che takes up a new preaching position high on the library steps. The crowd, moving as one, follows him and gathers round his feet. I’m getting fed up with all the jostling.

I’m going now, I say to Celia.

Going? But it’s just getting started. You can’t leave now.

I take hold of the rail to balance myself as the rabble heaves and collectively makes a series of aggressive air punches.

I’m not feeling it, I say.

She turns to look straight at me. This is important, Chris, she shouts. When else are we going to be able to do this? This matters!

What I want to do is run up the steps, kick Che in the nuts and hijack his megaphone. Who the fuck are we fooling? I’d say. For better or worse, we live in a time of political apathy and convergence and we’d better just get used to it. We’re a nothing generation. Iraq isn’t Vietnam. we have AIDS instead of free love, Prozac is our acid and the musical pioneer of the day is Simon Cowell. This is just a POOR attempt to recapture the zeal of our forefathers – but we can’t. Along with Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Janice Joplin, it’s dead, choked on its own anachronistic vomit.

Instead, I face Celia and yell, Yeah? Well, I’m still not feeling it.

Oh, go on then is what I think she says as she turns her attention back to Che at the front.

I elbow my way through the mob, a traitor among comrades, and take the same route as the Vice-Chancellor out of the mêlée. I return to the Language Faculty. There’s hardly anyone about. I descend the two flights of stairs and make my way to the wall of photographs. Standing there, I lose myself in Natasha’s face. It’s the only thing I believe in.

6

For most people, going to university is a means to an end. University equals degree equals decent job. But for me the degree is nothing more than a trivial formality, a petty side quest that might take up a few hours of my time. In fact, for me university is the end. It’s my supposed escape from the crippling boredom of my all-boys secondary school. It would be girls, drugs, parties. It would all set me free. But it hasn’t – it isn’t – and it’ll all be over soon.

I’m scared of life post university. I’ve absolutely no idea what I’m going to do next. There’s a lingering feeling inside me that the whole university experience is rented; that after three years I’ll be back spending my Saturday afternoons watching football on Teletext.

7

I’m