Wrongly Writing

By "Thomas" "Corfield"

Follow a man barely deserving of the title as he flails through a turgid cesspit of human depravity, only to discover that he’s the one bunging up its U-bend. Wrongly Writing has even more psychiatrists, anaphylaxis and cringing social ineptitude than the first Wrong Book, and proves that while editors exist for a reason, the author clearly doesn’t.

Similar to The Bible, in that Jesus is mentioned over twenty times, and entirely dissimilar to Médard Alard's 1922 masterpiece, "Est-ce Que Quelqu'un a Vu Mes Clés de Voiture?", which sold over thirteen copies thanks to a national cheese shortage, Wrongly Writing explores the boundless absurdity arising from a social ineptitude so crippling that it can only be facade.

“These books are like a bad meal:
in poor taste and unfinished.”
- Oleg Vanastanovitski, Russian Mafia Hitman (unconvicted)

“The Wrong Books set the standard for having none.”
- Errica Brown-Bowen, Self-Opinionator

“Possibly the only books written
containing uncomfortable silences.”
- Messignton Blaese, Chief Architect, Baskin House Erect

• Language: English
• Publisher: "Thomas" "Corfield"
• Release date: Jan 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463414262

"Thomas" "Corfield"

Thomas Corfield was born in London several years ago, definitely before last Thursday. This was a good year for all concerned, and for him in particular, because without it, later years would mean little. He owes a lot to that first year, and now lives because of it in undisclosed locations after having successfully absconded from probation. Although he finds making friends difficult, this is only because no one likes him. Including his mother, who didn’t bother giving him a name until he was nine. His solicitor describes him as having an allergy to apostrophes and an aversion to punctuation that borders on pathological. This makes the popularity of his books all the more remarkable. At least it would if there was any. But there isn't. So it doesn't. He was recently interviewed in Joomag's Meals of Food magazine, which didn't help anyone.

Book preview

The Wrong Jazz Album

The Wrong Books are Sortabiographies about writing The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels, an award-winning New Fable fiction series, known for their Cinematic Audiobook editions, all of which are accompanied by lush orchestrations and cinematic soundtracks. This Wrong Book’s audiobook edition will also be accompanied by music. Rather than the filmic qualities of the Velvet Paw of Asquith’s Cinematic Audiobooks, however, Wrongly Writing is underpinned by light-hearted jazz and bossanova more suited to the story’s superficiality and poor attempt at unsophisticated sophistication.

The Wrong Jazz and Bossa Album provides an unnatural juxtaposition between story and music through what’s known as Non-associative Asynchronicity: where little attention is given to the suitability of music to narrative. This results in light-hearted passages occasionally being accompanied with unsuitable nostalgic tracks, or some sadder parts accompanied with jaunty bossanova. Non-associative Asynchronicity delivers a peculiar liquidity to the production that helps distract from the author’s appalling writing and ghastly vocal timbre. Non-associative Asynchronicity does the world the sort of favour that the books most certainly don’t.

It can be downloaded, free, from thomascorfield.com.

Preface

After the release of the first Wrong Book, Writing Wrongly, which is the sequel to this one, I was asked about the extent to which its content was true. The Wrong Books are Sortabiographies; that is, ‘sort of autobiographies’, which suggests the answer well enough. However, for those people, like me, who not only struggle to read, but understand what words mean, I shall attempt clarification. Admittedly, my clinical inability to spell any word of more than four letters means readers’ confusion is understandable. It is, however, nevertheless welcome, as it implies readers care enough to even ask the question, which is more than I do, despite having written the things.

The Wrong Books are indeed based on true events.

For example, I did have had anaphylactic reaction to coffee in a café and did inadvertently cause a bus to career into a string of shop fronts. Fortunately, the two incidents were unrelated, which would otherwise redefine the concept of a bad day. My allergy to coffee, in actuality, played out rather differently to the recount in this book. Having had little experience with women, I once approached an attractive one sitting in a café shortly after taking a mouthful of the stuff in a concerted effort at appearing cool and trendy. Sadly, the immunological catastrophe that played out internally left me in no state to act suave and sophisticated. Instead, I collapsed shortly after standing and smashed my face on the corner of a table. Despite much blood, tooth exfoliation and mild concussion, I nevertheless dragged my semi-anaphylactic carcass to the young woman’s table and attempted a smile—something I now regret, considering the extent of my compromised face. I tried asking her out, which took the form of inadvertently dribbling a blood clot onto her croissant. When she told me to get fucked, I asked whether it was an official invitation, and was arrested shortly afterwards.

The commonly accepted social etiquette associated with cafés and buses is an absolute minefield for dysfunctional Vleeschouwer Syndrome sufferers such as myself, and makes the ordinary circumstances that normal people take for granted positively elusive. The result of said dysfunction plays out in the Wrong Books in a manner that not only gives uncomfortable silences an entirely new meaning, but galvanises the pre-existing meaning of feacally sodden trousers. And if you think this book’s terrible, wait until you experience the unaltered, unmitigated and self-flagellatic horror of the next Wrong Book, Spying Blindly, which makes this one look like a handbook for the divinely gifted. Those readers who understand the Theory of Imagination will understand that much at least.

Appropriate love,

Thomas Corfield.

Shortly before his medication,

January, 2020.

thomascorfield.com

velvetpawofasquith.com

Dedication

For Gizela and Danny and Barbara and Denis,

who had kind words for the first Wrong Book.

The author also wishes to acknowledge the following people, who also had words for the first book,

though not nearly so kind:

Milford, Jerlene, Nichelle, Briana, Kristi, Barry, Suzanna, Misha, Desire, Sheryl, Lawanda, Leatha, Sherrill, Yasmine, Mariah, Tracy, Yvonne, Genevie, Twana, Alona, Sylvie , Shamar, Stephen, Kang Mei, Felipe, Kaelyn, Thalia, Hong-Lee, Ishaan, Crystal, Daisy, Qian Mo Li, Yue Lan, Alissa, Arielle, Ryan, Simon, Natalia (with an a), Voong Huang-fu, Levi, Felicity, Khalil, Edgar, Albert, Ryleigh, Hana, Sonia, Belinda, Scarlet, Makai, David S, Allie B,

some of whom will find themselves in the next title,

Spying Blindly, if they improve their attitude.

The Wrong Books are Sortabiographies about writing The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels, an award-winning New Fable fiction series, known for their Cinematic Audiobook editions, all of which are accompanied by lush orchestrations and cinematic soundtracks. This Wrong Book’s audiobook edition will also be accompanied by music. Rather than the filmic qualities of the Velvet Paw of Asquith’s Cinematic Audiobooks, however, Wrongly Writing is underpinned by light-hearted jazz and bossanova more suited to the story’s superficiality and poor attempt at unsophisticated sophistication.

The Wrong Jazz and Bossa Album provides an unnatural juxtaposition between story and music through what’s known as Non-associative Asynchronicity: where little attention is given to the suitability of music to narrative. This results in light-hearted passages occasionally being accompanied with unsuitable nostalgic tracks, or some sadder parts accompanied with jaunty bossanova. Non-associative Asynchronicity delivers a peculiar liquidity to the production that helps distract from the author’s appalling writing and ghastly vocal timbre. Non-associative Asynchronicity does the world the sort of favour that the books most certainly don’t.

It can be downloaded, free, from thomascorfield.com.

Chapter One

Homecoming

T

homas stood on a doormat and wondered whether he ought to apologise to it. Although doormats were used to being stood upon, he was convinced they were far less accustomed to being apologised to, which was unfair, considering the extent they were stood upon. Moreover, Thomas wasn't convinced he ranked any higher in the overall scheme of things than it did. Before he had a chance to, however, the door opened and Thomas shat himself. The massive woman standing before him glared with the sort of disgust and contempt that unreasonable mothers are renowned for.

Hello, Mother, said Thomas, not wanting to move because of the considerable volume of excrement filling his trousers.

Her contempt bred a sneer so robust that it could have been used to move crates around large industrial warehouses. She turned from him in as much as her massive frame allowed when confined by walls, and shook her head as much as an absence of neck permitted. Shit yourself, did you? she said.

Not really. It's just remnants of last night's dinner.

She scoffed. Cooked, did you?

In a manner of speaking. I fried some beans.

Did you remember to take them out of the tin first?

That's where the manner of speaking comes in. He left the doormat and followed her, apologising to it after all, considering the manure that had run down his trouser leg and dribbled over his shoe.

You didn't just shit on my doormat, did you? She was already elsewhere, though her contempt was omniscient.

In a manner of speaking, said Thomas.

The house was small, drab and devoid of colour, other than faded hues of once fashionable pastels and the bright labels of empty soft drink containers. There were also some pictures of diseased mouths that cigarette packets specialise in which had been nailed to walls in an attempt at themed decor, and a stale fog hung in the air that smelt as though it still held bits of lung.

He followed her into a kitchen only marginally less pleasant than the inside of his trousers.

Can't hack living by yourself then? she said, wedging against a grimy plastic table piled with ashtrays so stuffed, that the whole arrangement looked geothermal. She fell onto a chair that wouldn't remain functional much longer and scowled.

I can hack it, Mother, Thomas said. I've just returned for Oscar, that's all.

She scoffed again. or coughed; it was hard to discern through the stink of smoke. I don't know where your stupid cat is. She indicated a sink piled with broken dishes. It's probably under that lot. She lit a cigarette and continued killing herself.

Is he outside? Thomas asked, keen for some fresh air.

How should I know? I haven't been out there myself since the late seventies.

Thomas opened a back door that looked onto a small area paved in rubbish, some of which propped up a fence that was in no state to define boundaries. He looked fondly at the remnants of a tree which he used to swing from as a child, up until his mother had it poisoned and burnt. He called his cat, but there was no sound, other than the muffled pop of dead rats caught beneath layers of discarded asbestos and fossilised stratification of newspapers. Despite the grey and mold, the sky above was blue, and he smiled at having found the courage to finally leave home. He returned indoors, uncertain whether he should check his room, despite having grown up in it. His mother hadn't been happy about him leaving, despite consistently telling him to fuck off.

Should I check in my room? he called, worried what she might have done to it, considering the screams and punches she'd thrown the last time he was in it.

It's no longer your room!

Have you turned it into a study then? he asked.

What do I need a study for? I'm not some stupid wanker!

It's nice to have a study.

That's because you're a stupid wanker!

Thomas sighed. We've been over this, Mother. He looked at its door and the remnants of sticky tape that had held up pictures he'd done on the rare occasions he’s gone to school—until she burnt them also. I'm not a stupid wanker, he said. I just find being here rather suffocating, that's all.

An ungrateful stupid wanker!

Mother, I'm thirty-six. I can't stay here forever. We've been over this—

Tosser.

I'm not a tosser—

Fucking ungrateful stupid wanking tosser.

Mother, please. This isn't helping anyone. He put a hand upon what was left of the door’s handle. And anyway, you've been telling me to leave for ages.

That's because you're such a fucking stupid wanking tosser!

I'm not a tosser, Mother. You know that. You're just trying to get me upset.

Fuckwit.

I'm not going to rise to it, Mother. Moving out has been a good thing. It's made me see things differently.

"Oh, you retard! she said. You sound like such a fucking retarded stupid wanking tosser! No wonder you can't get a girlfriend. Any woman who'd accidentally look at you would wonder whether you even have a penis."

Mother—

Despite the fact you look like a dick.

I do not look like a dick.

You do. You look like a small dick that doesn't work.

You know, said Thomas, opening the door, it's only since moving out that I've realised how unhelpful that sort of talk is—

He didn't get any further, and instead threw a hand over his mouth and stared at a room he didn't recognise. Its walls, once a cadaver shade of grey, were completely wallpapered in thick wads of clotted newspaper—as was his bed—and the ceiling, the latter covered in thrown lumps of papier mache that looked like massive infestations of wasp nests. The air was damp with ink and rotting paper, some of which had liquefied and run in dark oil across what had once been a carpet, but now looked even more geothermal that the kitchen table.

Sick squirted between his fingers and he collapsed to the floor, where he breathed heavily until an asthma attack prevented both.

When he look up, his mother's excuse for ankles were in front of him. He looked up further at a towering mass of post-menopausal woman that rendered assignment of gender redundant.

Look at you, she sneered, hands on the sort of hips that afforded her the same displacement as ocean-going steam liner. Pathetic. Do you really think you can survive out there without getting punched or hospitalised?

What would you know? he said, spitting at sick and wiping his hands across carpet. You haven't been out in it for decades.

That's because I was too busy bringing you up.

Thomas pulled himself up the wall. A week ago he'd never have dared challenge her, but since moving out, he'd found an unfamiliar confidence. And after the sort of childhood that Social Services were invented for, he saw her in a different light—one that had him realising darkness existed for a reason.

Bringing me up? he cried. But you didn't give me a name until I was nine!

That's because you didn't deserve one.

"Every child deserves a name!"

Not if they don't matter.

Well, that's not what Social Services said—

Social Services can go and fuck themselves—and then they can fuck you. They'd like that, considering you're such a dick—

"You can't keep saying that, Mother!"

Dick.

"Mother, pleae!"

Dick.

When he put hands over his ears, she shouted.

"Dick!"

I'm not a dick!

What are you then?

No, Mother! No more!

Her bulk loomed closer in a mass of dead ash and loathing. What are you?

He felt sobs rise. I'm not doing this anymore! I can't! He tried pulling his head off, despite a lifetime of previous attempts being unsuccessful.

A slap stung his arms. What are you? she growled. Tell me!

I'm not doing it, Mother! he cried, wanting to cradle himself and sink to the floor. Not anymore!

You tell me what you are! she cried. Or you will go to your room! Now, what are you?

Through gritted teeth, he growled, I'm not doing this anymore!

Right. We'll see about that. She grabbed his hair and dragged him toward the newspaper-clad room.

No! he cried, flailing at her. Not in there!

She pulled his head backwards and leant close. Then tell me what you are.

Sobs arrived. He would have collapsed, but his scalp wouldn't let him.

Tell me!

A failure.

Louder!

"A failure!"

And what else?

He tried shaking his head, but her grip refused. She pushed him closer.

No! he cried.

Then what else are you?

"A dick!

And?

A retard. Sobs grew with each confession. "And a stupid fucking wanker!"

She dropped him like an aborted foetus, before pulling a sleeve up his arm and pointing at the scars upon it. I've already made it clear once before, haven't I? she said.

He tried nodding, but continued shaking instead.

Read it.

I can't see properly! he cried.

When she slapped his face, tears flew all over the place.

Read it.

He looked at his arm, knowing well what was on it.

Failure, he whispered.

She nodded. And don't you ever forget it.

After a solid kick, she doused him in the sort of phlegm he'd already coughed up all over the carpet. He lay for a time, wondering whether returning for his cat had been a mistake.

Chapter Two

Holes and Beans

T

he rain was oddly German, which Thomas put down to it being grey and well engineered. He stood in it and waited for a bus. Others were waiting also, but in a shelter nearby. They looked at him strangely to begin with, considering there was plenty of room undercover, but ignored him after realising he was peculiar. He ignored them also, and continued getting wet, uncertain whether he wanted their sympathy or to be left alone. He decided it was the latter, considering he wouldn’t know what to do with sympathy unless it was accompanied with an instruction manual.

London was grey and wet, and glistened like a jewel that everyone knew about but had largely forgotten. Despite the rain, it needed cleaning, and Thomas stared at stone and street and wondered how much effort would be required to take it apart and rebuild the place a way that would make him relevant.

He didn’t want much in life, other than to be more than nothing, which, according to his arm, was unlikely to occur.

Oi! Are you getting on?

All he’d wanted was his cat, being the one thing in his life that hadn’t tried setting fire to him. Only since leaving home was he able to see things this clearly. It had taken a week to see a lifetime.

In one way, he’d have preferred remaining blind.

Oi! Matey! a man cried. Are you wanting to get on or not?

He turned to see a bus had arrived and the last to get on was calling him.

Are you wanting to get on this thing, or stand there and dissolve slowly?

Ah—yes—right, said Thomas, hurrying to it. Sorry. I was thinking about something else.

You’ve been standing in the rain for fifteen minutes, mate, the man said, unimpressed. I doubt you’ve been thinking at all.

I was, actually, said Thomas, scrabbling through sodden clothes for his bus-pass. I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Sometimes all day. It’s quite tiring.

The man said nothing and wandered down the aisle. Thomas waved his bus-pass at the driver and the vehicle moved off. Passengers retreated as he wandered past, as he’d inadvertently brought rain indoors. An elderly woman muttered something along these lines, while another tutted after he turned to apologise and doused her with some.

Sorry, he said, dousing a third. I got a bit wet, I’m afraid.

There were several seats free and the man who’d got on before him scowled from a window in a manner suggesting he didn’t want to be disturbed, particularly by a soaking wet wanker. Thomas suspected there were some young women nearby, but didn’t dare look on account of being a soaking wet wanker.

When he sat, his wet trousers made socially unacceptable noises.

That wasn’t me, he said to everyone in his vicinity. I mean it was me a bit, but more my trousers, rather than anything contained within them. When no one responded, he wondered about saying it louder, before deciding on elaboration instead. They’re wet, you see, he said. I mean they’re wet because of the rain, rather than anything I’ve done directly to them. He pointed outside, which had got greyer and streakier. It’s raining, and some of it got on my trousers. He turned to the man. You were there. Could you tell them?

What? It was said with a sneer.

Could you confirm that I’ve been out in the rain and my trousers have got squeaky?

No one cares, mate. He looked from his window again.

Thomas glanced at a passenger who he suspected was a young woman to discover she was. She had headphones on and was, therefore, unlikely to have heard his trousers. Across the aisle, another young woman had turned from him to face her window, which only aggravated his concerns.

He turned to the man again.

Could you just tell her?

What is your problem? It was said as though if there wasn’t one, there would be shortly.

It’s just that I think she heard.

Heard what?

The sound from my trousers.

The man stared with the sort of contempt that ran Parliament. She doesn’t give a fuck, mate.

It was quite loud.

"No one gives a fuck!"

Thomas glanced at her again, certain she was pretty, though couldn’t see her face. But I can’t say it again, he said. I’ve already mentioned it twice.

The man leant forwards. She couldn’t give a fuck if you’d had shit tattooed on your arse!

Please.

The man was chewing gum, his arms were folded and he considered Thomas for a time, before leaning access the aisle. Hey, sweetheart, this wanker wants you to know that he’s just filled his pants with shit.

She shifted to face the window completely.

No! hissed Thomas. That’s not what I meant!

Oh? Well, sorry, mate. I just assumed that’s what the noise was.

"No—I said it wasn’t from my bottom! I said it was from my wet trousers!"

Isn’t that the same thing?

Horrified, Thomas turned from him and shrank into his seat. Having never dealt with women before, he was certain that wet noises from his trousers would do little to help him start—and a public announcement that he’d shat himself would help even less.

He was a man, supposedly, who’d moved out of home, and decided, therefore, that a further public broadcast, of which he was in charge, was required to clarify the situation.

He stood.

Excuse me, he said, addressing the bus’ entire contents, but I feel it necessary to clarify that I have not filled my pants with excrement. The sound that you may or may not have heard when I sat down was a result of my trouser fabric having become wet from the rain outside and not from any inadvertent defecation on my part.

Most passengers had turned to listen, and even the driver glanced in his mirror. Encouraged, Thomas decided to straighten other things out also. He pointed at the man in the seat behind.

Even though this gentleman was good enough to inform me that the bus had arrived while I was busy thinking about my cat, he nevertheless failed to comply with a request to provide verbal evidence of my wet trousers—

The man laughed.

—having nothing to do with bodily functions and everything to do with local meteorological conditions.

There was silence.

Right—well—so long as that’s all clear: this man is unhelpful and I did not just fill my pants with shit.

When sitting, his trousers uttered another socially unacceptable noise that him cringe and the man behind collapse in hysterics.

Thomas spent the rest of the journey with his forehead against the window, wondering whether the vibration would damage his brain. He dared not look at anyone, and ignored the chuckle and shoulder pat the man gave when disembarking. Thomas’ stop was toward the end of the route, where the streets were so ordinary that flat rentals only remained affordable until food was required by those renting them. The bus was empty by the time he alighted, and the driver indifferent to his assurances that he hadn’t ruined its upholstery. It rumbled away in a whine of diesel and wet street, leaving Thomas alone on a pavement.

When he’d moved out of home a week ago, he’d felt the sort of liberation more traditionally experienced in successful bail applications. This had waned shortly afterwards, however, when he’d rented a small damp flat and tried cooking some beans. His inexperience with everything resulted in him almost burning the place down, though the flat’s dampness prevented anything serious from eventuating. Nevertheless, after discovering that tins don’t melt as part of the overall cooking process, but do explode and take out large chunks of ceiling, Thomas realised he didn’t like being on his own and decided to return for his cat. His landlady had been adamant that no pets were allowed, until Thomas pointed out that rats that were in residence long before he was, and that he’d already named several. She agreed to let him have his cat, provided it killed at least one rat a day, which he was to leave in a plastic bag outside her door as evidence. Thomas had asked if this could be in lieu of rent, to which she laughed so hard she’d had a coronary. This left the entire arrangement in the hands of a step-daughter, three cousins and an assortment of lawyers, all of whom permitted him to remain at the set rate, provided the rat arrangement held, although none required evidence in a bag.

The rain had begun again, though as drizzle, which didn’t help his confidence, as it implied that even falling down was an effort when he was around. He walked up some steps so worn and broken that they’d been reclassified as a disability ramp and pushed at a door reclassified similarly. There was no need for keys, he’d been told, because the last time the flat’s had been burgled, items had been left out of pity, rather than taken, including a crowbar that was now used to prop up the stairwell. He climbed its stairs, taking care not to step on them and reached a landing that sagged to such an extent, that the need for stairs was debatable.

After opening a door that he’d made out of breakfast cereal boxes and used bandaids, he stood in his flat and sighed as deeply as he dared, considering it smelt like a crime scene. Having anticipated returning with Oscar, his failure to do so made the world more dreary still. It would be some time before he dared return to his mother’s, which left him concerned for his cat’s well-being. He went to a stove and tried heating some beans, which either took out a window or made one.

Discovering that heating beans for long enough invariably takes out infrastructure left Thomas realising something profound: he might not be a failure, after all. Had he failed at heating beans and starved, he’d no longer be around to continue puncturing walls with exploding tins. Moreover, the more holes he made, the more the place aired, which left it smelling like seaweed, rather than something requiring a chalk outline and numbered photographs.

He ate, went to bed, vomited and slept.

The next morning, he awoke to so much sunlight streaming into the place that the walls looked yellow, rather than the greyness of lichen he’d occasionally scraped off in an effort at renovation and as a supplement to beans. He lay on a mattress and stared at the colour under the conviction he was suffering jaundice. It was only when his urine began getting cold that he rolled off the thing to have a closer look.

The walls were distinctly yellow, as though having been painted intentionally. He touched its flakes: they were warm from sun. He pressed against them, having never seen warm, coloured walls before, as the haze at his mother’s meant colour didn’t exist, and the only warmth he’d experienced were from cigarette burns.

Closing his eyes, he was amazed at having survived thirty-six years and decided that from now on, things were going to be different. He’d be an independent man, rather than failed son. He’d become something, rather than be nothing. He scratched a boil and wondered whether a tetanus shot might be a good start. He went to a hole in the wall and looked upon a world that could be his, if only he had talent and charisma, looks and intelligence.

If he had Oscar, he could probably be classified as a family.

Retrieving his cat would be further proof that he wasn’t a failure, considering he’d fed the thing for years without it dying once.

He scraped some beans of the hole’s edge. They’d been warmed by the sun, which had him finding courage along with salmonella. Before him, the street lay in a mass of graffiti, uncollected refuse and burning tyres. For the first time in his life he threw his arms wide and laughed, feeling to own the world, which was disconcerting, considering how small his flat was. He stopped laughing and turned back to it, wondering where he’d put it all.

Chapter Three

The Return of the Prodigal

I

n anticipation of confronting his mother, Thomas cultivated a fuck-you attitude that he practiced on the way to her place. He’d hailed a bus with his middle finger, before telling the driver to go and get fucked when his bus-pass was asked for. He’d told two men to fuck off while they pushed him off the thing, and then told everyone else to go and get fucked when it drove away