What a Load of Rubbish (11 page)

But as Malcolm drew up alongside that monster, Geordie somehow managed enough interest to say to Malcolm in an usually hushed Tyneside trill, “Alreet, Malky auld son – we both noo ye dinna stond a chance – so ah’ve gi’yer an ’eadstart o’ five hooses. Then ah’m commin’
tee’ get yer…”

“You used to be my mate,” Malcolm was about to say when a fanfare sounded over the tannoy system. DA-DA-DA-DA.
DA-DA-DAAAH!
“ALREET LADIES, GENTLEMEN AN’ CHILDREN OF SUBURBIAVILLE. WI’OUT FURTHER ADO, AN’ EVEN LESS ’ANGING ABOUT, LET’S GET THIS SHOW ON T’ROAD – ON YER MARKS, GET SET
– WAIT FER IT! I SAID. WAIT FER IT..! GOOOOH!”

And Malcolm was off. Like a greyhound out of the traps. Choosing the even numbered side of the lane, he positively attacked the accumulated garbage on Willowy Lane, sweeping road, gutter and pavement with care and precision. Folding cardboard and paper and leaving it to one side to be picked up later by the recycling van. Doing the same with jars and bottles that were still in one piece. Pushing that wall of waste back with the hard-brush, farther and farther towards the slip-road onto the M25 motorway. Every so often, to add a touch of style to his performance, he paused briefly to run his trusty comb through his hair – very briefly, mind you. The thought of that big roller in front of the “All-in-One-Der” going round and round, faster and faster was enough to make Malcolm want to put as much distance as possible between himself and that junk scoffing
juggernaut.

The hot August sun beat down, the miasmas of flies buzzed even louder, growing more and more irritated as Malcolm destroyed one pile of poo after another and rendered them homeless. He pirouetted; folding gracefully at the waist like an exotic dancer, he bent to treat stains left on the ground with a
SPLUDGE
from a disinfectant bottle. Gradually, but not slowly, he was making an impression on the mass of mess, and as he finished clearing the repulsive disease-ridden refuse from the front of the fourth house, he found he was actually
enjoying
the sport. Muscles in his legs, stomach and shoulders worked like pistons as he bent, stretched, then stood still, to empty a dustbin into his own galvanised bins, then darted forward to the next driveway. Before he knew it he had drawn level with the fifth house, so he dived into the driveway and attacked that.

“Kommen sie, Malky be der vinner, Who ist der mann? You ist der mann! Hip-ray, hip-ray – go Malky go! ZWEI, VIER, SECHS, ACHT WHO DO VE LUFF – KOMMEN SIE MALKY DO YOUR STUFF!” Out of nowhere – that basket on her handlebars was bottomless – Gisele produced a set of pom-poms and just like a cheerleader at the Superbowl she had been cheering him
along every step of the way.

All the while Malcolm was reaping full benefit from Gisele’s support. Rather than finding her singing a little strained and out of key – which, let’s face it, it was; she could hardly have been accused of having a melodic voice – he found her harsh, Germanic tones a great source of comfort. The sound of support of the crowd, as well-meaning and positive as that was, might prove a bit distracting. Listening to Gisele’s chanting, though, enabled him to blot out all other sounds and concentrate on the job in hand.

Back at the start line from inside the driver’s cab, Geordie watched Malcolm progressing up Willowy Lane and found that he could not help being quite impressed at Malcolm’s performance. Gradually, Malcolm was pushing that sea of sludge back and away. “But aw
f’cryin’ oot loud mon
– ye‘ve only just completed two hooses.” And the silly beggar had stopped at the second house, because there was a brass number plate at the end of drive, to polish and buff it up. The hot August sun beat down. Ah’ve got ages yet mon, thought Geordie, pressing the button on the door –
ZZZZZEERWUP
the electric window opened. But, “PPHWOOAAR CRIKEY MON!” When the stench from the build up of rubbish in the lane filtered in through the window of the cab, Geordie found it quite unbearable
so,
PUWEERZZZZ
he wound it back up again until it was tight-shut and turned on the air-conditioning.

All this button pushing was proving a little too strenuous for Geordie, who was as it happens a big bloke – pretty fat too, probably because after a hard day’s work, sitting in the driver’s cab, he stayed too long in the Artisan’s Arms – so he fished about in the “All-in-One-Der” glove compartment until he found what he was looking for, a can of fizzy orange. Opened it,
SSCHWPT
and took a long swallow. Pushed the driver’s seat back to its fully reclined position, put the can of fizzy orange down on the all-important control box, his feet on the steering-wheel and cupping his hands behind his head, stretched out and had a nap.

Perhaps it was the aroma from the can that attracted that wasp; let’s be honest, the scent of oranges must seem quite attractive to a wasp flying around on a hot day. But the fact remains,
somehow
a wasp got into that cab – probably when Geordie wound down the window fully – and hovered around quietly for a few seconds. Then, when Geordie put the can down on the control box, it flew down, got its proboscis out and had a good old sniff and slurp around the top of the can. By that time Geordie had closed the window, so when the wasp had drank its fill and tried to fly out again it found
itself trapped. It began to buzz around looking for other avenues of escape, there were none, so the poor, frustrated wasp began to buzz louder and louder –
buzz-buzz-BUZZING
around Geordie’s head.

“AW YE LITTLE BEGGAR GERROUT MON!” exclaimed Geordie, and swatted at the creature with a copy of the Driver’s Manual. He missed. This must have
really
wound-up old waspy because, buzzing angrily, it flew down and
ZZAP!
stung him on the ear, then
ZAP!
on the nose – that is how we know it was a wasp rather than a bee – then, for good measure, on the same ear again
– ZAP! And you’re out.

“AW NAW MON – AARRGH!” This caused Geordie great pain and he sat bolt upright, kicking his can of fizzy orange all over that
all important
control-box. In a flash Geordie wiped most of the fizzy orange from the control box with a bit of rag, in spite of being in great pain. After a further ten minutes’ work had dried it off completely, he felt quite satisfied that no serious damage had been done and was glad to notice that the upholstery had not been stained.

But little drops of the bubbly liquid had managed to seep
into
the control-box which was full of intricate wiring, fuses, anodes and cathodes and all the rest of it. And oxidation stained all the shiny
metal surfaces a lovely shade of reddish-brown. Cathodes collapsed, resistors did not resist and diodes began to die but not all at once, although enough of the fruity liquid had seeped in to collect in a chain of little wet blobs along the lead to the AI chip, confusing the instructions received from the control box which, in turn, turned the clear, pre-programmed instructions stored in the box’s command chip into garbled nonsense. Geordie the driver, was completely unaware of this – he thought he had cleaned it all up.

Some way up the street, Malcolm had just finished clearing in front of the fifth house and an invigilator, who had been stationed there, raised his arm to signal to Willy Eckerslike to start up the “All-in-One-Der”.

“Alreet Geordie lad, power ’er up, I said power ’er up – let’s get this show on t’road!”

“Phew! Just in time!” Geordie had just finished cleaning puddles of fizzy orange from other parts of the cab when he heard Willy’s barked command. “Okay, Mister Eckerslike, like!” he called back and raised his thumbs, started the engine then ducking down again he flicked the master switch on the control box to the “on” position.

And all the time inside the control box, those little droplets of orange clung with
grim determination to the intricate wiring to and from the AI chip, collecting in one large blob which dripped, SPLOT, SPLOT onto the circuit board and speed governor.

Then things started to go wrong. Like an army having received its orders, it deployed over the battleground. Some blobs progressed along wires to different components on the circuit board. Others using the citric acids they contained to eat into the AI chip’s protective covering. The remainder branched off into the engine where they were turned into a gas when they smeared themselves over things like the cam-shaft housing and pistons. This would cause more damage when the gas seeped into places where liquid could not go – even more when the gas reached cooler parts of the engine and was turned into liquid again, clinging to those vital components. And you know that wire that feeds information to the AI chip is coated in a yellow polyurethane sheath, to protect it from contact with other components – well, the fizzy orange gas cooled down again to fizzy orange liquid again and came to rest on that and the acid in the fizzy orange began to eat into it. And then the thingamajig started to break up, the wotsit was soaked which meant that the artificial intelligence chip became quite unintelligent indeed.

Time, Malcolm knew, was of the essence but he could not help risking a glance over his shoulder at the “All-in-One-Der” and noticing a team of mechanics in overalls, looking over, under and around the beast. A shout rang out and white coated scientists rushed across to crowd round the machine, all nodding, scratching their heads and stroking imaginary beards, while giving sound, scientific advice to the mechanics which half of them did not understand.

“What t’perishin’ ’eck is goin’ on ’ere?” An excited, irritated Willy Eckerslike was hopping from foot to foot, firing members of the technical department on the spot and mopping sweat from his flabby face with a handkerchief. And the sun beat down making him even more blunt, bad tempered and downright insulting. Everyone else grew more and more fearful of his razor-sharp temper and his ability to fire workers on the spot. Jobs in Suburbiaville, these days, are hard to come by. Technical staff continued to swarm around the immobile machine, “Ah canna understond it mon!” Geordie sang but really he knew the cause of the problem – he was careful to wipe the evidence off the control box.

At the ninth house Malcolm heard an all too familiar voice order angrily, “Reet y’useless perishin’ rabble. We’ll ave t’go wi’ just t’ robots and nowt’ else!” And
that
yawning
sound of the cantilever doors opening. He did not dare hazard a backward glance. Perhaps he should have, for only one of those doors opened, releasing only two of the robots – who on finding that they were only two felt very lonely indeed. Rather than diving into driveways, shredding cardboard, breaking down boxes, slurping up liquids with their nifty little vacuum attachments and doing whatever else they were capable of, they bleeped and buzzed their way round to the other cantilever door – the one which was still closed – to bleep and buzz to the other two who were still trapped inside and so keep them company. “This is one of the problems with cyber-technology,” explained the designer of the “All-in-One-Der”. “Over time, if separated and forced to operate independently, the robots may get lonely.” Apparently, later analysis revealed this had something to do with the robots’ shared artificial intelligence and the fact that they shared a central plexus. Therefore they could not work as separate units.

By this time Malcolm was at the thirteenth house, he could not help feeling pretty pleased with himself and risked a glance over his shoulder. Whatever thoughts he’d had about being smeared all over the road by that roller on the front soon disappeared, for the “All-in-One-Der”
had not moved. Plus Gisele’s constant support helped keep his thoughts occupied.

“We’re a team you and me, girl!” Malcolm shouted to her, “and if I did win it would be thanks to you!”

But Gisele was not listening. “JA – KOMMEN SIE MALKY EIN – ZWEI – DREI – FOUR. WHO IST DER MANN WE KANNOT IGNORE – YA! IST MALKY!”

Back at the start line, the “All-in-One-Der” was all in. It was kaput but the one cantilever door was half-open – it would not open fully until the other door was operational – so with fingers crossed, Willy used his managerial directing authority to direct his staff unleash his final solution.

“REET!” he said, “RELEASE T’REMAININ’ TWO RUBBISH ROBOTS!”

“But we can’t, sir!” a technician answered.

“WHY THE PIGGIN ’ELL NOT. I SAID WHY THE PERISHIN’ ’ECK NOT!”

“Because, sir,” answered the boffin, “You just fired the driver and that’s
his
job!”

“WELL REINSTATE ’IM THEN. I SAID GI’IM ’IS JOB BACK!”

Minutes later Geordie was re-employed to open the one remaining door, by hand-crank, and reunite the two
imprisoned rubbish robots with the other two that were left inside. They were overjoyed and set off mobile arm in mobile arm, which was quite touching really. “AAH!” But they didn’t sweep, vacuum and scrub pavement surfaces, they tore into front gardens and driveways ripping up shrubberies and scrubbed lawns until they were nothing more than bare patches of earth; that done, they attacked the privet hedges. In the end Willowy Lane looked like a building site. It was completely and utterly destroyed. They then turned on each other and started to
BASH!
into each other as though they were the remaining cars in a demolition derby. All but one robot smashed itself to smithereens on the other, using whatever attachment was on its arm to attack its partner. One, however, made it out onto the road and sped off down the lane in the direction of Malcolm and the finish line.

Malcolm – supported every step of the way by Gisele’s non-stop cheerleading – was totally focused on the job in hand as always. With an air of professional smoothness in spite of the boiling heat, he guided his unwieldy barrow to the end of Willowy Lane. Neither he nor Gisele realised they had won.

“MALKY! MALKY! You haff done it.
You ist der vinner – zis ist der ende. Yahoo!
”

“Crikey Gise – yer right!” He looked down the lane; the “All-in-One-Der” had not moved. It stood immobile by the start line surrounded by a mechanics and scientists in heated argument. He could not make out what was being said but many of the “technical” terms used would have made many a vicar blush. It was a bit like listening to a lesson in Anglo-Saxon for beginners.

“Oh well – if Mohammed won't come to the mountain…” Putting one arm round Gisele's shoulders and the other hand on “Belinda's” pushing handle he propelled them towards the start-line,
feeling very proud of himself indeed – even prouder of Gisele and “Belinda”, the two women in his life.

Malcolm had not traveled more than halfway back up the lane when,
BLEEP! BUZZ! BURP!
He came face-to-face with his arch enemy, or rather one of them – the other three had turned on each other way back down the lane. Having wrecked the front gardens and driveways of the first ten houses, having reduced lawns to bare earth, having reduced the herbaceous borders to scrublands, they found no more use for their mobile arms.
The Devil makes work for idle hands
– this being the case, they turned on, and began to dismantle, each other.

It takes a man like Malcolm to face up to one of these robot wheelie-bins with its red sensor flashing on-and-off, on-and-off, more and more quickly the angrier it gets. And these “Rubbish Robots” are not supposed to have any emotions; they are, supposedly, inanimate objects. Completely void of any feeling at all. Or they were until this whiz-kid technician, remember the bloke who invented the “dirt-dispenser”? Well
he
fitted an ego chip into this one droid to try and give it a sense of pride in its work that matched Malcolm's. This was the result. An angry wheelie-bin on caterpillar tracks with mobile arms, interchangeable attachments, a flashing red sensor and a bad
attitude. And judging by the redness of its sensor – which was glowing brighter and redder with every bleep – this wheelie-bin's was getting worse by the second. Plus, in reality, even though the “All-in-One-Der” was only good for scrap metal, now, the control box was still intact. And still sending out complete instructions.

This poor wheelie-bin's AI chip just could not cope with the large block of instructions originally intended to be shared between four, from a control box that was operating as though nothing had happened at all. And it had, also, to try to somehow integrate this ego chip. Too much information – come on, you can guess what happened. It's not rocket science.

Gisele sensed something was wrong when the robot approached. Had she forgotten something? She twisted out of Malcolm's embrace and looked back down the lane – so that was it.

“MALKY! MALKY DARLINK! LOOK YOU HAFF NOT BROKEN DER TAPE AT DER FINISHINK LINE. IT IST STILL FLAPPINK ABOUT IN DER VIND AT DER EINGANG TO DER TOWN PARK!”

There, loosely strung across the entrance to the park, was the strip of ticker tape. The rules of the contest strictly pointed out that this tape must be broken by whoever arrived at the
finish line first.

“SCHNELL! SCHNELL! IF YOU ARE NOT BREAKING DER TAPE DER KOUNCIL VILL NOT REINSTATE YOU!”

The robot bin did not understand spoken words. However it did understand the heat generated from Gisele's emotions. And it quickly converted this into bleeps and with the added input from the ego chip that ticker tape hanging loosely between the park gates was like a red rag to a bull, it simply had to finish the task. Like a bullet it sped towards the tape. Purposefully Malcolm, with gritted teeth, took off in the same direction. He just could not let this piece of tin win. This single thought helped him keep pace with the mechanical power of the Rubbish Robot, in spite of the sun, which was getting hotter and hotter as the day wore on.

Inevitably the bin, because of its mechanical energy, reached the ticker tape first but because it shared its artificial intelligence with three other bins, it could not work out what to do with the ticker tape. It did not know whether to sweep it, store it, suck it up with its nifty little suction device, shred it or whatever else robot wheelie-bins do with ticker tape. Therefore it just stood there, eyeing up this bit of ticker tape with its flashing red sensor and scratching its
head – sorry – its lid with its mobile arm. This gave Malcolm enough time to slide in rugby tackle fashion with a pair of scissors and snip the tape – the winner.

And the crowd went wild. They went bananas. Some of them even went wild bananas. They rushed down the street towards Malcolm, surrounding him so that he was engulfed in a huge mob of well-wishing, cheering, congratulating and back-slapping residents – important people, some of them.

Lifted high on the shoulders of the crowd Malcolm was ferried back down the lane to the start line just as the town clock chimed ten o'clock; there, he was set down on the raised platform. Seconds later Willy Eckerslike emerged from the throng, prodding and pushing a rather harassed Mister Bartholemew ahead of him. Poor Gordon, the more he was bullied by his boss, the more stressed out he became and the thinner and weedier he looked. “Go on, Bartholemew,” Willy threatened, “I said go on, gi'im 'is job back!”

Gordon and Willy climbed the steps to the platform and Gordon picked up the microphone. “Well, Malcolm –
ha
– you certainly proved us all wrong.” Willy glowered at him. “Bartholemew!?!” Mister Bartholemew cringed.

“Er – um, sorry. I meant me, you proved
me
wrong. And we – er – at Suburbiaville
Council – um – er – think it only – ah – um – right and proper – oh I hate this – to offer you your old job back.”

To which Malcolm answered, very politely indeed, “Well the thing is, Mister Bartholemew, sir. I've just been havin' a word with Missus DeCosta down the lane there – an' she 'as offered to pay me double whatever you pay me an' that's just for cleanin' one street. So thankee, Mister Bartholemew, sir. But no thankee, Mister Bartholemew, sir!”

And the crowd went even wilder, milling – as crowds often do – around the foot of the raised platform. One great, big cheering mass; but something was wrong. Where was Gisele? Malcolm caught a glimpse of her. She was just easing herself and Malcolm's unwieldy barrow out of the back of the crowd, about to go on to the cycle track. Almost beside himself with panic, he snatched up the microphone from the Public Address system and shouted, “We're a team, you an' me. I couldn't 'ave done this without you. Gisele, we belong together – will you marry me?”

A distant police siren growing gradually louder made it difficult for him to make out her answer. “Later, Malky liebe shon, but I haff to get this back before the museum opens at ten-zhirty. Zhey vill haff my D.N.A. you know.”

And the newshounds settled, like flies. Attracted by the buzz, Malcolm was a hero and heroes create news. “There they are – it's Malcolm and that 'orrible little fat feller… Oh Malcolm – and I understand that this man sent hooligans to your home to steal your barrow!”

“Well I don't know, 'cos it was their barra in the first place, y'see. But it was in a rotten state when I got it, all dull an' battered – mind you that was a long time ago – so I painted it orange and add…”

“Foghorn Foggins, Suburbiaville Siren, Mister Tilsley is there any truth in the rumor that the council's Managing Director was going to double ground rate and charge an entrance fee to Willowy Lane later this year to pay for this ‘All-in-One-Der'?”

“Well, I don't know y'see,” Malcolm scratched his head then he noticed the loaded camera.

“No-one's ever called me ‘mister' before…” He whipped his trusty comb out of his pocket, ran it through his hair and smiled and pulled his eyebrows closer together.

Isn't odd how the chance of a scoop can transform even the most languid of reporters into an Olympic runner? Well, here's a little snippet of information to back that observation up. Ace Gossip
columnist, Hugh Nehd, News of the Globe, suspecting that behind the closed doors of the affluent Willowy Lane gossip was rife, lurked suspiciously in the crowd in the hope of uncovering any little gems worthy of creative journalism. When rumors of Mister Eckerslike's plan to double the rates and increase land taxes in Suburbiaville, reached his ears he made a bee-line for Willy, his notebook and pen at the ready.

“Hugh Nehd here, News of the Globe. Mister Eckerslike,
William
– mind if I call you William? Care to give us your side of the story – would you like to give us a quote; would you like to make something up?”

“No comment,” answered Mister Eckerslike. “I said no comment. But don't think you've 'eard the last o' me, young Tilsley,” promised Willy “nearly Lord Mayor of Suburbiaville” Eckerslike, from the foot of his raised platform, “Because one day in t'not too distant future, you'll rue, I said rue t'day y'crossed swords wi' William Eckerslike. An' tell that chuffin' driver he's fired, I said. Perishin' well sack 'im!”