Len has penned this introduction, and will shortly be installed with full authorly powers.
One Orange Book to rule them all, one Orange Book to find them,
One Orange Book to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.
I was recently ensconced in my favourite armchair, surveying my colonial farmlet and slaking my thirst with eight litres of lager (as is my wont after a hard day of furze cutting and gathering firewood), when I felt a great disturbance in the force. It was as if millions of voices had cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I feared something terrible had happened.
Trepidatiously, I carried my remaining 18 cans of lager over to the computer desk, logged on and commenced my investigation. Within moments, my suspicions were confirmed, a cursory perusal of my usual haunts having identified the cause. The Orange Book had been found and reopened by Mudpuddlin Man Dave (an alias adopted approximately 18 years ago, for obvious security reasons pertaining to the contents of the aforementioned tome). My heart stopped, my throat tightened as my brain struggled to come to terms with the implications of this development, and as I drained another can (whilst simultaneously opening the next with my other hand) a series of flashbacks erupted within my mind causing me to slowly fall into unconsciousness, to be transported back to where it all began, so many years ago………
The building itself could be called, at best, utilitarian and the floor to which I was directed was (as we were later to discover) even more austere than the other fourteen, with no running water in the rooms and ablution facilities shared by The Ten. The Ten had arrived, each bearing the uniform of his chosen tribe; Ned the Indie Boy in his long sleeve “Carter” tee shirt; Flea the Casual in his perfectly ironed jeans and golden earrings; Frank Satanus the Goth in his over sized black baggy jumper; Johnny Foods the contemplative academic and gifted actor in his Morrissey cardigan with oversized buttons; Shadrack the excitable engineer, chain smoking Silk Cuts; Leviticus the bawdy sportsman and medic; Dirty Sanchez, a Liverpudlian scallywag and former military man; and Scunner Curwen, a box of dog shit.
Amongst The Ten was one who did not readily fit, having apparently taken on both the appearance and persona of a gardening programme presenter – marble wash jeans, unbranded white trainers and a semi-casual shirt buttoned all the way were in contrast to his confident voice and good humoured disposition. This was my first meeting with Dave.
Several of The Ten would ultimately falter, fail to rise to the challenge and be replaced by altogether more robust (and in this story, critical) individuals such as Doc Rudenski and The Troll. Secondary characters such as Pregnant Welsh Mong, The Drummer, and The Mandrill would also have a part to play. More of that later.
Time pressures prevent me from elaborating further at this stage but, suffice to say, if the Tale of the Orange Book is to be told proper, further episodes will be required to give the necessary background. Nonetheless, this is where it all began, with The Ten. At this early stage, my adolescent pitch was somewhere between indie and academic; a floppy centre parting trading off against the biker jacket, with a healthy dose of pseudo working class anti-snobbery thrown in for good measure.
This, however, would all change rapidly within a matter of weeks as I was drawn inevitably into a downward spiral of depravity, accompanied by Dave; a maelstrom that would, and could, only end in one place…The Orange Book.
I hope that Dave and I can finally gain some sense of closure through the telling of this story, for there is plenty to come. For now, I sign off. For those of you who don’t know me….
My name is Leonard Caine.
And so it began
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