Soft Tales for the Hard Apocalypse: Recent Episodes
Chris Lee
Chris Lee is an award-winning playwright and short story writer. With this weekly podcast he offers tales of comfort and distraction for the lockdown era. Each tale is a unique reflection on the challenges and rewards, the absurdities and horrors of life after 2020. Tales that are funny, sad, ridiculous, provocative, moving and outrageous will entertain you and accompany you on your journey of survival through pandemic and post-pandemic times.
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Funereal. Death in Ireland is a strange phenomenon. It's a reunion with your past life, with everything estranged. Duty sees you through. At least, you think it does.
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A simple memoir. A beach in County Wexford in the 1970s, holds the key to the meaning of life.
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Read by Chris, Cheers to the Man is a story of homecoming and inheritance in County Wicklow in Ireland. Obviously there's some mental illness and alcoholism thrown in, with a dash of unrequited love.
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Read by Catherine Hartley, The Flood is a sad tale of struggling parenthood and a failed escape to the country. Self and harm and eating disorder abound. Not for the fainthearted.
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Read by Mark Klingler the story is set in California at the outbreak of World War 11. Schoenberg and Stravinsky have a chance encounter in a diner. The giants of 20th century classical music circle one another.
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Welcome to a new series. The Thief of Murano is read by Andrew Brown. A love story with tragic consequences and a lot of glass. Venice awaits...
New intro music by James Hibbins.
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Concluding the tale of a cat called Eamon.
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A children's story (sort of) in two parts about a cat called Eamon.
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But can you really ever capture God? Farewell to the Estate. The final chapter.
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Catherine and Carl look into the 17th Century.
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No secrets anymore in Razna's family.
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Toke gives up crack dealing. Forever.
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Laura gains Fatima's trust. Sort of.
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Razna skates on the thin ice of life.
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Laura gets the collywobbles.
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Fatima fumes, Catherine dreams, and then there's a salmon salad.
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At last the lovers meet. Toke and Razna embrace on the 23rd floor.
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You can't catch God, who has an alternative view of proceedings.
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Interlude. Hallucinations and delusions.
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Trying to section God under the Mental Health Act.
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Catherine frets about what to do. Her mother writes to the United Nations.
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God's Estate Chapter 8. Razna deals with her mother in law and meets Laura the social worker.
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Toke makes plans to evade the attentions of The Silk gang.
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God's Estate Chapter 6. Meanwhile, God goes about his business.
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Chapter 5. Introducing Catherine, Fatima and Carl, a family boiling over.
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Meet Laura, social worker, mother, hero.
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Chapter 3. Introducing Toke, the friendly neighbourhood crack dealer.
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God's Estate Chapter 2. Introducing Razna's family. Yikes.
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Welcome to God's Estate, a novel in 24 chapters. It is the late 1990s in London. Adultery, drug dealing, organised and disorganised crime, a touch of social work and total oversight by the supreme being.
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Chris Lee talks about the podcast. Interview by Andrew Brown.
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Well, there we are, 40 stories. That’s your lot. Many thanks to anyone who managed to get through them all. Time to go. Will my last story be about fluffy bunnies living happily ever after? No, just the usual; mental illness, dysfunctional families and pain. Enjoy.
The Sorrow of Shame
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During lockdown, when all you could do was go for a walk, I noticed that there was a man living in a homemade shelter, where the New River meets Pymmes Brook in North London. He was there for months but then suddenly he and his shelter were gone. I never spoke with him, but this story imagines a possible life.
Under the New River
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The modern workplace is awash with policies, procedures, initiatives and sub-committees. A new language has been born, that promotes optimistic incomprehensibility as the driving force of the new age of the organisation. Get with the jargon or get out. But have you ever thought that office life could prove fatal?
The Disciplinary Process
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Remember the pandemic? No? You’ve forgotten? That’s right, it was all so long ago. Lessons were learned of course. We’d be far better prepared next time. If there is a next time. There won’t be a next time will there?
Contagion
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Perhaps the most disturbing thing about mental health work is the encounter with children who have been flung far into mental distress by their traumatic experience. It can be hard to be hopeful. But by acknowledging the depth of the pain, by refusing to look away, we might begin to get somewhere. This is a tribute to a young person I once met on a psychiatric children’s ward.
Confined Spaces
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Do you have a faith? If you do, how deep is it? Could it, do you think, withstand personal tragedy? To forgive is divine, isn’t it? But when the whole truth is revealed then perhaps the strain shows. Are we all worth a second chance? Ask your God.
Prayers for an Angry God
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A woman looks back on her life, she feels the terror of the present and the loss of her friends. She worries about what is to come and what she has left unfinished. She thinks about her son, she wonders, through the tears, where her life has gone.
Southside 2019
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We can all reminisce once in a while. But the danger might be that we regret what we have become. There were many times, when we might have made other choices. But then again, dwell on that regret and we might not fully appreciate the value of what we did chose. Whatever, we can’t stop reverie.
Such Kisses
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Birth, marriage, parenthood, death. It all goes by in a flash. What is any of it worth, what, if anything, do we learn? And if you want to leave it all behind when the time comes, when you really can’t stand it anymore, then who is anyone to try and stop you? So, roll that all together and you have this story:
The Red Headed Krait
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Life in the fast lane can get you into the odd scrape. Remember The Chemical Brothers’ song ‘Where Do I begin?’ Sunday morning I’m waking up. Can’t even focus on a coffee cup. Don’t even know whose bed I’m in. Where do I start? Where do I begin? Don’t let yourself be trapped. Get out before it’s too late. Oh dear, it’s too late.
A Sweet Disorientation
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How do you feel about atonal classical music? Schoenberg, Berg, Webern and all that came after: Boulez, Stockhausen, Berio, Nono, Ligeti? Schoenberg predicted that grocers’ boys would be whistling serial music on their rounds. Where are those grocers’ boys? Maybe, they were driven to kill.
The Twelve-Tone Murders.
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Street drinkers have their own ethics. And there is a camaraderie in the absolutely downtrodden. This is a story about friendships and survival in the world of the destitute. It’s also a fond tribute to memories of Deptford in London, where I first plied my trade as a social worker.
Frieda and Hamish bury Nigel.
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My grandfather came back from the First World War and sank into alcoholism. He could afford it, at least at first. By the end, although he was living in a nursing home, he still retained a chauffeur and went on a daily pub crawl through South Dublin. I imagine the thoughts that lurked at the bottom of the glass.
An Irish Officer Foresees His Death in the Pubs of Dalkey.
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Do objects tell us anything about their owners? Maybe if you follow an object across the years, you can find out. This story is about a hat. One of those Australian bush hats that tourists love but which usually make them look ridiculous. But then, aren’t we all ridiculous in the end. Hat.
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Now that we can all agree that Brexit has been a rip-roaring success, bringing nothing but growth and prosperity to sovereign Britain, we can look back and laugh at the doom mongers who thought otherwise. In this story The Garden of England we have an early perspective on matters from the point of view of a Polish truck driver.
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Today’s story is The Literary Prize. As you all know, there are no large egos in literature. How dare anyone suggest that writers are arrogant, narcissistic, self-pitying backstabbers. It’s simply not true. But then again...The Literary Prize.
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Today’s story is about guilt and affairs and marriage and the wonderful French city of Grenoble. Maybe it’s also about freedom and choice and even happiness. Must be getting soft.
Snowbound
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The Goldberg Disintegrations. Dementia is cruel, maybe as cruel to those who observe, as to those who suffer. They say music is one of the last skills to be eaten by the disease. I hope that’s true. But what must it be like to fall apart mentally in this way? Today’ story considers the case of a concert pianist playing Bach.
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Today’ story, Bellingen to Byron, concerns a man who wants to reconnect with his daughter. Remember the Paul Simon song ‘Slip Slidin Away’? There was a father who had a son, he longed to tell him all the reasons for the things he’d done? It’s a bit like that but set in Australia.
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I’ve started up again. Why not? So here are a few more stories for the next ten weeks or so. Today’s effort is called ‘Brothers Three’, inspired by my work with people who hoard. I worked with a man who hoarded newspapers. And the I learned about his brother who hoarded fruit and vegetables and his other brother who hoarded stationary. Obviously, it’s a tragedy.
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So here we are at the last tale. Thank you for listening. It’s still never too late to add comments or ratings and I can be contacted at leechris@talk21.com for castigation and online abuse.
The Assessment is for everyone who works in mental health services. We don’t always get it right, but we keep trying. Someone has to.
This is the second last of my tales, for now at least. I’m going to try and get them published, so if anyone has any tips or connections, don’t be shy. Also, it’s never too late to add a rating or a comment.
This is a simple father and son story, set in Ireland and in London. I hope you enjoy it.
Today’s tale is called The Ambassador. What is the universe made of? And could it have turned out differently? For example, if conditions had been slightly altered in the early moments following the Big Bang, might there be far more antimatter and far less matter than there is? We might then be anti-humans. Or perhaps we already are.
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Today’s story, Medium Secure, is set in a psychiatric hospital for people who have committed criminal offences. I’ve worked in mental health services for most of my life and although there is much pain and sorrow, there is also, the prospect of recovery, rehabilitation and hope.
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Today’s story is called Iris Crescent. Suburban London often seems sleepy and quiet, especially these days. But scratch beneath the surface and all manner of peculiar things might be found. Some of them terrible, some of them terrifying, some of them even worse.
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Today’s story is called I’ll Give You Chesil Beach. Those of you who have been to this rather wonderful location will know that it’s the kind of place where very strange things might happen.
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Today’s story is called ‘What Colour is your Violence?’, and is my reflection on Black Lives Matter protests in London. As a writer you have to take risks. You might get it wrong, but you have to try.
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Today’s story is called The Pillar Box. Brexit has been so much fun, don’t you think? And it looks as if it will just keep on giving. But really, how bad do you think it could get? If you’re Irish that is. Sit back and let’s see.
Today’s story is simply called Goodbye. An old man struggles to come to terms with his fading memory. A tragic experience that affects, or will affect so many of us. But what if the memories themselves should be left in the past? What if that older person is a much better human being than the one that memory can no longer reach?
Today’s story is called Southside 1962. Ireland must have been a difficult place to emigrate to in the 1960s. A woman looks after her new born child and daydreams in South Dublin, all those years ago.
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Today’s story is called Cape Helles. My grandfather fought at Gallipoli with the Munster Fusiliers. He was broken forever by the experience. That fateful landing on the beaches has been re-imagined many times but here is my peculiar Anglo-Irish version. This one is not for the faint hearted.
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Today’s tale is called Trains, Hotels and Lovers. Inspired by my great aunt Eleanor, who was described severely as a carefree spirit, a lost soul, and even a loose woman, the story is also a yearning for travel, and the importance of never being tied down.
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Today’s tale is called Karen’s Art. Working in mental health services presents you with some almost unbelievable encounters. I once had to assess a woman who used her own blood in performance art. I have no idea what became of her, but the danger of her situation inspired this story.
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Today’s tale is about television. Sort of. You remember a certain disgraced reality TV host, whose show was pulled because a member of the public committed suicide after appearing on the programme. The host wasn’t sent to jail, but in my story he was, and he reflects on what he considers to be his innocence. Does he learn humility? Let’s see.
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Today’s tale is called The Light Dies in Achill. A few years ago, I spent two weeks writing in a cottage on Achill Island, just off the coast of Co Mayo in the West of Ireland. It’s a wonderful, bleakly beautiful location. You can’t help writing about it. Many thanks to the trustees of the Heinrich Böll cottage. This is a wistful and windswept tale.
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Today’s tale is a murder mystery. Well sort of. Has anyone else taken a dislike to our obsession with the stately homes of England? Down with Downton Abbey I say. Here are seven letters in support of my view.
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Today’s tale is called Fire. I was in Australia at the time of the terrible bushfires of late 2019 and early 2020. This story tries to conjure up that sense of absolute environmental destruction. I’ve worked for many years in mental health services and for some reason it seemed to me that having a mentally ill character involved in the tale, would help to show how desperately vulnerable human beings are.
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Today’s tale is called The Monuments. I find it uplifting to think about all the different ways in which the world might end, and how every day, the absurdities of national pride are exposed everywhere, if we only care to look.
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Today’s tale is called Killing Me Softly. It’s set in my native Ireland. Now we can all have family troubles from time to time. But what happens when they become homicidal?
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Today’s tale is called The Run. Across the road from me lives a woman who goes running four times every day. I don’t know her at all. But I wonder what is going through her head when she is running.
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