'Induction' Can ingrained knowledge magically transfer without real contact? Like inducted energy can it leap a chasm, is it charged to attract? Does being in the appointed place at the appointed time, assure? Or does knowledge gain from induction demand so much more? So you are bringing me into your company, that’s your charge. You are the canal and at the moment I am a lumbering barge. You are full of experience, full of knowledge, full of pride. Well, tell me please, why do I feel like someone has just died. Where as I should be enthused, be prepared, be ready to work I am stuck in a room with a PowerPoint, an intranet and a berk! The system’s a bit clunky and it is ‘under thorough review’. The WiFi is out and ‘to be frank there is nothing we can do’. The induction is now over and my initiation supposedly replete. Time to take all I have learned and build a team that can compete. As a final gesture, you, ”… hope it wasn’t too boring or too hard’. Oh and, can I ‘acknowledge its success by signing the attendance card’. Loot, 2018, Narrator: Andy Denham

'The Jabbercock' Slipath follies and gogeth kooks, his hole weld thus defined. As his high topery shreaks, zensith becomering hard to find. Throu toves of hungish quate are bungles of hungish made. Throu his spillath and yomps, mi patyance is soonley slade. This gargeth foollie, this bag of bloate, this jabber bunnie. This touken volume, this mastiffe cock, this listless runnie. Howarth you stive, your spillath causering oargles to bleed. Howarth you stive, your spillath causering all to take heed. The timbre is hair and samethink muste soon be doone. The flair ripe for change and now gour mument has come. The hoardes now clabeth, these throngs now take stock. Slice your mongue, shoot your mooth, mastiffe Jabbercock. Written by Loot and read by Andy Denham, 2016

'Dynotrowel' Born in the brickolithic period and now a near extinct species, Ancient master of trowels and pointers, with a bad prognoses. Natural habitat, barren land, a rich concrete dust atmosphere, Scattered with mixers and half bats, completely disappeared. Scales are bronzed, tattooed and thoroughly weather-beaten, Body is a monument to the many full English’s I have eaten. Alert, tired, hooded eyes are again surveying strange terrain, Fondly viewing the ageing edifices, I’ve created, once again. Walking toward the setting sun, casting a very strange shadow, Stooped, carrying a dusty old bag and wildly smoking tobacco. There it is, my magnum opus, my life’s work is now complete, Last of my kind, with bricklayer’s hands and pterodactyl feet. Written by Loot and read by Andy Denham, 2016

'Moral Compass' Let’s plan our way, orientate ourselves and navigate our trip. Not a simple journey, a whole life through which we’ll skip. Start by setting your compass rose and your cardinal points. The bearings that will guide you, thus the morals you anoint. North is truth, with yourself and others, above all honesty. East is integrity, directing how you act, all that you decree. South is love, both giving and receiving, don’t be a hoarder. West is understanding, often your right angle manoeuvre. Now triangulate, find current position on your pseudo map. Be honest with yourself and don’t create your own mantrap. Now plot your direction of travel, your objective now sealed. Travelling, needle responding to the world’s magnetic field. Your journey won’t be easy, many obstacles lay in your way. Your moral compass guiding, gaining momentum day to day. Written by Loot and read by Andy Denham, 2016