Author's note: For mature audiences only, just to be safe. I do not own the Young Ones or the characters contained therein. I only own my perspectives of what may have proven to be their futures.

Time Takes All.

By Taylor Bartlett.

This happened in the year 2014, when the time was fast approaching to mark the centennial culmination of world war one. It was a time of relative calm in the world, and when the movie Guardians of the Galaxy was making so much money at the box office.

It was the year, that I lost a great friend. I lost a friend, so important in my life, that I can barely bring myself to recall it, and yet for the purposes of this piece of writing, I have to. There is no choice. There is no turning back.

I sit in the busy coffee shop, the late afternoon sunlight slanting threw the window before me, long arrows of golden light falling directly onto the white lined note pad in front of me. It picks out the minute lines and brings the lettering into stark relief, big, bold and written in black. I lift my hand, the biro trembling slightly above the page, as I prepare to dot the final I in my sentence. My eyes are stinging with the prolonged fixation on this little white note pad, as I write possibly the most important piece of work I have ever written. My hand is aching at the end of its wrist as I lay the ball point of the pen resolutely down upon the page again. I rub my eyes, and bend forward, to finish writing the final sentence of the day.

Bustling noise all around me as the coffee shop slowly empties of people, customers and staff alike. They don't bother me. Nobody ever bothers me, not when I'm busy anyway. I have been here many a time, and my face is a common sight in this coffee shop. They all know me, they all know my face. But they pay no attention to me. To the people passing my chair, I am just a man sitting in a spot by the window, with the late October breeze playing gently across my pale face. I am just a common every day frequenter of this tea shop , somehow putting into words what is the hardest and coldest mile on the long road of his life. . I write in silence, an almost empty mug of Starbucks coffee resting and going slowly bitter by my side. I ignore it. I ignore the mindless chit chat of the shop assistants, giggling and making small talk with the customers at the counter. I ignore the dreary conversations going on around me, the various customers moaning on about this and that. None of this interests me. I have better things to do.

I run a hand threw my thinning hair, once a brilliant shade of orange, not a mear ginger , but a glaringly bright orange. It used to be spiky to, sticking up like needles from the top of my cranium. I used to think that looked the height of cool as well. I think that looks daft now though to tell you the truth. I rub my forehead in an effort to think. Years ago, I wouldn't have been able to do this, owing to the four studs that had been imbedded in there to help me look the part. I am grateful for the lack of mirrors or reflective surfaces in this coffee shop. I don't want to see the physical representation of this grief, still red raw in my throat, tight in my chest and hot behind my eyes. I in no way want to see the look upon my face, lined with worry and pale with tiredness. I haven't slept in days. It has been weeks since my friend passed from this harsh and sometimes cruel world of ours, and I haven't been given my chance to grieve. In a way, I suppose that is why I am writing this.

I met him at college, a run down and crummy little dump that more or less reflected the sorts of people who usually frequented this place. The walls were dull grey granite, dark and forbidding, and the entire building looked as if it was falling apart. An old and rather knackered sign used to hang, no, dangle off a wooden post, proclaiming the name of this ruined dump of a building in fading black lettering. The paintwork of the place was shabby and pealing in places. The building seemed to me to have been designed by a person with little understanding of the concept of art. This was a college where only those with little money and few aspirations would ever set their feet, and those who attended it and walked its hallways lined with fading old photographs of past students, were looked upon as, well, skum bags.

I, was one of them. I am willing enough to admit it. For it was at this college, that I met the most important friend in my life. Well to be truthful I met three other young men of my age at this college on this, the first day, but he stood out in my mind more prominent than all. Him with his face as young and full of false hopes and pretences as any of ours. Him, with his offensive speech impediment that used to drive me up the wall, and the annoying love of poetry that more or less dominated his life.

Skumbag college opened for the personal use of its youthful clientele on the thirty first of August and, as with the rest of the colleges and universities, we all rushed into the foyer, milling around and watching carefully for like minded people. I was in this crowd, my spiky ginger head sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb. I stood there, head pounding with the ache of the previous night's excesses of fun. My baggy jeans were faded and patchy, and the four stars set deep into my forehead glittered and shone in the powerful electric bulbs like four delirious eye balls. A surprisingly fitting analogy that pleased me at the time. I used to think that looked cool as well. God I was an idiot back then. But I suppose the current trends effect us all whether you want them to or not. And the age of the punk certainly effected me. We all need to fit in after all, don't we? We all need to find that niche in society in which we can fit, and I was no exception.

I watched, as a spotty youth came ambling up to me, so obviously seeking some sort of attention it was abundantly clear to all. His hair flopped in his eyes and he squirmed slightly as he walked as if his giddiness knew no bounds. His clothes were almost determinedly neat, as if he was fixated upon looking his very best. He had a small note book in his hand, and he appeared to be leafing through the pages as he walked. In my opinion, he looked the very height of uncool.

To my horror, he chose at that moment to stand directly beside me. I quickly looked away, cringing up to my ears. I had no desire at the time to be anywhere near this uncool individual. I also had no wish what so ever for people to see me with this twat. Hanging round with dozey bastards like this one, was what gave you a bad reputation. I hoped to God that nobody saw me.

"Well hi," the spotty and rather ugly youth said to me, far too damn loudly in my opinion, by way of making polite conversation. He made an attempt at a smile, all be it a cocky and arrogant one, then must have seen the look of intense dislike pasted right across my features. His look suddenly changed into one of nervous tension. "I'm Rick," he said with a nervous smile. He spoke with a slight lisp, the r in Rick coming out as a sort of mixture of a w and a v. At the time, that ridiculous speaking disorder did my head in and I can't deny it. I never thought I would miss it though, many years after.

"Hi," I said awkwardly, desperately wishing I wasn't here."

"I'm a sociology student," Rick told me, as if I wanted to hear it. He continued, loudly and in an opinionated manner as if his point of view was worth everybody's undivided attention. "I have loads to say. Like how people who are on drugs just sit around and claim the dole when they should get off their fat arses and get a job." I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping that I would not have to nock this pillock out. "I mean like you see the people on tv, the media, maybe they should go out and do something real. And the government, the bloody Tories. Margaret Thatcher has ruined this country for the honest worker. I for one, think that she should be sent down. Fascists."

At this point, he took a look around as if praying that somewhere near bye there would be someone hanging on his every word. When he realised that nobody was doing any such thing, he proceeded to speak in an even louder volume than before. I edged away from him, trying to pretend I could not hear the words that were making my very ego cringe with embarrassment.

"I don't know why people don't listen more to what I say? I mean I could change the country. I mean like I could teach the governments of this world a few things, I'm an anarchist you see. I hate all government and want to bring about revolution. I just hate governments because they balls up everything for the honest oppressed workers. Cliff Richard got it right you know. That man knows it all, trust me he could change the world."

"Shut up you poof," I said absently, the word slipping out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I said that often to him in the intervening years, and now I can never take those words back.

Rick was completely unperturbed. He smiled at me and said, "What course are you on?"

As if in answer, my new lecturer walked into the foyer. She was a complete dog of a woman, with one of those faces that is hard to look at. She wore one of the ugliest skirts I had ever seen, deep brown. Brown. She looked as if she had run threw a field of shit, a look that in no way enhanced her features. Her eyes, the least attractive aspect of her appearance , swept the hall like a prison wardress who is searching for disobedient behaviour among her captives.

"All medical students to me please!" she yelled right across the crowded foyer. She beckoned with a large hand. "Medical students across here."

I was glad to get away from Rick. I stepped away from the wall against which I had been leaning, and began to make my way towards this repulsive looking lecturer. I hoped to God she wasn't our main tutor. I barged past the stupid twats who were standing there, ear phones jammed into their ears and not paying any sort of attention to the world around them. I needed threw and at that young age, I was willing to usurp my violent anger upon anybody.

"Wow man, watch out. I'm here."

A greasy, long haired hippy guy stood lounging against the wall as I pushed past him. His walkman was out and playing some sad hippy tune which I could not say I knew of. His face was turned towards me with a look of indignation, this spotty individual languidly removing an ear phone from his ear.

"Get out of my way hippy!" I said aggressively, looking this guy up and down, looking at his wide eyes, his pail face and the placid complexion.

"Sorry man but like," he said, his voice taking on that smooth and slightly stupid quality that all hippies seemed to take on, "that's well heavy man. I was stood here, enjoying the peace, listening to some mellow tunes like, and you come and ruin my moment. I mean wow man that is uncool."

I snorted with disdainful laughter and attempted to push past this strange youth once more. He fell clumsily backwards against the wall as I slammed my shoulder into him. I ignored his grunts of pain, enjoying the power I felt in venting my anger on some unfortunate soul. A sick feeling wrenches at my innards as I recall this moment. I enjoyed bullying people back then. Oh yes. I did enjoy it.

I made my way across to the ugly woman, or was it a man? I had no idea. She could have been either, and paused by the small cluster of people who were also taking this course.

The lecturer looked at me as if I was a speck of dry rot on the floor of the clean white medical laboratory and looked down her list of names.

"Vyvyan?" she asked me "Vyvyan Bastard?"

A snort of derision close to my left. "Vyvyan?" the affensive boy was saying in a carrying whisper, "isn't that a girl's name?"

I spun round and glared at the youth who had deemed it acceptable to laugh at my name. It was hardly my fault that my stupid mother had selected a girl's name for me at birth. I hadn't asked her and had suffered for it pretty much throughout my life. I slammed the unfortunate guy against the wall and punched him in the face, creating a black eye out of a blue one. At that time in my life, I was caught up in a tangled web of violence and rage. I was the biggest bully in the playground. I wish now that I could have taken all of that back. It might have changed what happened later on. But when you're young, you think you know it all and you lose sight of the consequences. You think you are untouchable and out of the reach of the laws of society. You amble threw life not giving much of a thought to others, and do whatever you have to do to survive. Not that this gets me off the hook at all, but my childhood somewhat paved the way for my violent tendencies.

But anyway there I was, standing with this guy pinned against the wall of the college foyer with no hope of escape. He was yelling, and I was shouting to, saying things like "if you dare to even think about saying that again I'll punch your head in." Things to that effect anyway. People around me were shouting as well, and this beast of a lecturer was trying to pull me off the boy. It wasn't happening.

I could hear Rick speaking above the noise of the crowd around me. "Well that's mature isn't it," he was saying loudly, his speech impediment growing more and more pronounced with every word he spoke. "I mean, Christ. What a display. he just went for the guy. Don't want to share a house with him."

Rick's fears of us two somehow sharing a house together turned out to have been confirmed as it seems. . He would in fact be sharing student accommodation me. So was the hippy guy who had accosted me as I had made my way through the chattering crowd. And I am grateful for that now, even though I hadn't been then. We were to be a group of four, me, Rick, the hippy Neil, a product out of our time I was sure, and Mike, an intelligent boy, a boy who I would look up to later on. Mike would become the only member of the flat who had my respect.

Hine sight is a wonderful thing, and looking back on everything, I wished I had treated everybody, but especially Rick, much better than I had. My cheeks redden with sudden shame as I reflect upon my past actions, my past mistakes. Yes. I am not proud of it. I was a selfish bastard and I know that to be true now. I wish I had taken our house bound relationship more seriously, and I wish I had been able to speak to them without wanting to smash their faces in. But we all grow up eventually whether we like it or not, such is the way of the universe. I certainly grew up in the end. I spent my student life fighting constantly with the boys who should have been my best friends, took advantage of them and made both Rick, and Neil, the hippy guy I have told you about, afraid of even catching my eye. I tried to hate them, thinking in some muddled way that I was better than them, too cool to even consider having them as friends. I put a brick wall between me and the rest of them, a solid wall, solid and completely immoveable. That shames me to. Rick would have been my friend, he had told me himself, if I'd only halted in my relentless campaign of violence and aggression, and just listened to him, but I did not. Why? Because I was too full of myself.

My biro drops with a small clatter to the table in my suddenly relaxed hand. My mind teems with images that I would give anything to forget, and yet still cling to at the same time. Like the images of us, Me and Rick and Neil and Mike, the only one who could stop me when I was in my mad mood, spending hours together on the lawn, enjoying the seemingly endless months of the Summer holidays. Rick would keep pelting off into the house, to go and put on some horrible and horribly written Cliff Richard records. I always begged him not to do this, threatening that I would either smash his radio or mix his face up like a Rubik's cube if he ever dared to play one more of those songs. Now he is gone, I would give anything to hear the soppy bastard speak about his hero one more time.

I smile as another vivid memory swims with startling clarity to the for front of my mind. Rick in the middle of the living room, desperately trying to win himself a fan base amongst us lads. He had said, "hands up who likes me," and none of us had even twitched a finger. He had repeated this question again and still, none of us moved. Now I wish I had. I wish I had put my hand up and admitted to Rick that despite all our arguments, despite all of our fights, I did indeed consider him a friend. People used to say we were like a family, Mike being the dad, Neil being the mother and Rick and I being the two spoiled brothers. In a way I have to say I agree with them. I couldn't have live with Rick, but I couldn't have lived without him either.

I was a pretty nasty piece of work to Neil to. You know, looking back at what I have written, sitting quietly in this coffee shop, growing darker around me, I think that this is not mearly a devoted account paying homage to a friend, but a personal recap of all my past failings. Well, I suppose if I'm going to do this properly, searching my soul, chasing and facing those demons may be the only way to do it. Anyway. I was horrible to Neil to, treating him like shit most of the time and reminding him that he was boring and beneath my notice.

I always secretly felt sorry for him though. I realise that now to. Neil was a desperately sad person, riddled with crippling depression throughout most of his life. Neil wasn't meant for a world as brutal as ours, but he pretended not to let that show, seeking more and more ways to kill himself. These plans never worked, and I always took the piss out of him later. I always laughed at him later. But even Neil was treated better than Rick was in the house. Neil and Mike were good enough at that time for me to consider them friends, I remember telling my Mum once down the pub. But Rick, the boy who wanted a friend more than anything was never good enough for my selfish teenage ego.

Vyvyan Bastard. Perhaps I am aptly named after all.

I do miss Rick though. . I do miss him. I miss the endless rants about how he was the most popular member of the flat. I missed the yells and temper tantrums he used to throw on an almost daily basis. And I miss the way he would always try, despite my best efforts to diminish both him and his determination to get on, to make friends with me.

My insides writhe with shame as I remember these, the most uncomfortable of all my home truths. I ask myself the question, who the fuck did I think I was?

I was a bastard. That is what I was. I was a total bastard. I was a bastard to anyone who took the piss out of me. I was a bastard to Neil, but most of all, I was a bastard to Rick.

Now he is gone, I find I miss those little nagging aspects of his personality, the constant wining when it came to losing a game, the incessant and often torturous poetry readings he made us sit through , and of course, his long and continuous rants about Margaret Thatcher and the Tory damaged world that we belonged to.

I would give anything to have those chances and those conversations again. But people who are dead, can no longer speak to us. Only in our dreams can our dead best friends talk to us.

What would he say if he could see me now? A small sad smile touches my lips and stays there, as I imagine the very things he would say to me. He would tell me to suck it up, be like the Vyvyan he used to know before our paths separated after college ended. He would tell me to get a grip and stop being a poof, something I was always accusing him of being. He would tell me that just because my own life is in the gutter now, it is dear friends, I won't deny the truth of that either, that was no reason not to stand up and try to fix it, as Rick himself had done. He would say that I should take this as a learning lesson, and get my life in order, to get up from my crumpled heap on the ground.

And he would be perfectly justified in saying this.

Rick had graduated college with no qualifications what so ever, at least, no formal ones that I could make out anyway. He had boasted about it and said that he couldn't give a toss one way or the other about grades. But I knew it did bother him really. I however, let him live with his ridiculous thoughts.

After college, Rick had wandered aimlessly around the city not ever taking a proper job. I read all of this in an interview with Rick that was published in the Guardian newspaper a few days after his death.

. Rick had then entered the world of media. As an anarchist, and a devoted anarchist at that, I would never have believed he would ever enter the world that he considered to be a world of mind manipulation and control, joining a group of people whom he had proclaimed as "a bunch of selfish lazy tossers." He had told me many a time, during his long rants that he believed the media to be a collective organisation of fascist dictators, yet he had gladly joined their ranks. He had joined them with no hesitation.

He had risen higher and higher in the ranks of media, until he had fulfilled his dream of becoming a poet. He became famous for his incredibly bad poetry and people loved him for it. He would attend meetings with other high ranking people in the world of media, and would star at performances that would bring out the best poetry in Britain. I personally never thought his poems were worth reading, but Rick had done well regardless of what I thought about his poems.

I heard about Neil and Mike while I was in prison, a long stretch of time served for a string of violent crimes, crimes that I am ashamed of now. My criminal record is now twice as long as my cv. I heard about the other two while I was trapped behind those bars, unable to see the outside world, unable to have my freedom.

Mike left college with qualifications that he obtained by bribing the dean and the lecturers. But his lack of skills ensured that he never got himself a decent job. Mike had always been far too into the pleasures of women. And at the age of forty or so, he had more children than he could count. And he never saw or payed for any of them. The man didn't care about any of his kids, just left them to pick themselves up and make their own way in life.

Absolute waste of space.

My blood boils. It boiled in prison and it still boils now. My own family treated me in more or less the same way. I remember vividly that we went to the pub once, and we saw her there, my mother. She was a bar tender at this pub, and Rick found all of this very funny. For a boy who liked to proclaim himself as a decent person with a loving upbringing, better than anyone else, I was having my theories smashed to pieces right before my eyes. Rick had learned that I was not the so called tough nut with a decent past that I had claimed to be. Mum had shamed me that day, in front of all three of them. She hadn't seen me for ten years and the first thing she did was take my ring and my watch away from me. I only had a few precious items, including my car and Spg, my hamster, and I had then lost two more of the things that I had worked so hard to get for myself. The woman was good at that. She was good at ruining everything I had tried to build in my life. Cow.

I should have realised. Rick, Neil and Mike were my family, and in prison, I missed them. They all went their separate ways, lived their lives and made their mark upon the world, while I became nothing. It is ironic. For the boy who had the highest aspirations amongst us young ones, I was the one who fell the furthest. I was the one who fell the hardest. I fell into a dark and cold world of violence, beating people up to reinforce my aggression and anger, not knowing that my past would very soon catch up with me. I had no idea in my youth, that the police would catch up to me, and convict me for all of these crimes. They were right for doing that. I deserved everything I was given.

And Neil? Neil committed suicide shortly after college ended. I suppose that one of his many efforts to kill himself worked properly at the end of the day. Neil was the only one amongst us who obtained four genuine qualifications. Neil was the real brain box amongst us lads. He was also the kindest, never slagged anyone off and always objected strongly to the many displays of violence shown to both him and others in the house. He always made sure we had food even though it was only lentils and always acted as the carer of our house. Nice people like Neil are not common, and he should have been dealt a much fairer card than the world had seen fit to deal for him.

But sometimes, people's ghosts and demons get the better of them. I once read a quote in an interview by Stephen King. He had said, "monsters are real, and ghosts are real to. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." That is not only deep but true. The ghosts of depression from Neil's past did indeed live inside him. His soul was governed and dominated by the demons from his horrible childhood, and Neil had succumbed to these demons in the end.

I was gutted when I received word in prison that Neil had died. I can no longer clearly remember precisely how I got word of it, but I suppose the delivery system is not important. I was only aware of one thing. I knew only that Mike had done one, the single most important father figure in my life had decided that we weren't worth it any more. Actually, looking back, I had been treated exactly how I had treated others. I suppose Karma really is a bitch. I think my friends that that was around the time when I finally decided I had to grow up. Then, in prison, after discovering that the one I looked up to was a waste of space, had done one and couldn't give a shit about anyone but himself, I found out that Neil, an inherently decent person had died. That smacked me right in the gut.

And now, I have lost Rick. I heard the news of his death from the telly, as he was meant to be beginning a worldwide poetry tour at the time. The news had come as fast and as unexpectedly as a lightning bolt. It hit me hard and hit me fast. Rick was dead. Rick, the one who I wished I had established a better bond with, was dead. He had died in his hotel, peacefully and without pain, thank god for small favours. He had left a whole world of people behind, people who had been excited to hear a ; long awaited poetry reading from the People's Poet. Now they would be disappointed. But not half as disappointed and gutted as I was. But I bet my life on this, they were nowhere near as gutted as I was.

The small coffee bar is now empty, or nearly so. I look up, and realise that it is dark outside. I have been sitting here for hours, just me and my dark thoughts. I look round. None of the staff except the manager are still there. I don't want to be thrown out, so I slowly stand and pick up my note pad, half of the pages now covered with my untidy scribbled writing. I make my way out, and into the dark night, the blackness illuminated by the occasional orange street light standing on the pavement. I walk along for a while until I come across a low garden bench that acts as part of the coffee shop's property. I slump down and put my head in my hands. I sit there, the cool evening breeze blowing cold and sharp across my head, shivering as my body gets used to the sudden October chill. After the warmth of the café the night air is bitterly cold. But I sit there, not wanting to get home just yet, to the flat filled with families and people with more positive lives than my own.

I cannot stop the rushing stream of memories coming. Rick trying desperately to chat up any girl who strayed across his path, even though even towards the end of his life, the poor man was terrible with women. Rick talking endlessly about the revolution that he would personally bring about to send down the ruthless Tories, "dirty Tory Bastards," as he had dubbed them. Him speaking about his efforts to help the oppressed workers of the country. Rick, throwing his stroppy temper tantrums every time someone else took control of the telly remote. All of this memories are hard to forget, but they are all things that I don't want to live without. I imagine his face, his voice with that infuriating speech impediment prattling on and on and on and on in my ear. And I miss it.

So, I am the only one of our flat left. Neil is dead. Rick is dead. And Mike pissed off. Mike lived a life of selfish depravity, Rick spent a life of rising higher than the rest of us, Neil never lived his life, and I spent mine in prison. I spent my life running away from my responsibilities, getting myself deeper and deeper into a dark hole from which it was hard to climb out. Prison lent me time to think about the mess I have made of my life. What was once a loud mouthed, violent boy, is now a man in his forties, who desperately wishes he had more time to put right all of these wrongs. But never mind, I can't now change the past, no matter how desperately I wish. I can only look forward, and try to improve what little I still have.

The time has come to get gone. I stand and make my way back to the flat.

As I walk, I feel empty inside. But it is a peaceful emptiness. It takes a lot to face one's demons, and I am glad that I had done so. I feel lighter, as if a bolder has been lifted from my shoulders. Unburdening one's soul really does relieve you. I know also that my story, unlike the stories of Neil and Rick, is far from over. I need to change my life now. If not for me, but for the memory of a friend who I only now realise meant a hell of a lot to me after all. I may not have Rick alive and free to talk to any more, maybe wouldn't want to talk to him if he was. But his memories are like gold dust in themselves, precious and well worth keeping.

And I will keep them, for ever.

I walk a little faster, lifting my head a little higher, allowing the night breeze to tees threw my ginger hair, ignoring the cars going past me. Ignoring the happy pub goers of the evening, ignoring all but the truth, for the first time in my life.

My room in the block of flats is dark. I switch on the light and sit on the sofa, looking across at a picture of the four of us at college, a picture taken by the lecturers to depict exactly what Skumbag college students were like. We all look so happy in that photo, and I smile. Rick looks the happiest, eager and proud to be having a photo taken of him. He has his hand up in a salute to the camera, eyes wide with childish triumph. He looks as if he's got it made. Neil wears his usual miserable expression and mike as usual, looks like a poser. I look the way I had always looked, spiky orange hair and four studs sticking out on my forehead, dark attire and a moody expression. My dark clothes add to my punks appearance. But the one who stands out most in my mind is Rick.

Rick's memory means a lot to me. I sit watching the photo for a few moments longer, as if I hoped that the young boys standing there looking at the camera will remove themselves from the picture to stand real and alive in my living room. not wanting to look away, I sit and stare, my college life encapsulated in a moment, as told through a photograph. I smile again, leaning backwards and closing my eyes, the picture from the past somehow pasted across my mind's eye.

The last thing I think about is Rick, and how I have lost all three of the boys. Mike may still be alive but he sure as hell doesn't care about us. Neil and Rick are both dead now, and there's just me. You might wonder what I'm going to choose to do now, for we do choose our own paths in life. I chose to go down the road of violence. The upbringing I had certainly played a part but I did choose. And now, in memory of Rick, I will turn this around and stand up. Now it is time to do something with my life.

"Thank you, Rick," I say to my friend silently, "thanks. I owe you one."