Oliver (with a twist)

My name's Oliver Twist.

I just want to say that everyone got it wrong when they cast that whimpy looking baby-faced actor with the high pitched voice to play me in Oliver!
He looks nothing like me. For a start, my hair is longish and dark, (I tie it back). I'm 5ft 10 - not a tiny runt like the kid in the film.
Yes, I got slammed in the cellar for asking Mr B if I could have some more - but it had nothing to do with porriage - I was asking for more holidays. (It was a joke, but you may have noticed that many adults don't get jokes).
Mr B went berserko, smashing things up and glaring at me with his teeth bared.
Yes, they put me in the cellar...
but did I sit by the window singing "Where eh..eh..eh..ehhhhh is love?"
HELL NO
I kicked those bars into the street and was out the window before you could say "Hi-Yaaa"
I decided to head for London.
So I stood by the road with my thumb out and pretty soon I had a ride. It wasn't on the back of a cart and I didn't have to hide in the cabbages, like the kid in the film (why would anyone believe that nonsense?) No, I got a ride on a wagon driven by an old man called Blik, who didn't want to face the highway alone and unprotected.

And The Artful Dodger? Well I didn't meet him first in london. No. It was while we were on the road.
The Dodger was always being chased by somebody. That night it was a couple of thugs (friends of Bill Sykes).
The Dodger saw our fire and ran to it in desperation (both men carried short swords).
There was a hell of a fight.



Well, I'll tell you about the night I first met the Dodger, after I've had some kip.
Oh yeah, there was one spot-on piece of casting with the film. Bill Sykes. They got him right. (Although Oliver Reed's portrayal of Bill's paranoid expression was sometimes off key).

O.T. Signing Off

that's really funny. great post!

Hey chloe2t, thanks for listening, pull up a log. Hope you stick around.

Anyway, I promised to tell you bout The Artful Dodger.
First thing to make clear is that he didn't dress like the dude in the film. He didn't wear garish waistcoats or an oversized top hat (an accessory of the rich ? to be sneered at).
Think about it. The last thing a pickpocket wants is to stand out in the crowd!

Blik and I had just settled at our campfire and he was telling me about his reasons for visiting London, when we heard the chase coming, way off in the trees.
We looked at each other and then back in that direction, in time to see a stocky, red-haired fellow burst out of the woods and plough straight towards us. He uttered no word as he came leaping across the fire, knocking me onto my back as he shot passed and scrambled headfirst under the wagon.
I got a glimpse of the strange look on his face -a mixture of panic and hilarity (which I was soon to become accustomed to). You see the more dangerous a situation, the more the Dodger seemed to find something funny. He was afraid all right, but found his own panic hilarious.
As I sat up, I saw two men come out of the trees.

Now, I'm not going to pretend I wasn't frightened. (Despite the temptation to impress chloe2t).
The men were as tall and as broad as arched doors. Each carried a cosh in one fist and a short sword in the other. Their faces were sweaty and red with exhaustion. They didn't look at all happy. In fact, they looked madder than a workhouse cook. (If you've never been chased by one with a carving knife you're lucky. I was once caught stealing a piece of bread in the workhouse kitchens and found out the hard way how mad cooks can be).
Both men raised their weapons to show they were prepared to kill to get what they wanted.
"Where is he?" One demanded, shouting at us as they drew closer.
"Where's that thieving liar? I'll cut his black heart out."
They stood and pointed their swords at us.
"Give him up now, you peasant dogs and we'll let you live."
Again Blik and I looked at each other.
"Of whom d'you enquire?" Blik asked them, putting on a la di da accent.
"Don't try our patience, old man?."
I stood up then.
"If you're talking about the red haired lad, he went that way." I pointed across the small field to a clump of trees in the distance.
One of the men moved closer, pointing the tip of his blade at my heart.
"Yeah?" He snarled at me, showing a rotten clump of decayed teeth, "So you won't mind if we search the wagon, then?"
"No, go ahead," Blik said, "It's empty. Nowhere for a rat to hide."
I took a stick and poked nervously at the fire, while the men searched. If the thief was to be found, I'd likely be strung up with him for lying. The men got up in the wagon.
While we waited, Blik spat in the fire and cursed them both under his breath.
They came back soon enough, muttering to each other.
"Very well. Pack up your things and leave ? now, while you still can. This is Lord Carrion's land and you are not invited."
For about the third time that evening, Blik and I looked at each other. Move out? How could we, with the runaway lying on the ground beneath the wagon?
We had no choice. Blik kicked out the fire, threw our few cooking utensils in the back of the wagon and climbed up to take the reins, while I harnessed the two horses.
The two men stood back in silence, watching every move.
Then one of them said, "Did you check underneath?"
I heared the other answer, "Can't see much?here?" He wrapped on the side of the wagon, "Come on, move out."
As we rolled away from the dead fire, I expected to hear shouts of surprise and anger, followed by screams of terror. Instead, there was nothing. Blik was at the reins, so I lent out and looked back. The men were standing there watching us. After a few moments they turned and headed across the field towards the trees I had pointed out to them.
I looked at Blik. He looked at me. We both frowned.
After we'd travelled a way down the road, we heard a weak, muffled yell, "Stop the faloogin wagon, you faloogin idiots."
Blik pulled on the reins, "whoa?"
I jumped down.
The red haired thief was lying on the ground beneath the wagon.
"Ohhh, my faloogin arms," he moaned.
I'd never heard anyone swear so much in such a short space of time. I crouched down and managed to drag him out from between the wheels. He had hung onto the underside of the wagon when we left the field. (I know you've seen this done in films, but believe me, the real thing is not easy.)
"Both of you get up in the wagon." Blik said, "I'll get us out of here."
When the thief and I didn't move, but just stood staring at each other, the old man stepped forward.
"I'm Blik and this is Oliver Twist."
The thief brushed himself down, grinning at us.
"I'm the Artful Dodger? just call me Art."
He shook hands with both of us and thanked us sincerely for saving his life.
"Any chance of a cuppa Rosie, before we set off, like?" He asked.
"Rosie?"
"Yeah, Rosie Lee ? tea. Ahhh, you're country people, right?"
He sounded disappointed.
"I'm a Londoner, me." I watched his chest expand.

That's how I came to meet the scoundrel who was to become my closest friend.


Anyone who has read the start of my tale last night, will remember I said 'There was a hell of a fight.' Well, there was. Between Art and me. It started with a bit of name-calling. on Art's part.

"Work'ouse."
"Orphan Olli."
"Twisted blister."
"Gruel chops."
Considering I'd just saved his life, it seemed a bit excessive.

Our fight spilled out of the wagon and onto the road.
We fought like two ferocious dogs, expelling all our tension of the last hour. It was as if, instead of fighting each other, we were fighting the two men who had nearly caught us.
We hit the ground and rolled, absorbed in a tangled heap of kicking feet, butting heads and blind punches.
It went on until we were both laid out on the dirt, exhausted.
Above us the stars were shinning.
"You?re a faloogin good fighter" Art said, rubbing blood from his top lip."
"I was brought up in a workhouse." I pointed out.
"Oh yeah."
He fell silent.
I lifted my head and looked down at my feet.
"Oh, s***e."
The wagon was gone.
Blik had either given up on us, or had no idea we'd been left behind on the road. Either way, he was gone.
"That's torn it." Art said.
The night seemed to close in around us.
It began to rain.
It wasn't the right time of year for a handy haystack.


That's me finished for now.

Ever been lost in the countryside on a dark night in the rain?
We were, for three hours.
Art said he knew a short cut to a village where we could stay the night as he had the money to pay for a room (I didn't ask where he'd got it).
However, it was nearly dawn when we finally came out of some woods and stood looking down on a hamlet of a dozen thatched, wooden buildings.
A fine mist hung over the rooftops and smoke rose from one or two of the chimneys.
"Come on? let's get some grub, I'm starving." Art said, already trotting off down the hill ahead of me.
I followed behind, aware that we looked very rough indeed. Apart from our peasant clothing, we were both sporting cuts and bruises from our fight last night.
The cobbled town square was deserted and eerily quiet. A fence creaked in the wind. A child's spinning top stood abandoned beside a water fountain that looked drier than a desert bone.
"Er? I dunno about this place." Art said, slowing down a bit.
We came to a cottage that was lit inside and had a fire going. For a while I thought we were just going to stand on the doorstep and look at each other, but eventually I lifted my fist and knocked at the door.
The was a loud, rumbling oath, followed by a thump, as if someone had thrown something down in temper, "This better be faloogin important," a deep voice bellowed.
"It's important to my stomach." Art said, making us both crack up, despite being nervous.
Moments later, the door was thrown open with a crash and a large, bald-headed man wearing a sack-coat stepped out.
He remained staring at us for several seconds, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing, or could believe it, but because it had never happened before, didn't know what to do next.
When he did speak, it sounded like he had a lobster hanging off his bottom lip. "What you boys want with Gorri?"
We tried to tell the man that we were lost and in need of food and perhaps some ale. That we'd been walking all night and needed a fire to sit by. We gave up in the end and simply asked him what his name was.
"Gorri."
"Right. Well, bye Gorri?see ya." Art said walking away. I followed more slowly, looking back. The man was following us.
"Gorri come too? "
He shuffled along behind us, his head swinging from side to side and a line of drool trailing down to his knees.
Art grabbed my arm and we hastened our pace.
"He must be the village idiot? every village has at least one," the dodger said.
We stopped at the next cottage that had people moving about inside.
The woman that came to the door was stick thin and carried a screaming baby.
"Whatayouwant ?!" she screeched at us.
Art went to work, giving it his best shot, "Well, missus ? we've been out all night, lost like ghosts in the rain. We haven't eaten for days. My friend here has a fever, we're both weak with?er?"
"Gorrisatyou? Getouttahere. Gohome." The woman screamed passed Art's head, at the big, gormless villager standing behind us.
"One measly crust, one crust to share? Art begged, "We.."
The door slammed in our faces and Gorri began to laugh.
"Come on, let's go." I said. "I'd rather walk on an empty stomach than stay here with these people."
Art agreed and we headed into the nearest field, leaving the cottages (and thankfully) Gorri behind.
We came to a river and watched a deer slink off into the trees as we approached. We would have liked to eat it, but we had no weapons with which to either to kill or skin it.
A wagon was coming up the hill.
"Maybe it's Blik!" Art cried, running up the riverbank and onto the road.
But it wasn't Blik.
It was Faggin. And if you've never heard of him, consider yourself fortunate.

Let me describe Fagin to you.
First, you'll have to get rid of the images that have already (and wrongly) been put into your head. To begin with, Fagin didn't look like a twisted question mark when he walked, He was upright and solid. He didn't have a pointed nose or pointed shoes and he didn't wear fingerless gloves. That image of Fagin, when you think about it, is based on nothing more than the ordinary Halloween witch.
No, Fagin was weirder than that. He'd once been a bare-knuckle fighter and he wasn?t timid. He was confident, charming, and very dangerous. Think more along the lines of Robert De Niro as Al Capone in The Untouchables. Got it? Fagin was a small time hood.
He wasn't filthy like in the films either. He went to great efforts to look as rich and powerful as he could. One sign of weakness and Bill Sykes would have taken over his business like? well, like 'that.' It stands to reason.

He was driving a small wagon when he came across Art and I, standing beside the road, lost. As he slowed the two elderly looking horses and rolled to a stop beside us, he smiled and raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. Art and I looked at each other briefly, trying to gauge what the other was thinking.
"Whoa there." Fagin said, pulling on the reins and then sitting forward to better see us. He wore a good quality wool cape and not the floppy brimmed, squashed witches hat of the films, but a black hood, swept back to reveal a face and head completely devoid of hair. In fact, for a few seconds I thought he must be a friar or monk ? until I spotted the tattoos he had on his fore-arms. Monk's don't get their arms tattooed with women in various stages of undress (at least not back then).
"You boys must be locals? or lost." He said.
We didn't answer, but only stared back, wondering if he were of some authority or a maniac or anything equally as dangerous.
"We're travelling to London, Sir." Art said, putting an arm across my back and gripping my shoulder, "Me and me brother here? name of Oli. We're going there to meet up with our father, who had to go ahead to start work in a tannin factory. Are you going to London, Sir?"
For a brief moment, I saw the smile slip from the man's face.
"Don't lie to me sunshine? I smell runaways, brigands, thieves?"
Art looked horrified, "No?I mean?"
"And you?" The man said suddenly, pointing his face towards me.
"Are you a thief?"
"I'll be whatever it takes," I said, without thinking. "I'm never going back? I'd rather go to my grave."
"Then jump up, both of you. This is your lucky hour. I'm Fagin, and I know all there is to know about thievery. I was born into it, you might say. "
From then on, the journey to London became a fight with the devil for my soul.

you Are so awesome! keep writing!!!!

Glad you're still here Chloe2t

Oliva, you do know all that stuff in the film you seem to be so against, (and wi' good reason) is from a BOOK, right?

Sure. d***ens wrote about me with good intentions. He wanted to show the rich the kind of thing that poor kids had to suffer in his time. But he got some of it wrong too.(He also published my story weekly in a newspaper - which is a bit like I'm doing here.)

His stories were good, but he had to imagine a lot of it. This is my story, based on the experiences I really had.
Hope you stay around to hear more (as soon as I get around to telling it)

Great avatar by the way!

Where did this d***ens chap get all that garbage he put in that book of his, anyway? Like anybody would read that... Just kidding.