29 Oct 2004

In the days of rapid-right-handed-wrist-wobbling abstinence that I have been reveling in recently, it has become clear that my addiction was not to wanking but rather to pornography. I now believe that the physical ritual of masturbation and the blatant material of pornography combine to create an experience which is easily repeatable and soon becomes firmly established in your head as a source of joy. Like the rolling and then smoking of a spliff, like the pound coin being pushed into the slot and then the pretty colours, like the preparation and then hit of the Brown Lady. All inducive to a state of addiction.

I actually attempted to have a wank last night. One of my customers had heard that I was thinking of returning to a 'proper' job in the city and so, for some reason and showing an alarming intuition into only recently cremated habits, gave me two DVD of porn filth as a leaving present. Purely for reasons of research, I popped one on last night and settled back, thinking to myself that a week and a half of no masturbation and no shagging was unnatural and unhealthy and must, surely, justify a quick beating-off, in the eyes of even the most stringent law. I loosened my Japanese battle gown which doubles as my dressing gown, and reintroduced right hand to Bruce Junior. The meeting was amicable and boded well. However, as the tanned bodies of moaning females writhing in apparent ecstasy came onto the screen, the usual jolt that used to fire down my spine and end up being earthed in Bruce Junior, adding great length and girth to his general demeanour, failed to materialise. Instead, Bruce Junior remained rather flaccid and unimpressed. My brain was analysing the very attractive girls on screen and thinking about what they might be thinking about. Bills to be paid, Christmas shopping, has Desire just blown off or is that the banana? My brain was fundamentally not turned on, which meant that there was very little chance that Bruce J. would be rising to the occasion.

I was shocked, nay, appalled at first but soon I realised that this lack of fruition was the direct result of terminating my unthinking addiction to porn. Porn had enabled me to express myself onto the ceiling for years despite the fact it was vacuous and shallow and empty and obviously relied entirely upon my head to make it work for me. Now that I had made the break from the repetitive cycle it no longer did. It has no EROTICISM. I turned off the porn, lay back, closed my eyes and thought of Katherine and her lower back and her small tattoo just peaking up from her jeans and how the muscles moved as she twisted around to look over her shoulder and smile and flick her long brown hair from her face so that she could look with her green eyes and lick her lips as I.....and I'm done. Marvelous.

25 Oct 2004

Over the years I have had the opportunity to become addicted to many things. My second addiction was to marijuana, which crept up on me in the disguise of a social statement that I was supposedly making as well as being lots of giggles. Suddenly realised at the end of my second year at university that the reason I spent eighty two percent of the day in bed was because I smoked too much. Stopped doing that quite so much, which took a while and several weeks of sleepless nights. No worries. Spent less time in bed and more in the bar where I picked up my addiction to fruit machines. Six months and one student grant later, I realised that I had a problem and so stopped pumping the pound coins into the machines.

After Uni I popped over to Amsterdam to work and in this fine city I picked up my fourth and worst addiction to date. Heroin. A fucking marvellous drug that guarantees contentment when imbibed but the whole habit does tend to take the edge off the rest of life’s plentiful bounties. To keep to the point, I maintained a healthy heroin habit for about four years. I used to chase the dragon and only jacked up the once to see if it was any better. I ensured cleanliness throughout the sole incident and it was Scottish Billy, who cooked it up for me, who probably helped me to avoid an intravenous habit by nicking most of it for himself. Slowly, it became apparent that I had ridden that horse as far as it would carry me, if I wanted any chance of getting back to where I had left on it. I had knackered the mare! So, eventually, with lots of spit, tears, snot and vomit and banging of one’s head on the wall, I kicked that addiction.

Why the fuck am I writing all this dribble down? Oh, yes. Because I have just kicked my first addiction. This addiction started innocuously enough when I was about thirteen, doing what most boys of that age are busy doing. I have mentioned the frequency of my wanking patterns elsewhere in this blog, alongside other fascinating facts, so all I really want to say is that, for the first time in over five years, I have not had a wank in seven days. This is truly a groundbreaking achievement for the Bruce. The Bruce is full of happiness. In fact, I think you could say that I am veritably brimming with pent-up joy which is just waiting to be released. Like all addictions, the funny thing is that once you have truly decided to give up, it is not that hard and you do not miss the sensation. Okay, well, yes, it can be bloody hard but the true realisation that you want to stop, certainly with me, always guarantees the cessation of said addiction. So that’s that. Bruce is no longer a wanker. Keep your eyes peeled on ebay for a truly wondrous and eclectic mix of pornography. I’m now waiting for the next addiction to manifest..

What a pile of shit.

19 Oct 2004

So, moved into new pad mere metres away from the frothing Atlantic. The breakfast bar looks out over the ocean and the humped fields with a panoramic view all the way around to the church in Marhamchurch. Jack and I were munching on cereal one morning, he reading his National Trust magazine and I the Private Eye, when he informed me of the 85% urban demographic who require time in the country to de-stress. Jack looked at me and I at he and then, like a scene from the closing credits of a wonderfully cheesey film, we both turned to survey our view. I then commented that we should probably spend 15% more of our time in the city otherwise we might have a stress deficiency. We chuckled smugly to ourselves.

If this is not enough then check out the pad. Through the front door into the spacious living room with four sofas which opens into the kitchen with the aga pumping out heat. Through the kitchen door into a corridor which you can cross to reach the first bathroom. In this wooden-paneled den of cleanliness you will find a toilet, sink, bidet (which I have always considered to be the height of good sense when dealing with ring-piece sanitation) jacuzzi and sauna. Yes, that is correct. J and S motherfucka! Anyway, having enjoyed all of those wonderful facets of bathroom life, exit the room and turn right and through another door. Left now leads you to the shower-room whereas right leads you to the garage. Wait, no, where the garage used to be. Alas, there is no room for any of our cars in there as the space is taken up by a POOL TABLE! Yes, motherfuckas, that is correct. We have pool on tap! After that the four double bedrooms, large garden and location in which we cannot make too much noise come as mere peripheral extras.

The location, other than being so close to the sea and in a secluded part of Bude, has the additional advantage of being in walking distance of the Manor, Bude's premier banging night-out. The three of us, Will, Jack and myself, ventured forth there last Saturday with a gaggle of friends to have a party. Party we did, indeed. Everybody got heinously wasted, mostly on alcohol but Cris, the tatooist, also had a spliff with the lead singer of Reef, who I am informed used to play at the Manor many moons ago, before stardom beckoned. At two when we were cajoled to leave, we all hopped in the back of a big white van, the driver of which shall remain anonymous to protect the guilty and sped back to our place where the party continued until sometime around dawn. The house proved to be ideal as a party place. It bodes well for the rest of the winter when the evenings are long, dark and shudderingly cold. Actually, to be honest, the only slight downer about the place is that it gets very cold at night. There is no central heating and the electric heaters in every room consume the electricity at a rate of knots that none of us wishes to afford. Accordingly, blankets are the order of the day, or preferably, like Saturday night, a hot young lady to immerse yourself in. Also, I bought my first pair of slippers for 16 years and I am mostly wearing a Russian army flappy-hat.

Just before I leave for Plymouth I must give a shout-out to my brother Simon. BOOOYAAAKKAAA!! Thanks for the imported lizard. It is the right one and I am chuffed to bits with it. Thank you very much, man. I love you. (p.s. sorry to hear that bogey issue is, as yet, unresolved!!)

13 Oct 2004

The passage of each day is bringing me closer to forming a terrorist group of my own.

When I was but a wee young stripling of a lad I remember continually arguing with my parents after one occasion when I made the fatal mistake of being honest with them. I had just smoked my first few spliffs down the bottom of the garden and foolishly, and perhaps because I was freshly stoned, I presumed that Mum and Dad would understand my curiosity and would leave me to it. I mean, the authors I was so enamoured with at that time were all prescribing healthy doses of all sorts of pharmaceuticals; Huxley liked his mescaline, Kesey his LSD-25 and Burroughs his smack, to name but a few; and I thought that the rents would take my mild investigations into these matters with a nurturing pat on the back. This was not the case.

Hence followed two years of them shouting at me that I needed counselling and me replying in shrieks that it was them who needed help to deal with the reality that,"everybody smokes, man!" I mention this as it was in the broiling depths of such an argument that I arrived at the realisation that continues to irritate me to this day and may well force me to start a vicious bombing campaign. In an attempt to justify the smoking of marijuana I cited the Rastafarian ‘religion’ as an example of the benefits of weed. My father bellowed his query,

"What the fuck has that got to do with anything?!"

"The rastas all smoke copious amounts of ganja!"

"And what the fuck has that got to do with anything?!"

I answered,"How many wars have the rastas started? How many? Fucking none, that’s how many!"

"So what?"

"So, I’d rather be a pothead than a fucking Christian! Look how much fucked up shit they’ve started! The crusades, the beheadings, the lot!"

You may be surprised to hear that such a lucid revelation as this did nothing to aid the family’s general disagreement with my habits. However, all that has passed now and, incidentally, it turns out that my policy of honestly was perhaps for the best. Time, as per normal, has dulled the wicked edges of my parents’ fear and worry and now we discuss weed openly and I have turned into the family’s social worker. Any parent who has worries about their child’s habits is referred to me. My consultancy card reads thus: Bruce Campbell, Ex-Junkie and Man of Chemical Wisdom, for all your Child’s Habits Concerns. Anyway, I’m rambling. What’s my point? (That would be the weed Bruce! – Dad)

That’s it. The ‘lucid revelation’ that the majority of man’s conflicts have been caused by disagreements in religions stuck with me. Let me clarify for you. Religion is a belief in, worship of, or obedience to a supernatural power. The operative word here being ‘belief’, and perhaps more accurately ‘faith’, which is a ‘blind’ belief. I mean, I believe in this beer that I am drinking because I can see it, feel it, taste it and it makes me giggle. Accepted that it could still be but a figment of my imagination but that is getting into a philosophical arena that has no place in this discussion. I do not have faith in this beer because I do not need faith as I have a basic and provable belief. Faith is the kind of belief you have when you cannot prove the existence of something. Faith is nothing more than a strong presumption and we all know what Presumption was the mother of, don’t we? Yes, that is right, "Presumption is the mother of all Fuck-Ups!"

Noone can argue that God had a son named Jesus or that Allah is the only god and Muhammad is his prophet and mean it unless they are drunk on faith. Any logical person has to see that such ramblings are merely hopeful ideals that exist for many reasons, the major one being that mankind as a species feels it necessary to try and distance ourselves from the rest of the earth’s animals by alluding to some divine preference that only we enjoy. I could argue this point ad nauseum but for those who already know this to be the case, the above paragraph is sufficient and for those who are raising their voices right now in dissent, there is no argument that will stop your unhealthy delusion. Perhaps a slap round the head with a big wet herring might help but I doubt it.

Stop. Before you religious zealots out there start arguing the point that religion is necessary to make everyone get along, just forget it. I am not religious at all and I am the nicest and most helpful person I know. Almost. The point being that I am nice because I prefer to be nice and enjoy the benefits of being nice. It is purely a selfish action on my behalf with perhaps a dribble of altruism in it derived from a sense of empathy, which, actually, is selfishness again. I have no problem with anyone unless they have issues with me and then only because I am an animal and I want to survive.

This is why I am considering starting an underground hardcore cell of the Common Sensical Atheists Against all Religious Twats Brigade.

p.s. For any government agencies that have found this diatribe as a result of searching for the words "terrorist group" and its ilk, please calm down. I am far too apathetic to organise an appointment for a haircut let alone anything that might involve accurate timing or measurement of plastique. Look at the title for Kerist’s sake!

12 Oct 2004

Supavision coast to coast Bruce speaking how can I help?

Yesh, hello.

Hi there.

Yesh. I am looking for some movies.

Right. Good thing you called a video shop then. What movies?

Yesh. I am looking for foreign movies.

Ah, right, well we don’t have many of those. There isn’t the demand to justify buying that many.


Yes. Perhaps if you tell me a title you have in mind I can tell you if I have it or not?


Yep. Fire away then, when you’re ready.

Yesh. Do you have some under the counter for me?

O right. I see. When you say foreign films what you really mean is porn, right?


Right. Okay, well, it’s the same situation as with the foreign films. We don’t have many pornographic..


…films either as most people get theirs from the internet.


Yeah, coz then you can get films which aren’t censored by the BBFC, you know.




So, in conclusion, I don’t really have any porn.

Yesh. Will you make some for me then?

Ha! It wouldn’t be cheap!

Yesh. How much for your porn?

Nonononono. I don’t make porn for public exposure. Strictly private. Anyway, I’d charge an arm and a leg. You wouldn’t be able to afford it.

Yesh. How much for your porn with your sister?

Yeah, look mate, perhaps you should look on the internet for that sort of thing.

Yesh. How much for your porn with your sister and your dog?

Right, sir, I am going to hang up on you.


I have never hung up on anyone in my life but you are a total fucking retard and I can’t be arsed.


Goodbye and good luck.

Yesh. So Bruce, see you in the pub at ten?

…….Will? Is that you?

Yesh. I mean, yes.

You fucking twat!…..That was brilliant. I’ll get the first round in.


(You’d be surprised how often I have these types of phone conversations.)

11 Oct 2004

I was away upto a cousins wedding a few weekends ago which was held at a racecourse and was a wonderfully informal affair where any religious implications of the union were blessedly unwelcome. The whole ceremony was purely an affirmation, in front of family and friends, that these two people wished to spend the rest of their days together, I imagine adding a welcome pressure to their relationship’s longevity. Due to geography, circumstance and my parents’ general approach to the extended families that we have, I have never known any of my cousins at all well meeting them only at the occasional Christmas or reunion. I have now been to most of my cousins’ weddings, all of them seemingly keen to settle down and quite the opposite of myself, all of which have been held in religious settings except this most recent one.

As the ceremony unfurled uniting my cousin Karan and her fiancé Peter there was no talk of God being a witness and sat somewhere in the rafters nor was theirs a holy union blessed by some ephemeral spirit or scary-arsed ghost. As Peter jokingly forgot Karan’s name the audience laughed and I chuckled aloud and noticed that I was smiling like a loon. I was in the front row and could see clearly how the lucky couple’s actions were tinged with nerves but erupted from a shared desire to be joined to an even greater extent then they already were. As he slipped her ring onto her finger and she his onto his I shed one large and enjoyable tear. It struck me then that I had never enjoyed a wedding anywhere near to how much I was revelling in this one and I asked myself why. The answers were simple. Firstly, because of the absence of religious implications I did not feel like a hypocrite. I was not made to join in with prayers that made me seethe with anger at the utter fantastical nature of them. The belief in a supernatural entity is complete bollocks, but that is a discussion for another time. The fact that this ceremony was not denigrated by reference to said bollocks meant I could truly and unashamedly revel in it. The second reason I was so touched by their happiness was that I knew them well. When I say ‘well’ what I think I really mean is that we had all been very drunk together and had had a good time. Such libatious experiences are often worth a dozen sober encounters in terms of discovering aspects of character, what with the infamous drowning of inhibitions. If you get on like a house boat on fire and plunging down a waterfall when inebriated then you can normally take it for granted that you will certainly get on sober and in the future.

Anyway, the whole experience was wonderful and as we had our pictures taken in the winners’ paddock, keenly weighed down by glasses of fine bubbly, I ran into the husband of the bride’s sister whose name is Irie. He is a very intelligent guy and it was a pleasure to take a break from the wittering conversations that I was bouncing around between of relations who recognise each other but might not even remember the correct names but still, nonetheless, feel socially obliged to natter on. As we exchanged views on the world, a thin, beautiful and dark-haired vision passed in front of my eyes and gave me such a searching look, that I felt immediately that I should know who she was, before she walked on and linked arms with some merkin-haired midget in a kilt. As Irie talked of Australia and vicious drunken kangaroos my addled memory provided the answer to the question that I had only slightly suspected was being asked. Her name was Sophia and she was my second cousin and we had fucked eight years ago at one of the family reunions. She had been a seventeen-year-old minx and had refrained from talking to me all evening until she suddenly appeared at my elbow with a bottle of Baileys and instructed me that I’d pulled. She was exceedingly tasty and had nipples, when aroused, like cigar butts. Despite the fact that I was almost incoherent with drink, she managed to sort me out adequately so that we could screw. As I quickly passed out after a very brief exertion on my behalf, she returned to her hotel room, and I awoke alone in the morning with the delicious sensation enjoyed by one whom, for the first time, has just indulged in mild incest. The feeling was only moderately dampened by the fact that I could not find the condom anywhere and proceeded to have mild panic attacks that it would be lost in my luggage for my mother to find or stuck to the back of my jacket for her father to see. None of which happened and the whole event is a honey covered memory for me now, savoured occasionally when feeling the need.

Next came the wedding lunch and the accompanying speeches. The lunch was palatable and I found the speeches highly digestible and rather funny despite not knowing the groom’s history at all. I had been seated upon a table of apparently ‘young and fun people.’ I admit that most of them were young-ish but as two of the couples at the table both had screaming bairns with them the fun element seemed to have been moderately exaggerated. I turned from them to my left to a distant cousin whose name I had hurriedly extracted from my all-family-knowing mother as soon as I saw I was to be seated next to her. For the next hour I only managed conversation by making the fact that we were struggling at conversation the conversation itself. Ellie, for that was her name, was game and struggled on with me as I steadily consumed far more than my fair share of alcohol. The other girls at the table, more distant cousins, and sisters I think, and both very attractive were of no real use as they seemed keen on discussing fabrics and members of the family whom I knew not. I was mixing my pints with my red wines with my white wines and then with my brandy. Any true sense of decorum that I might have had been conclusively drowned as I made my slurred excuses, kicked someone’s ankle as I arose from the table and then slid down the stairs with the banister under my armpit to the bar where I sat with like-minded souls and rolled and lit a fag.

Eventually the lunch and speeches were called to a halt and about two hundred people flowed down the stairs to the bar for revelry, music and dancing. I was talking to a very tasty Japanese woman, whose name I never managed to grasp despite asking her incessantly, who wore a black silk dress with embroidered dragons and a slit running from her knee to her upper thigh. Her whole appearance was of a svelte sex kitten with enchanting green slanting eyes that I wanted to pet on my lap. Nor was her demeanour and conversation anything other than that which would unquestionably suggest an utterly filthy approach to sexual exertions, even to a virginal monk. I have never had the pleasure of an oriental lass and while not wanting to sound like a deviant Phileas Fogg, I have every intention of travelling to such intriguing spots someday, and was busy considering how easily I might be able to turn our innocent conversation about France into some heavy French kissing. As I sat at a table and rolled another cigarette Irie came and sat down and distracted me from Nip Chick with a pint of Stella. He leaned in close to say:

"Bruce, I know all the single women here…"

"..I’ve met a couple. This one is lovely."

"That one is easy! She’ll go with anyone."

"Really? That’s great news! If you’ll excuse me then…" I said as turned back to Nip Chick with the sole intention of regaining her attention and then some of her saliva.

Irie tapped my wrist and shook his head. We leant our heads in again in a conspiratorial huddle.

"What is it then? I’m busy."

"I’ll tell you what Bruce, to make it interesting and if you think you’re upto it, I’ll choose a single lady for you to have a crack at."

"What’s wrong with this one? I like this one. I like her left upper thigh…look, you can see it."

"I know, but she’s too easy. Don’t you want a challenge?"

"Look Irie, you’re just trying to scupper my chances because you’re happily married and can’t enjoy all of this wonderful arse that’s bouncing about in here!"

Irie managed to ignore the obvious truth in my statement and continued,"I’ll give odds on any of these ladies and we’ll make a wager out of it. How about it, do you think you can handle that, eh?"

Obviously, being as evidently insecure as I am I jumped at the chance to test my womanising skills in a controlled and money-laden environment. "Bring it on then Irie! I’ll choose a girl and you give me the odds and then I’ll take your money…"

"Well, the dragon lady is even odds as she’ll go with anyone mildly attractive and coherent, probably even you too. She’s too easy for you Bruce."

"Well…." said I as I quickly scanned the bar and what I could see of the dance floor, "…how about that one there in the pink dress?"

"I’ll tell you what. Let me have a look about and I’ll find you the best one. Give me ten minutes." And so saying he left the table and disappeared into the throng.

About twenty minutes later I was standing by the side of the stage immersed in a philosophical conversation, that reached from existentialism all the way to the nation-wide introduction of plastic pint glasses, which you might be surprised to learn are actually connected in more than four ways, with the father of the bride. We always have wonderful talks when slightly drunk but then I saw Irie motioning to me from across the dancefloor. I excused myself from Phil’s company and jigged my way across the room. As I got closer I could see that Irie was sat next to a very attractive dark haired woman who looked in her late twenties. Her straight hair reached over her shoulders and onto her back. She was wearing a black dress covered in red cherries, almost like a sophisticated version of some garment that a rock-a-billy chick might wear at a tattoo convention, and it covered her curvaceous body in a very beguiling manner. The suggestion of ripe, sweet and firm cherry flesh seemed entirely relevant. Her skin was pale and I knew before I even talked to her that she would be the epitome of the English lady. As I approached their table and an empty seat she looked at me as she uncrossed and then crossed her shapely legs. Irie was smiling at me like a demented Cheshire cat. I smiled back sarcastically. As I sat down next to the girl he introduced us.

"Sonia, this is Bruce, my wife’s cousin. Bruce, this is Sonia who is a good friend of Karan." He then made his excuse about his wife gesturing him over to boogie and left me to it with a sly wink. ‘Let battle commence!’ thought I to my drunken self. What transpired between us for the next three hours does not deserve to be recorded in any other fashion then this; it was dull. It was not boring, as Sonia was very well educated, everso slightly charming and engaging, very attractive and a little drunk. It was not, however, fun, nor did I at any point believe that I was going to win the bet or overcome her fastidious frostiness. She was so succinctly a certain type of English lady, in that I mean she displayed all the facets requisite to turn a very attractive and potentially fun girl into a ponderous and monochrome pile of leaf-mould in the corner. Accordingly, as the hours slipped by I spent more and more time on the dance floor twisting with cousins and friends, occasionally returning to the table and Sonia to have a chat, and generally too disheartened to attempt to hitch my wagon to another horse.

As the hour reached two the band shut up shop and the bar closed. I was mildly distraught. The common myth is that a high percentage of people meet their future spouses at other people’s weddings (only a few at their own weddings) and whilst not looking for a long term deal I was at least expecting a short lived but highly enjoyable and mutually pleasuring hire-contract. As I sat with Sonia, nibbling on a cocktail stick, I turned to her and suggested that, as this was a celebration of love, we should share in it by snogging ourselves silly. At which point and as utterly deadpan as she had been all evening Sonia uttered the immortal words:

"I don’t kiss strangers Bruce."

My patter was disturbed. Don’t kiss strangers? Who does she kiss then?

"What, you only kiss your friends?"

"You know what I mean."

I didn’t nor was I in any state to inquire further into the workings of this girl’s mind. She was not shy but she was a complete non-starter. We gave each other a very light peck on the cheek, I thanked her for her company then surreptitiously stole her water for my walk home to my bed and breakfast, and departed. Before I left I saw Irie at the bar and headed towards him to have a word. He saw me and, smirking, met me by the first table we had sat at. We didn’t say much. He started with:

"It’s alright Bruce, we didn’t put any money on it."

"Just tell me the odds."

"A generous hundred to one."

"You complete bastard. I’ll see you later." And I left him laughing at the table. What made the end of the evening even worse was that I had to wait at the exit to let a group of kilt-wearing rugby players out first, one of whom had his arms around my delectable second cousin. I stormed out of the building in a foul mood, cursing certain types of English women and muttering to myself my belief, that I have had from a very young age, that I shall end up with a foreign chick, whose foreign ways will mesmerise me. As I strode out for the centre of Chester I caught up with another departing guest who, for a second, appeared to be Audrey Hepburn wearing a tight beige raincoat as if she was just on her way for breakfast at Tiffany’s. We got talking. She was from Serbia. She was delicious. But that is another story entirely.

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