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Showing posts from 2006
Crazy as a Coconut!

Having awoken this fine, cold morning, bleary-eyed and with a hint of a pharmaceutical hangover from last night, I found myself idly surfing ze web thinking of things to look for. Out of nowhere, between checking the footie results and any new pictures of Uma Thurman that might have been released, I suddenly remembered I had spent about two hours last night in a huge and drug fuelled rant about the despotic little arse-bandit that is Tom Mapother IV. My audience needed little convincing. Cederic, a wonderfully eccentric faggot friend of mine jumped up and demanded to be heard; “Honestly, I don’t know, but that little jumped-up bitch is giving us fags a bad name! He needs to exeunt from that closet of filthy lies and admit to owning a ‘Despoiler 14inch Sphincter Renderer - TM’ like the rest of us anal fanatics!”

Cederic sat down to a loud round of applause. More people started to voice their distaste of this damaged individual:

“Cruise hurts my sensibilities - the man …
I almost got blown from the cliffs this arvo. It’s windy bastards up there and as I strode with a mean gait towards the next rise and over, all I was really thinking about was jumping off cliffs; followed in turn, thankfully, about the need to use discretion in the choice of which cliffs from which to leap and which to leave at arm’s length until that wonderful and inevitable day when I will finally figure out how to fly. As I leant over one such of the latter kind of precipices I could not stop myself thinking about the whole spectacle of leaping to my doom. It would be so easy to trip, stumble and hang and then plummet followed by explosion and liquidification of flesh, draining away into the pebbles. Not considered in a suicidal frame of mind, just realistic. It is a possibility and I doubt I’d be able to reach that outcrop of bramble and, even if by some piece of beneficial fortune I did, would it really hold the 13 stone of muscled organism that I am, no, probably not, Jesus look…
Freddy Rich.

Frederick B. Walters, B. for Buster, aka Freddy Rich, born August 21st 1967 in Oakland, stabbed and shot to death August 19th 1995 in Las Vegas, was a pimp. Born to religious parents, father worked in a bar, mother took in sewing and cleaning, Frederick first realised that he had game in the fourth grade when he had three white girls bringing him candy bars every lunchtime, as he stood by the swings. One day four eighth-graders took him to one side and showed him the outcome of taking advantage of the quarter-back’s younger sister’s generous nature, so Frederick started buying his own candy; and he started carrying a blade. He was a bright student, polite, helpful and was never caught doing anything wrong. 1982 and Frederick’s elder brother returned from service overseas, drove a sweet ride, wore the glitziest suits in the neighbourhood and always had at least three women on the go, calling the house day and night, asking Freddie where his elder brother was, what bitch was…
Too Much Beer and Rebus.

Bent at the knees,
Contents pouring to the floor,
Balls enraged and glowing,
From the boot to the groin and fist to the jaw.

“Eh, see you Jimmy,
I’ll fucking have you, pal!
You’re one dead doss cunt”
(There’s no where safe for me now in this town.)

Inspecting the pavement
Hearing the furore from overhead,
Carefully checking they’re still both there,
Someone’s gonna die, someone’s gonna be deid.

“Oi Tommy, fucking leave him,
He’s fucking had enough.” Says his lass,
As my eyes focus and my fingers close,
Around something empty, hard and made of glass.

“Not yet. He needs a bit fucking more!”
As another boot comes in
And I know enough is enough as I move from the floor.
His foot finds air where my head should have been.

Rising I take his ankle and twist,
Enjoy the look on his face as things swing
From how it was to how it is,
And I move fast and he sees nothing.

“You killed him! He’s Dead!
TOMMMMMY!”
She screams at her ex-boyfriend.
Better him than me.
Lindsey and Bruce Wax Drunken Lyrical.


So there we were....

on a dark and windy night ....
the shutters weren't staying shut..and there was a noise from below...

an eerie strange noise that was not of this planet

So I tugged gently on Lindo's arm and stood up and moved towards the trap door. Something was alive below..

our minds were racing..what could it be?..heart was pounding so hard that I thought it would beat through my chest.

One of us had to approach the door. I didn't want to, nor did she, but to spend the rest of the night awake, in some sort of sleep, but still knowing that IT was alive below our heads was untenable. Lindo grabbed the chainsaw...


the revving of the chainsaw now drowned out every noise in the house including the thumping of my heart...

...and I admit, I sat there as Lindo took the reverberating saw in her hands and nodded towards me. I carefully lifted the trap door and Lindo stepped inside...

the darkness was the blackest light I have ever had to encounte…
District Judge Willow
Civic Centre
Barnstaple
EX31 1DY

04.10.06


RE: Claim No: 7SO00035
Francine Hurley
October 7th @ 10.00am

To Judge Willow,

I am writing to you at, admittedly, rather short notice concerning the above case that you are overseeing. Francine Hurley has been denied legal aid and therefore, due to fiscal limitations, is left no option but to represent herself on Friday. I have conversed with Sue at Barnstaple court and with a representative of the claimant's at Frank Paul’ Solicitors who have both advised me to contact you as soon as possible in writing and put forward the following case in the hope that you may allow myself to help Francine in court.

Francine is of advancing years, a point, which on itself would merit little consideration, but when combined with the drastic effect this whole ‘disagreement’ has had on her health, in my eyes has to be taken more seriously. Therefore I am hoping that this request of you to allow Francine some assistance in court on Fr…
Just a quickie. Having another tattoo, this one on my inner lower lip, so once again it is only visible if I allow it etc. But, and this has been bugging me for about a week, what word/words to have? Eh?! Only enough room for one or maybe two words. So far all I have is "BOLLOCKS", "This Hurt" and "Fear & Loathing." The first because that is probably my most frequently uttered word, the second was from a friend but I doubt it shall see the dim glowing light of a day within my mouth as apparently lip tats don't actually hurt much and the last, if you have to ask, you don't know. Any suggestions you lacklustre commenting muthafuckers?!
Big night out tonight and no mistake. "Ain't that right Derek from Falkirk?!"
"Too fucking right mate. I'm gonna be right proper cunted later, off me head with biggles with a bit o' charm, eh!"
"Well, we'll see you there chum and we can all get donald ducked! Cheers." We pulled out of the carpark leaving Derek from Falkirk eating burgers from one hand and shrooms from the other. Funny who you meet at motorway services.

Busy night tonight and no mistake. "It's been an effing busy day already and we still ain't found enough extensions for all the strobes." And as Kathleen had been reminding me all effing day ,"One cannot throw a replete free party with only a glow globe and a few lighters, darling. You must have strobes!" Kathleen was my bird. We had something special even when there was no grass left, only mud, and the strobes wouldn't reach the effing scaffold.

"'Ope you brung your wellies young Hunt, …
Yes. Memories, history, regrets, un-pursued possibilities and wanton ‘what if’s. You could spend forever re-living the past in the present using your memories as some type of virtual reality existence. You want happiness, think joyful thoughts of all that sun drenched nakedness at 18 and those lauded performances on the stage; sadness can be enjoyed with the prolonged death of Floppy the cancerous rabbit or perhaps the time you let go of the rope and Peter fell 180 feet to his death. The possibilities are endless with the mixing of memories and the use of imagination for artistic embellishment. Like, how about the time you abseiled down that 1800 foot cliff in a rabbit suit and did a back flip and landed on that amphitheatre stage on the beach which had an audience of naked ladies clamouring for your soft and skilful hands to cure them of their skin cancers. Wahey!


BIRDSTRIKE

The radar stopped screaming. The clouds rose up and kissed the descending underbelly of the twin-propeller plane. Jack Burton had been a qualified pilot for three days, two hours and three quarters of a return flight to Laos before he encountered a situation only briefly hinted at during his two-year training. Flight Captain Leo Brokowitz had covered comprehensively all aspects of emergency manoeuvres, normally the pilot’s last resort in instance of severe mechanical failure, but had only mentioned ‘missile attack’ the one time when they had propped the bar up for 36 hours and ‘Broko’ had slipped back to his memories of the Tet Offensive.

“We’d eaten about two tons of small arms fire flying those damn missions. We didn’t even know what the fuck we were trying to bomb but there was definitely a whole barn full of Charlie ripping shots off at us. Mad Frank, you remember him from that strip joint, Mad Frank’s left ear had been hit and blown clean off. Shit yeah, it stuck to the …
Chasing the Forsaken Lizard...

Just had a slight relapse. I'll say no more on the matter other than it is always a great relief to struggle through the days of inertia and melancholy and stumble, moaning and groaning, into a flowing meadow of windswept grass topped off with a glowing globe of goodness. That's how I feel right now, having misbehaved, dabbled, failed to contact the pusher-man (who, incidentally, spent two nights locked-up), quit, ached, shat and puked uncontrollably for about three days and nights and suffered such terrible disenchantment that if I actually had had any hot water in the house, I would have drawn myself a bath and let the crimson flow. Of course not, but these are the species of thoughts that you have no choice but to entertain. Came out of the funk yesterday, helped in no small part by a certain Argy Bird who is, thank the gods, a bundle of fun!

I have read everything that there is to be read in the flat over the last five days of bed-ridden intol…
So, here I am at Budapest airport. Far from a happy travellor - because the fucking bastards that are WIZZAIR, with whom I bought, in good faith, a flight to Sofia, have clearly decided that there are far from adequate numbers of fellow muppets with whom to fill a plane. Therefore we find ourselves, stirred by Cris's Yorkshie character, revolting against the system. The very fact that there is no way that any of us, even en mass, could ever cause the owners to be woken from their beds to address said sorry situation, seems to escape everyone. Instead, we are all up in arms and moaning. What is interesting is that the British are clearly the beast moaners by a mile. The Hungarians, Bulgarians, the odd Frenchie all mean well, fed by a distinct lack of appreciation of the deal they have made, but still their complaints lack exact direction and fall, as they all do, on blind ears. And deaf. There is clearly nothing to be done. We are petty irrelevancies, figures on a spreadsheet that …