Apathy UK

2010-06-22T16:37:00.002Z

Found this little effort lurking about the hardrive trying to convert the more fanatical .pdfs and .jpegs to extreme secularism - with much success may I add. Good lad. Had a call at work last year from a mate who was late with a philosophy essay for his eighth attempt at making it all the way through a year at college. Asked me if I could knock something up for him proper-quick-sharp. Which I did.

Has Religion served its Purpose?

Taking religion to mean a commitment or devotion to religious faith or observance I intend to suggest that religion has lost its relevance to Homo Sapiens as a result of the emerging reliance upon Science. To define what purpose religion may be said to have, or have had, I intend to explain what beneficial effects are attributable to such a belief system. Therefore religion will be approached as a whole and only infrequently on an individual basis. Of course it is necessary to mention that science can be classified as a religion as well – a scientist takes it on faith, as there is no definitive way of knowing, that what has happened in the past will happen in the same way in the future – but for the purposes of this discussion science shall be referred to as rational, empirical and provable in the face of religion’s need for blind belief. In J.B.R. Yant’s ‘Mortal Words’ he states that, “Religion is just superstition which has been around long enough to have become respectable.” Whilst perhaps true there is no doubt that religion has played a central role in Man’s social and personal life and development.

It is in Man’s nature to strive to answer questions posed by himself that are immediately, and possibly eternally, unanswerable. As Hans J. Morgenthau wrote,”Man will not live without answers to his questions.” Religion has long enabled rationally unanswerable questions to be answered. Perhaps the most basic query of them all being,”Why are we here? For what purpose?” Over time religion has provided a source of divine connection to a metaphysical deity or concept that has the effect of raising Man, in his own eyes, to a position of superiority over the rest of the natural world. The belief that Man is favoured by an all-powerful god-head enables the question to be, at least partially, answered. Religion enables Man to assert that the reason and purpose for his existence belongs to his god. Not even taking into account that some individual religions also supply the exact purpose, to the religious, such an answer is sufficient. An alternatively slanted approach might be to say that religion, in this case, alleviates a subconscious fear of death or simply, according to neuroscientist Dr. Andrew Newberg, meets the innate tendency of Man towards harboring faith, a need created by brain patterns. These alternative explanations are provided by and introduce what has perhaps caused Religion to lose its purpose; Science.

Science suggests that eventually we may find answers to such questions and without the need for reliance upon unquestioning faith to accept them. Facts will be empirically proven where possible and rationale will overcome dogma. As John Gray mentions,” (Science) rules our lives today…only after a long struggle in which it was ceaselessly opposed by the church.” (Straw Dogs). He goes on to mention,”…Science is a refuge from uncertainty, promising – and in some measure delivering – the miracle of freedom from thought; while churches have become sanctuaries for doubt.”

Religion has long provided rally points for mixed peoples to gather around as one, superseding previous tribal connections and allowing for greater mass unity and identification. The unity of purpose that arises from shared religious beliefs and practices, whilst frequently used against fellow men, has also enabled great developments in society. Where we now have democracies religion initially allowed for effective states to exist under theocracies, where religious law was, as far as was implementable, social law. Present day Iran is a good example of this. Such beds of social rest and compliance allowed time and energy to be spent on productivity and innovation rather than internal strife, which, eventually, has allowed for the development of scientific reasoning and practice.

On occasion religion has also provided moral behavioural codes which were frequently beneficial to the faithful’s fellow man and, once again, promoted cultural and social development. The fact that the majority of religions in history have showed some similar core beliefs as concerns god and morality might suggest some verifiable facts. Perhaps the most universally beneficial tenant shared by multiple religions is the Ethic of Reciprocity. In the Christian bible it is written,”So, in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.” (Matthew 7:12). In Islam, Prophet Muhammad, in his last sermon, said,”Hurt no one so that no one may hurt you.” Admittedly, Christianity and Islam grew from the same tree but such a tenant is also found in Hinduism in the form of Karma. No one could argue that such ‘rules’ were morally incorrect and therefore religion must be attributed the praise of such enlightened thinking. However, it is equally easy to argue that these similar core beliefs exist simply as Man’s nature is shared and thus results in similar conclusions whether or not the thinkers are separated by oceans or millennia. Therefore, taking religious doctrine out of the equation, there is no reason why Man would not maintain decency towards his fellow Man. Indeed, ridding the world of the inevitable conflict created by the differing aspects of separate religions is hard to disagree with by any rational individual. If it is evident that Man naturally steers towards decency then the need for religious code maintaining this is no more. Instead, perhaps, additional unity can be provided by science.

The gradual spread of and dependence upon science has clearly been the main reason why religion is suffering global decline. Where Man once had to rely upon apparently prophetic teachings, ancient writings that described ways of existing and signs from the gods, now he can decide for himself how best to approach his existence with the constant companion of rational thought aided by a constantly increasing sea of tangible and empirical knowledge, or fact. “Science is the supreme expression of reason.” (J.Gray, Straw Dogs.) Religion developed in ancient times when no better answer to Man’s questions and needs was available. Through the course of the ages religion has enabled, for the reasons mentioned above, Man to develop to such a point where he was able to explain religion itself. Due to the prevalence and acceptance of science religion now finds itself, having served a grand purpose perhaps, relegated back to its original embodiment of Man’s superstitions. Religion is outdated. This is perhaps best summarized by Carl Sagan in Pale Blue Dot when he says,”How is it that hardly any major religion has looked at science and concluded,”This is better than we thought! The Universe is much bigger than our prophets said, grander, more subtle, more elegant.”

2010-06-22T10:24:00.001Z

It’s been an age since I’ve left any detritus on these pages. In the face of mySpace, then Facebook and now Twitter with a background of belated maturity, engagement, house purchase, proper job, this tired old blog has been left to fester. I do miss it though. Perhaps I can provide additions every now and then? But what to write and when? Busy at work, the kitchen is still far from complete, the sun is very much out and, oh yeah, I forgot, I don’t BLOG!!! Ha AH!! Almost got me there. Bloody social networking. Bollocks. That is all. Long Live Hunter S Thompson!!!!

2008-12-01T17:02:00.003Z

Arrived in Hull for work at about 00:30, registered and then popped across road to take this. Being polite and nice, like I am, I went in first to ask if they minded if I took a picture of the outside of their fine establishment. It soon became clear that I had made a large mistake as there was no sign of the boss and instead only Fuck-witted and Demented-dwarf were on duty. Fuck-witted did all of the talking in this increasingly heated and irrelevant exchange as D.dwarf could barely see over the counter – he pulled himself up with his forearms on the counter-top, forearms like corded, tensile steel may I add. Conversation was joined by wizened whore with chips in one hand, bottle of sherry in the other and a severely disfigured face.

Anyway, it went a little something like this:

Me: “Good evening guys – I was just wondering if you’d mind me taking a picture of your shop? It’s for a mate who isn’t here who loves your shop a lot.”

F-W.:…..(blank stare with one good and one glassy eye.)…….

Me:”Is that okay? If I take a quick picture?”

F-W.:…………………

Me:”So, I’ll just take a picture with my phone (brandished phone) outside, okay?”

This got a reaction.

F-W.:”No, no, no, no picture. No picture.”

“No? Is it a problem if I take a picture?”

“No picture, no picture.” (starts waving hand in my face.)

Wizened-Whore joins in:”Shhhlovely place this, slovely.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you. (back to F.W.)Why not? What’s the problem?”

“No picture. I have said.”

“Will you please explain why I can’t take a picture of the outside of your wonderful kebab house? Me and my mate love it here. This is a good thing!”

“Loves this place, slovely.”

“No picture. My boss come tomorrow.”

“I’m not here tomorrow. Look, legally you can’t stop me taking a picture of your shop – I was just being polite when I asked.”

“No picture.”

“Why not?”

“Boss may not like.”

“Why not? It’s great marketing.”

“No picture. I have said. Leave now.”

“Listen mate, you cannot stop me taking a picture of you or your shop. It’s completely legal and you are being rather dim-witted about this.”

At this juncture of the exchange a large, fat English bloke turned up with a disheveled look, barely covered beer-gut and a bashed in face that I recognized from our last visit as that of the delivery man. I turn to him in mild-desperation to salvage this expedition with an iota of good-will.

“Excuse me mate, can I borrow you for a minute. Can you tell this bloke that I want to take a picture of the shop for a mate who loves it but hasn’t driven up with me today?”

Fat-Bloke: (to F.W.) “Let him take a picture Hamed, can’t hurt.”

Me: “And it’s good marketing.”

Whore: “Wanna chip hansum?”

Me:”No thanks, but thanks.”

F.W.:”No picture, no picture!”

At this point I have had quite enough of the Bodrum experience.

“Okay, I’m off and I’m taking a picture. Thanks.”

“NO PICTURE!”

“Balls!”

And I went outside and took it. Wizened-whore left with me but I soon made it clear I wasn’t going to ‘partake’ so she stumbled off. In pic you can see D.Dwarf on left and Fuck-witted in middle with big fat delivery bloke.

Then I went to hotel bar, had a pint and crashed.

2008-11-06T22:47:00.003Z

Alex and Bruce GO Rally Driving.

“Three, two, one go.” Right foot down, left foot coming up and then down and change and right foot down and grin. Dust plume behind, track in front. Intense acceleration.

“Easy left, leading fifty metres to right ninety degrees….” Steering wheel throwing the car from verge to verge. Flying up and down the gears. Small straight; “Hundred metres.” Time enough to blink.

“Hard left, 50 metres, hard right…shit, potholes.” The car takes off repeatedly, the map pen flying on its string, and teeth chatter.

“Skin up.”
“Hard left, you’ve go to be joking, easy left.” Slight steering change (no problemo) and it’s into the left, tapping the break, feeling the sideways momentum, gliding around.

“Skin up. I need smoke!”
“Straight, 100 metres, leading upto 90 right.”
“Look, I’m driving; I can’t skin up. Skin up.”
“Seriously man…watch-out-the-deer! Jesus!” Car slides right fractionally. More revs and it’s back on course for the moon.

“Straight. 200 metres. Well, have you got any rizlas?”
“Door pocket.”
“Baccy? Smoke? Lighter? Roach?”
“Door pocket.”
“This is going to be rather taxing. 90 right leading to easy right then hard left.”

“Shite. Helmets. We can’t smoke because of the helmets.”
“Yeah.”
“Close the windows and burn the herb. Hot box!”
“That’s a fine idea…hard left, hard left, hard left!”

2007-07-02T20:04:00.002Z

El Nina is apparently intent on making this a rather moist summer in the good’ol UK. I say “Bring it on, bitch” – that’d be the Celtic blue blood in my veins hankering after the misty highlands of my bearded, kilt wearing antecedents – and, anyway, there were no April showers and we all know that the weather will be glorious in the run up to Christmas. The cyclical nature of the seasons is itself on a slide. We must adapt and invent new meteorological aphorisms.

Anyway, I don’t mind if I spend every day of the next three months inside, in bed – just as long as a certain young woman is with me for some of the time. I have had the good fortune to meet this absolute toe-curler.

She’s half my height. The last fling I had was with a girl who, in heels, was as tall as me, something which I really enjoyed as I didn’t have to bend down as often as normal to snog her silly. However, I prefer having someone slightly more diminutive than that writhing above, below and against me.

She told me she was 23 but it turns out she’s just turned twenty. That’s ten years younger then me. Last night I spent a few hours curled up with a long-term occasional amore who is 17 years my senior at 47, but whom, down to a combination of excellent genes and a predilection for long hours spent mountain-biking over the lowlands of Fife, has a bottom that could crack walnuts. I have nothing but an unhealthy fascination for the elder woman and the age gap is of no importance. The younger woman normally presents no moral dilemma to me either but a whole decade younger? I know at twenty I was missing the point on many things (but isn’t that always the case with self-retrospection?) so I think that maybe her mind might grate upon mine. No fear of that though as it turns out she’s quite possibly smarter than I was at twenty, and am presently at thirty and, more than likely, than I will ever be. Which, in my personal opinion, is saying something.

I met her at a mate’s stag do. She came over with a bunch of friends and ninety minutes later we were walking back to hers. I know, not a good show on a stag – Bro’s before Hoes and all that razzmatazz but, hey, I wanted a taste of this black skinned, bounteous, purportedly innocent honey who spent most of the walk home with her nose jammed in my armpit inhaling the mix of essence d’Bruce and some rather fancy JP Gautier deodorant that came back with my mum from HK.

So, three weeks later I drive back up for what I believe is termed a ‘booty-call.’ She called me, I came running. She’s just so damn tasty and tight. I get there at lunch time and she tastes of curried chicken, which I like. Straight to her bedroom and let the fucking begin. It was good fucking. Good, honest, full-on fucking. Then we had to have a moment of repose and my hands wandered, once more, to seize her sexiful butt cheeks and squeeze the flesh there within hard. I love her bottom. I think the technical Ebonics term is ‘thick’. Helluva thick.

She lies on her front with navy blue knickers covering her cheeks. I guide them into her crevice with a thumb and forefinger and massage the chocolate orbs revealed. I hear her moan quietly and I can’t help myself. I have to broach the subject, the subject that was in the back of my head from the moment she first bent over to sit down.

“So, babe, what d’ya reckon about anal sex?” I tensed for her reaction, ready to defend my face from her frequent and, if the truth be told, quite enjoyable slaps of mock and not-so-mock rage. None came.

“Well, I’ve never done it but I have thought about it.”

“Really? I thought you said you were awfully innocent. I told you that was bollocks.”

“I suppose you’ve done it lots of times.”

“A few.”

“Lost count haven’t you.”

“I have no memory. You know that.”

“So, do you wanta try it?”

(FUCK YES!)”Yeah, if you’re into it.”

“I’ll try it for you.”

“Okay – shit, great. Well, I’ll just loosen you up a bit, pass the lube.”

“What, with your fingers? That’s gross!”

“Baby, I’m gonna be sticking my cock up there in a minute – it’s not gross and it’ll relax you so it won’t hurt as much. Trust me.”

“No. Just lube your cock up and slide it in. Slowly!”

“Okay, I’ll go slow and gentle. Let me know if it hurts too much for you and I’ll stop.”

“Wait, put some music on first. Just random play on the computer.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t go anywhere.” as I jump from the bed and skip across the floor with my boner slapping lube all over my chest and legs and the carpet and, oops, a little on the screen there.

She lies on her side and I lift her top cheek and position my red head against the ring of her dark pucker. She’s always going on about how thick my cock is and looking at her arsehole and then at my shaft she has a point, I concede. “You ready baby? Breath in and out slowly.”

“Okay.” So, to cut an intensely enjoyable penetration short, pretty soon she’s on all fours and I’m sliding my oiled cock into her back passage with increasing vigour and thrust. I start to get carried away and pile in hard and deep and fast and she screams. I immediately stop and ask if she’s alright and she tells me she’s fine – “Jesus, fuck my arse some more Bruce.” So I do, my strokes becoming occasionally erratic as I feel my mind begin to melt and my balls spasm. I’ve been fucking her arse hard for about ten minutes now. I could come at any point but I’m keeping it tight and enjoying the view of my pink penis sliding from view in and out of her sweet black arse. She’s pushing back against my strokes slightly and her head is drooping from her shoulders. She has uttered a couple of low, guttural groans and screamed a few more times but I did not stop to see if she was alright – I was selfish and horny and hard and she kept pushing back against me.

The music stops. She lifts her head and turns it slightly to say “I don’t know how much longer I can do this for. Come inside me.” The next tune starts – it’s a jungle tune, one of Pendulums I think and that’s all I need. I get up on my feet so my knees are just behind her shoulders and I pound the fuck out of her. She starts screaming again, loudly and amidst all this sweat and sex I remember that the windows are open and she sounds like she’s getting murdered but, as it goes in such fits of passion, I couldn’t care less. She’s screaming and I’m making strange moaning noises that I can’t control and then I feel my cock spasm as my balls evacuate themselves and I pump my cum deep into her bowels.

The Pendulum tune was called ‘Slam.’ Particularly fitting we thought.

We went out to meet some of her friends then came back and fucked some more. She wanted me to cum inside her again but as she’s not on the pill it was the arse or nothing. She was up for it but worried that she was still too sore. She went to the bathroom and came back and told me she was still bleeding. I had ruptured her. “Okay, baby, come here and lets just fuck some more.”

“No – it’s okay – let’s try my arse again. If you want.”

Well, fuck yes!

But it was too sore and, though she tried like a trooper to take it, she couldn’t.

Later, with her head cradled in my armpit, again, I challenged her that there was no way that she hadn’t done that before – to just take the suggestion, my fat cock and the absolute demonic shagging so aptly in her stride – I insisted that she was fibbing, that she’d been fucked in the arse before. She insisted she hadn’t. I’m not convinced – either she’s lying to turn me on or she is, as I am beginning to suspect, just fucking special in multiple fields of physical and mental endeavour.

2007-06-14T22:26:00.001Z

Fucking Wahey! Opened one of my bank statements this morning and saw that I had earned 21 pence interest in the last month from my sizeable investment. Slowly realised, being that it was early in the day, that my sizeable investment was entirely comprised of overdraft and so looked again. 21 flipping pence earned from Goodle Ad-sense - in my first month! I was mildly elated. I thought the first thing to do was to conatct the bank and demand an enlarged overdraft limit - what with my new source of income! Refrained. So - the four people who read this dribble - at least two of you or one of you twice or something (not sure of the maths; gift horse, mouth, spatula) must have clicked on one of the above adverts. Thank you. The other twenty clicks were mine. I know I agreed not to click on the adverts on this page but they were just so damnably enticing to me.

So - thinking earnestly of selling out and creating a blog or website that will actually have some regular and considerable traffic so I can buy that Jensen Mark II Interceptor that I've always had mine eyes upon.

Shit, it's already started - catch myself writing about me and what actually happened today, like a proper blog. Can't and won't do it. Will have to find alternative means of income through apathy.

2007-05-11T16:07:00.002Z

I turned eight on holiday in Norway. We stayed in a wooden cabin a short walk from the forest and a large lake. It seemed like every lake in Norway had a rowboat on the shore. I struggled to push this boat out into the water. I would spend all day on the water. I made a fishing rod from a stick and a shoelace. Worms were nowhere to be found and the fish did not like blueberries which were everywhere. Twice when I was sat on the boat in the middle of the lake a noise made me look to the shore and I saw the same big black wolf. It drank from the water then looked up at me as I sat on my boat in my straw hat. It winked at me, a big wink I could see from far away and then turned and walked off. No one believed that a wolf had said hello to me. “Really Bruce, wolves just don’t say hello to strangers in a nice way and I’m not even sure wolves can wink.” said Mother. When we drove away from the cabin and the forest I saw a big truck parked by the track. It had a black carpet on the bonnet. I pressed my nose to the window. A tall bearded man stood by the truck tying the paws together. He was smiling when he looked up at me and winked.

2007-05-01T09:05:00.002Z

The first time we met was in London on a wet day and I had just been soaked to the skin. Grey water dripped from my nose and hands and my black suit was now skin-tight. I stood still and looked skyward but remembered there was nobody up there. I looked down at my wet shoes and then she was standing in front of me chuckling. “Don’t you know never to stand next to a puddle in the bus lane?”

“Don’t you know it’s not safe to talk to strangers?”

“Well, some strangers are clearly not dangerous. Those standing in their very own puddle rank very low on my list of possible threats.”

“What about if I had a knife which I wasn’t going to use but now I’m wet and pissed off and some lady is taking the mickey and I decide that perhaps, right now, I want to kill someone and she’ll do?”

“Do you have a knife? Should I start running?”

“No.”

“No? No knife?”

“ No knife. But I could drip all over you and give you pneumonia.”

She kept her eyes on mine but tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips. Then “Lovely weather isn’t it?”, she said as she looked up at the sky.

“There’s obviously no one up there. And I refuse to talk about the weather.”

“Too British?”

“Yes. And it’s a boring topic. Why talk about the weather when we can talk about football?”

“True. Great derby match last night, I really thought Fulham were in with a chance.”

“Okay, stop right there.”

“Not a footie supporter? Bit of a dubious judgement call there.”

“Well, you don’t look much like a fan.”

“No? My knickers are a big give away and I have a tattoo but I suppose that wouldn’t actually help you much.”

“Nope. Fulham. So you have yellow knickers?”

“Hmmm. Are you going to stand here all day in the rain waiting to get dry?”

“I was thinking about it. I don’t really see any point in going on if this is the way I’m going to be treated.”

“Come on, you’re not that wet.”

“I have puddle water in my belly button and, yep, look, a bit of grit in my ear.”

“Well, I’m off. Nice to meet you. Gotta get to work.”

“Hang on, wait a minute. How about a drink?”

“A drink? But you’re a stranger, remember?”

“Not really, not anymore. Just a quick one while I dry off a bit.”

“Ummm.”

“Come on. I want to know about your tattoo.”

“It’s in a very secretive place. I’m not going to show you.”

“I have a secret tattoo too. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

“We’ll see about that. Watch out, here comes another bus.”

2007-04-14T16:03:00.001Z

Sidney sits at his desk staring at the flowery wallpaper behind it but really seeing the universe in all of its suffocating infinity stretch out before him. He can see what he believes to be the Milky Way (it isn’t) not too far off and then other clusters of stars and suns and cosmic debris all of which he cannot name. He blinks and focuses closer in, on the moon, and looks for the one area that he can correctly name. He has to wait about sixteen bars of Beethoven’s ninth symphony until the moon rotates enough so that he can point it out to himself and smile. “That’s the Sea of Tranquillity, Sidney my boy.” He notes the ragged edge of the crater that someone once told him was made by a crashing meteorite. Sidney thinks the sea has been well named and watching it float past always makes his brain slow down. But it’s difficult to stay focused on such a large and near object when all existence pans out in front of him, without boundary, edge or horizon. He lets the moon slip from his eye-line and instead zooms in on a distant group of suns. It takes about two bars of Ludwig’s ninth to arrive and he has to wait three more until the orbs become large enough for him to make out the explosions and licks of super-heated gas erupting all over them. “Fascinating, fascinating.” he mumbles to himself as he leans in towards the wall to see the dancing flames even better. The largest of the four suns glows brightest of all, so bright that its light casts shadows of the other suns onto the surrounding moons. Sidney agrees that it is a marvel to behold. His mouth is open and flecks of dry spittle have collected in the corners like enzyme deposits to be mined later, or just to be brushed away with a sweeping finger of mild self-disgust. As he watches, the biggest sun’s intensity appears to wane and Sidney blinks just in case this darkening is an effect of his eyeballs drying out. “Nope, it is darkening. Perhaps it is going out.”

Despite spending a great deal of his time coasting amongst the stars whilst sat at his desk, Sidney has yet to see the actual moment of death of a star. The chap with glasses and a beard that occasionally he talks to down the pub has told him that when you calculate the number of stars that there must be in the universe it would be more than likely for at least one of them to go ‘super-nova’ every week. “It would be huge. It’s difficult to conceive of really. If we could watch one it would be like all the fireworks ever fired in the world, ever, being let off all at once as well as all the nuclear weapons and flares and all the power stations blowing up. Actually Sidney, it would be even more powerful than that.” Well, Sidney can watch it, if only he could find one nearing its end. The big sun is still dimming and Sidney shuffles his chair closer to the desk to get the best possible view. The sun seems to throb once, twice and again and then it starts to glow brighter and brighter. It is so bright, so quickly, that Sidney shields his eyes against the glare with his hand, but he immediately realises he cannot both watch the sun and block his view. “Sunglasses would be nice. Make a note Sidney.” He does not as now the sun is going dark again but it’s only a moment this time before it is throbbing once more and brighter than ever. The incandescent globe is all yellow, almost white, no red, no orange, as definite as a single light bulb in a pitch black fruit cellar. By contrast the other suns around it are mere moths now, flitting around the bulb, in rapture over the light much like Sidney. The sun is so dazzling that the jet black background of the universe appears to him as dark blue hue and all the other stars that normally sparkle so brilliantly are just splashes of white paint on it. ”Like spilt Tippex on my jeans.” he recalls. Sidney notices that it has stopped throbbing. It is difficult to look at the sun as it is so bright. He thinks he can feel his retina over-heating and curling up like a dead, dry oak leaf in an oven but he does not and cannot look away. Sidney’s hands have involuntarily grasped either side of his wide desk and the knuckles on each one are pale and straining. The tension of the moment is giving Sidney butterflies in his stomach and he keeps swallowing great gulps of air as if he had just resurfaced from a three hundred foot free-dive. He blinks and then notices black dots beginning to appear beneath the surface of the sun, like polka dots on a yellow beachball but the two colours together make the sun look ill. “It’s diseased, it’s dying.” Sidney whispers in a voice so quiet he can only just hear himself. The dots are multiplying and darkening, taking the edge off the brightness of the orb. Sidney has an urge to poke at the sun but his hands do not unclasp from the wooden edge of his desk. “It’s miles away anyway Sidney, and it’s dying.” The dots stop appearing and the ones he can see stop darkening. Sidney’s big breaths stop as well and his mouth closes, dislodging flakes of saliva crust onto his desk, and instead he is now softly drawing breath, attempting to make no noise whatsoever. He blinks the dryness out of his eyes and suddenly a barely noticeable line of red appears on the surface of the sun, creeping its way over the top horizon and advancing between the black dots like a fissure racing its course across pack ice. It starts branching off into one, two, four, countless veins of red, intersecting each other and cracking paths around the black dots. Sidney does not notice but he is biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “It’s cracking up, it’s about to blow. Blood?” It takes Sidney a second to loosen the grip of his left hand on the desk and when he has he dabs fingers on his lips and looks down at them. “Blood.” He looks back up at the broken sun, it’s black dots and angry red veins. “Blood, super-nova, it’s going to blow.” he says distractedly. Nothing matters at this point in time to him other than what he can see. The sun dims, the patches of yellow almost as dark as the black spots with only the red lines glowing; the surrounding suns are now much brighter than the dark orb; it looks like a ball of solidified lava with its heart of fire only visible in the cracks that cover it. Sidney blinks and then the universe goes white. “Holy mackerel.” he mouths and then his phone rings, he blinks and all he can see are pale yellow poppies, pastel bluebells and some sort of meadow grass. He blinks again and looks down at the phone on the corner of his desk. He looks up quickly but the flowers have not gone. He swallows long and hard and picks up the phone. “This had better be important.” Sidney says quietly.

Indeedy Poo.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
As does Absinthe.
And Abstinence (which, actually, is pretty much absence anyway.)

2007-02-11T16:00:00.001Z

Only the second month of the year and already bulbs have broken through the lawn. There is never any frost anymore and the old and bent pear tree is dotted with light green buds. The white, blue and yellow of the snowdrops, bluebells and daffodils catch the early morning sun as I tramp down the garden path to my car, their heads drooping downwards in a royal salute of my illustrious passage. I think that I might take a hedgetrimmer to the sarcastic bastards.

Surely it is still supposed to be winter? Surely the weather conditions should be a much closer match of my mood? Out of the warm house, away from the smells of lightly burnt toast and smouldering incense sticks, at nine in the morning on the way to eight hours of correcting other people’s mistakes (people who are not paid as much as me and so do not have to care) stepping into blazing sunshine, no wind, light birdsong and the fantastic motionless dance of mocking flower heads. Where are the cascading sheets of rain blown in, around and under my jacket as I slip and slide on an icy path and see nothing around me other than grey sky, wooden skeletons and smeared earth? When it is dour outside it is much easier to enjoy being dour inside. This warming of the planet is making it much harder to bear the loathsome lethargy of working mornings. The realisation that a sunny gardenscape heightens my internal melancholia makes me even more miserable. Perhaps I will start recycling more. Do my bit towards dealing with the carbon levels in the atmosphere.

“Morning Bruce! Lovely one ain’t it?” says Fred the ever-optimistic postman. He says this to my backside because I am leaning over the driver’s seat trying to grab the split wooden handle of a hammer I know is somewhere in the passenger foot-well. I’m sure I am about to grasp it but I pretend to flounder a little more, for dramatic effect, in the hope that Fred will get on and do his job and deliver his letters and leave me alone. It does not work. “Lost something?” he inquires just as I realise that the hammer is not there and I have indeed lost it. Still resting one elbow on the driver’s seat I raise my head to curse and the morning sun bounces off the wing-mirror directly into my eyes. My curse turns into a resigned sigh just as Fred asks,”What’re looking for? Your sense of purpose? Ha Ha!” I squeeze my frame back out through the car door whilst thinking how fortunate it is that I could not lay my hands on my ball-pen hammer as otherwise, with great power driven by a sense of righteousness, I might be about to imbed it into my postman’s cranium.

I turn about and face Fred. He is smiling fiercely so I try to dredge up some form of facial arrangement that might be mistakenly interpreted as good humour and I suspect that I fail but Fred is only five foot nothing so he can barely see up to the giddy heights where my lips refuse to loosen. “Good morning Fred. If you must know, if you really must know, I am looking for my hammer.”

“O right. Found it have you?”

“No.”

“What do you need a hammer for on a glorious morning like this, eh? If I were you I’d forget about the hammer and drive on to work and come back later and do all the hammering you want then. In fact, I have a spare hammer. I could drop it off tomorrow morning if you like. What do you want to hit?”

I am fully aware that I am experiencing an irrational descent of my mood into a dark, underground region where murderous intent lies in wait for the border patrols of reason to have a bad day. I look at the dry stone wall opposite me but I can still see the top of Fred’s bobbing head and so I look sideways along the wall to the big blue tractor that is digging up the road and, judging by the fast flowing river escaping into the graveyard, the mains water pipe as well. Then there is a sound that reminds me of the church’s wrought iron gate squealing on its hinges as the wind blows it to and fro because someone did not properly push home the hook. I am about to interrupt Fred to ask his opinion of what this noise can be but then I realise it’s me. I’m grinding my teeth together with such vehemence that sparks might be flying.

I look skywards and instead of heavy and tumultuous clouds, which would be fitting, all I can see is flawless blue sky. It is all too much. I look downwards and all I can see is Fred. “….said her cat has never been the same since but who can blame it, what with the size of that chicken. No, wait, it was a cock wasn’t it? Heh! So, what’s the hammer for?”

When the Titanic fist slipped from its dry dock into the merciless Atlantic Ocean the ship builders did not have to cut the fifteen sturdy lines holding her still all at once. When you are dealing with the mass of potential energy that a huge body such as the Titanic exerts on its surroundings you only need it to shift in any direction a little to start the inevitable and complete relocation of said object from here to there. They had cut only three ropes before the ship tipped the scales and broke free all on her own, rending apart the remaining twelve ropes. The same is true of any object that dwarfs its surroundings; it only needs a small shove and suddenly it’s developing a deadly momentum all by itself. My brow furrowed and my mood shifted.

“Well Fred, and not that it’s any of your business but…actually, hang on. I’ve been meaning to say this to you for ages. You’re a postman, you deliver letters and despite your physical similarity to a leprechaun, that is all you deliver. No happy tidings, no bloody rainbows and no bastard pots of gold. Just the fucking mail, okay?! If you must know, I need my hammer to hit my fucking starter motor, which is shagged at the moment, so my bastard car might start and I can fuck off out of your way to work. Clear?”

The accelerating prow of my malevolent angst smashed into the waters of a good upbringing, showering Fred’s face in distemper and several large droplets of spittle, and came to a dull thud of a stop. We stood in the lane looking at each other. Fred looked up. His face lost its openness and clouded with disapproval. I looked down and could feel my arched eyebrows relax to a straight line and the blush begin to colour my cheeks. Bugger. I can’t even muster a satisfactory rage. What is the point? Here it comes. The apology, the smiling, the second apology, the grovel, smile, sorry Fred and the inevitable strengthening of the bond between us. At least as far as Fred will be concerned. Every morning will be so much worse from now onwards. His very walk will begin to anger me uncontrollably. An utterly futile anger, like sodden gunpowder in a sodden gun made out of sodden toilet paper rolls. Fired by a pacifist.

I feel my entire being become limp; soul, body, spirit, everything. I look down at my hands as they fiddle with each other like a squirrel checking a nut for potential flaws. Despite being over a foot taller than Fred we both know that he is the bigger man at this moment. The torment, the self-pity, the indigestible morsel of humble pie which I’m choking myself on; if only it would rain. That’s the only thing that would cheer me but look at the sky, and I look up again and so does Fred, it’s bluer than Homer Simpson’s trousers. “It is a lovely day, eh, Bruce?” says Frederick. What an utter bastard! And then there is the noise like the heavens splitting asunder, an almighty crash, screeching, spinning metal grating on dry stone wall and lumps of tarmac flying through the air above our heads. Our eyes snap from the sky to the road and we see the blue tractor on its side, spinning in a circle sending stone and road through windows of cars and houses, into trees and straight at us. Fred reacts first, pushing me into the open car door and then diving into the foot-well after me. A large lump of granite lands on his post-trolley, collapsing it. I feel a smile welling up from my very core. Fred is whimpering and holding onto the brake pedal for dear life. My smile moves faster through my gut. I look over the car seat at the blue spinning-top that stops suddenly. The wailing of machinery stops. My smile stops. It falters at my throat, finding inadequate motivation to manifest itself properly. Damn! Typical.

Then the earth wails, the tractor jumps five feet into the air and from the ground shoots a torrent of water in a funnel, looking for a moment like a furious typhoon. Water is pumped into the sky. Men and women scream, Fred curls tighter into a ball and as I pull myself from the car I can feel rain on my face. Followed by the smile. I’ve had worse mornings.

2007-01-19T14:11:00.001Z

Yo Bro! Check it out - Mum was tidying some stuff up recently and found some interesting stuff (check your email) - the most interesting of which I think are these two photos of our biological grandfather, Spencer. Pic one has himself and his sister at some social gathering - look at the stamp on the back of it. He looks rather smooth if you ask me. His brother, the Ratman Geoff, told mum that when he saw the pictures of you from Nippers that he could see some of his brother in you. Pic 2 is of him with mum in his lap. I'm not sure who the other lass is. Picture one is from 1937 and 2 is from 1943. Blimey, eh? Only taken thirty odd years to find the light of day! Peace out bredren!

2007-01-19T13:51:00.001Z

The first fire I went to with Elaine all I could think about was that she had dropped her end of the ladder onto my foot. We raced through the traffic. She was sitting in the back of the cab trying to smile at Dan who refused to meet her gaze and lessen her worry. Her smile died and she drew her lips shut in a straight line. I watched her fiddle with the straps of her jacket out of the corner of my eye as we overtook a coach full of school kids and Matt gave them a loud blast of the siren. They cheered, we smiled, Elaine coughed. My toe had yet to fully heal but I had not told the medical officer. Despite any reservations I had about a crew member, a colleague, a compadre, the eyes in the back of my head and strong arms carrying me from harm’s way, not being able to lift their end of the standard 20 foot ladder, unlike the others, I did not enjoy seeing Elaine’s struggle added to by bitterness. So I would not allow Elaine to be silently persecuted with dismissive looks by a team minus one of their number. Perhaps already aware she had an ally of sorts Elaine looked at me. “Big, old warehouse, dry as bones, gonna be a real crackler.” I said to noone in particular. “We’re set, get it wet, no worries.” came back from Matt. “No worries.” from Dan. They were daring Elaine to say something so it might be made even clearer that she did not belong. It was not malicious, solely a test you could only fail, but in degrees. I watched Elaine with her head down in the rear-view mirror but then she looked up and said, ”Totally no worries.” and I could not help my back stiffening. Perhaps Matt’s knuckles turned alabaster on the wheel and perhaps Dan gave a hidden and venomous look, but I could not see as I had turned to look at Elaine. She met the gaze, let it wash around her head and gave it back. I faced front. “This left Matt.” It was a start but even the thickest glaze can be cracked in the furnace.

A group of men stood by the bench. One of the cars had its lights on. Two of the men were smoking and one of them turned when the click-clack of my heels reached them. The bite of the night air was on my legs and un-pantied groin but I was excited and it just heightened the sensation. All the men turned, none of them smiled but the fags were thrown to the ground. Number one and two looked me all over. Their eyes roved up and down my body and if I had needed any encouragement this would have been it. Number three was nervous and could not look at my face so just stared at my open jacket and the red bra underneath. Number four stood to one side and talked on his phone. He looked at my face briefly and he was very handsome. Normally I would have hinted at a smile but not tonight, not here; it would not mean anything at all. Tonight was only about servicing. I approached number one and two and knelt down in front of them. Small edges in the tarmac dug into my bare knees as the two men smoothly and with the practice of regulars undid their trousers and offered one darker, one lighter, for my appraisal. I grabbed one in each hand and roughly yanked back and forth. I turned my head to look at number three who stared at my right hand while his left hand searched for change in his pocket. He would watch but that would be all tonight. Perhaps next time. One and two stiffened quickly and I spent equal time savouring their salty hardness, each tasting similar but uniquely different, perhaps like snowflakes, no two quite alike. Number four was still on the phone but he was watching too, edging closer. Number two moaned and came and some slipped down between my knuckles and onto my palm. I left number one and tasted it. I looked up and smiled for the first time before returning to number one. Number four was by my shoulder now, still talking about Saturday and how he would drive to wherever he was going. Still talking he unzipped and offered himself. I stood up, brushed small stones from my knees with my dry hand, looked at four briefly and then down at his trousers. “No thanks luv, but you can watch if you like.” I turned to number one who was grinning and told him he could fuck me over the bench.

Then was she alone for the first time in what now seemed like forever. She sat down and nodded her head. The chair was comfortable, sure, although she had sat in more luxurious seats. The surroundings were well-appointed and she especially liked the chandelier although she suspected that picture at the far end of the room would be gone fairly damn quickly. She had never liked the subject of the portrait and the idea of spending the days, weeks, years exchanging glances with him and, perhaps, even growing accustomed to him was untenable. Changes would be made, hell, changes had already been made. She span herself around in the seat with her feet. No problem with the view though, no sir. So, the chair was comfortable and the surroundings well-appointed but, she thought, it’s all about location, location, location. She chuckled to herself and then thought that she should probably stop doing that. The phone on the desk rang and she picked it up. “Hello darling……..Really? What do you think?…….Good. Well, probably about eight…..chicken sounds good. Yep. Good. O, I almost forgot, that program on penguins is on tonight. Do you think you could record it for me? Thanks honey…yep, see you later.” She put the phone down and had one more spin and then there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she said, checking the desk was in order. It was, she looked up. It was Jackson. “Putin on line two, Mrs President.”

2007-01-15T18:24:00.001Z

I was sitting here last night feeling rather sorry for myself. On Saturday I had played in a vital league hockey game against Tavistock who were then third, behind us purely on goal difference, and had scored an absolute scorcher of a goal to give us a 3-1 lead. However, Tavy pulled it back to 3 apiece and we were going to settle for the draw and single point. That was until I gave the softest and most inaccurate pass of my career – straight to the opposition who promptly scored to win. I was utterly gutted. After the game I sat on the side and put my head between my legs and, I hate to say it, a tear eked its way out. I felt distraught and solely responsible for potentially jeopardising our promotional prospects. Anyway, I got over it (and myself) in about five minutes and after having the piss ripped from me in the Carriers later on I felt much better. However, the shame and ignominy and sense of personal failure lingered in the background. Hence Sunday night I was revelling in the feeling of ‘All that is Good in the World is coming to an End.’ You know, fairly standard Sunday emotions. Then a text came in; it was from someone I thought I’d probably never hear from again but her name was still on my phone because I enjoy entertaining entirely unrealistic notions of hope. On my phone and in my head she is known simply as Ms. Delectable. She is the perfect feminine package, body and brains. In both respects she has everything where it should be and then some. She’s one of those girls who draw attention like a super-powered eye-magnet. The first time that I saw her was in a club two summers ago. She was just standing there gently bopping to the funky tunes and looking edible. Now, I may have been slightly off it but she straightened out all of my synaptic junctions and re-aligned them pointing directly at her. I had no choice, my actions were not mine but rather they stemmed from a primal, subconscious need to mate with her and so I walked straight up to her and put my mouth next to her ear:

“You look so good I wanta take you home and tear off all your clothes!”

I came to my senses and saw that this honey was smiling at me. No slap, no knee to the groin, no battering by a boyfriend called over to “Sort out this pervert!” She told me straight away that she had a boyfriend and although he was at home up-country she intended to be faithful to him. I said Cool, but took it as a challenge and, anyway, I couldn’t help myself. We spent the whole night talking and generally turning each other on in ‘non-adulterous’ ways. She turned out to be the sister of a good friend who proceeded to warn Ms. D. all about me but this didn’t have the desired affect so, anyway, we had a wicked night and have been in contact ever since, on and off, until last summer. She came down again and her sister told me that she had hooked up with one of the most eligible bachelors in Surrey and was seriously enamoured. We talked but I limited my patter to strictly above the belt, as it were. I’m all kinds of respectful. So, her text perked me up and hence followed the closest thing to Text Sex that I have experienced.

Hello, its Natalie. Is this still ur number? X

Yo Nat! Yep, still my number. How you doing? It’s good to hear from your delectable self. Still in Brackers? Woof. x

Why hello there! Happy belated new year 2 u. Yep, still in Bracknell, wouldn’t be anywhere else! Any more plans 2 come up here then? X

I was going to ask you when you’re moving down here. Had a great N.Yr, hope you did too. Might be upto Londinium soon to see peeps – you owe me a guided tour of Brackers! You still with same job? Any plans to travel? x

I was thinking of things I wanted 2 do before I was 25 & u popped into my head! Sorry! I’m feeling frisky! Um, no, new job – I’m studying 2 be a personal trainer now, writing idea subsidised! Travelling – not yet. Yes, do pop down & I will indeed give you a guided tour! X

Woofla! Jesus, ur last text is never getting deleted!! Thou art truly sexy! God, I’m all hot now! Coincidence perhaps but on Friday I came across that incredibly hot pic you sent me and did nothing for about five minutes but stare at it and use my imagination. And a personal trainer! I’m melting here Nat. x

Oh really! And just what did you imagine?! I have other pictures I may just send u, like the one u sent me of ur tattoo! There’s this place in Brac which does Burlesque photography, I’m really into all that, & I’m gonna get my photo taken! Dita von Teese is my idol! U like? X

It’ll be easier if I just show you! I can’t think about you in that way without getting v.excitable, since the first time I saw you it’s been the same. Pix? PIX! Yes, you should definitely send some. Trust me, they will be appreciated! And Dita does indeed bang my gong but I’d much rather bang thou! X
Dark, sultry, sensuous lips, perfect shape, eyes that raise bpm’s. You two have a lot in common! X

Seeing as u can’t show me at this particular minute, how about some words instead, be as descriptive as u like! U have no idea what ur words do 2 me – my mind can’t help but wonder where else ur talents lie…? X oh & thanks 4 the likening with Dita, u have made my day! X

R u near ze internet right now?

No I’m in bed – why? X

Forget it, I prefer it where you are. Damn, I’m sitting here trying to text but my hand keeps straying! It’s like a rod of iron right now coz I’m thinking of what you might be wearing and how I’m going to peel it off and then press myself against your flesh and wrap my arms around you and then my hands are going exploring all over you to see which bits make you breathe deeply…and then I’m gonna kiss the hell out of you and grab your hair and pull you against me even harder…and then we’ll just have to see…goddamn Nat!! I can’t even bend it a little bit! WOOF! X

I like! U make me feel hot in particular places! Right now I’m wearing sexy silk, & I can’t stop thinking about u taking it off & touching me. Between u & I, I have always had a thing 4 u, & I’ve always fantasised about u fucking me, as I know u would make me feel amazing. So there! Come down 2 see me and u never know what may lie in store 4 u! u will learn that I am an incredibly sexual & passionate woman who absolutely LOVES Sex! X
Oh, and I forgot 2 mention how good I am at doing certain things as well….! X

I never doubted any aspect of your hotness for a second. Just seeing your name sends my mind off on a hot, dirty, sweaty, clothes-tearing episode. I want to be next to you right now making your back arch. I want to taste you. I bet you taste good! I’m taking you to bed with me tonight and we’re getting funky! I wanta practice just in case I get to get my hands on you! Nat, you turn me on something chronic and I’ve always intended to make you cum. And I will! Lots! X’s all over ya!

Oh god, I feel horny! U make me want 2 touch myself & imagine ur fingers inside me & ur hands all over me. It’s a date then….I think u would blow my mind, & I don’t doubt I could make u feel pretty good in return. We shall see. I’m game if u r ;) x

Have I not been adequately clear Nat? I am so game for some seriously heaving union with you, you who have the legs and inner thighs that I wanta crawl up with my tongue and small nibbles and soft fingers and hard grip to make sure you’re as ready as can be for when I introduce myself to you properly and deeply, that I should be crowned world champion! I’m gonna make you drenched given half a chance…and then I want you to do me. And that’s just for starters girl! I’ve thought about it long enough. I want you! X
Had to come and look at all the pix you sent me. You…Are…Hotness…Herself. I want you in all sorts of naughty ways! X

Then u have got me, in whatever way u please…! God, ur words make me melt inside & make me moist in places I want ur fingers & tongue 2 explore! I can’t wait, by then I shall be clawing the walls with anticipation of what it will be like 2 finally live out my fantasy! Bring it on! I’m ready when u r x
Tell me more please! X

Nat, I can’t wait to get my hands on you and to feel yours on me. I’m coming to hunt you down and make your toes curl. I want to be able to taste and smell you on my face and fingers. I’m going to indulge myself in you, go to town, pleasure you until your whole body goes limp. You deserve it. I’m going to bed now and I’m thinking about you in yours and your sweet arse and those tits that make me wanta grab you from behind, spread your legs and, quite frankly, fuck you silly. Thank you for being you. I’m going to wank myself silly thinking about you doing the same. Maximum Woof! X, all over.

Wow, what a text…Well enjoy in every way & I shall do the same! I will await ur arrival in fair Bracknell – speak before then tho. If ur feeling horny, please let me know! Sweet dreams XX

I dig you the most. Dorme bien beautiful. XX

2007-01-12T17:15:00.002Z

Stratton
Cornwall
EX23 3XX

Customer Care
Orange
PO Box 486
Rotherham
S63 5ZX

12.01.07

Ref. from your last communiqué: FS/Campbell/514813/IAP

Hello Ian,

I am writing to you today, very calmly and very collectively, only because I promised the Lord that I would wait at least two weeks before venting my spleen towards your company and the deplorable way in which you have treated my account. Had I written nearer the time of the blameworthy incident then you would have received a crumpled manuscript scrawled in thick red marker included in which would have been every known insult and swear-word known to man in four different languages, as well as several stick-figure depictions of what I intend to do to whomever I can get my hands on at Orange hierarchy. I hear you ask yourself as you sit in your office, ”What could we have done to force the change from such a normally erudite and polite chap into this raging, seething, still erudite, force of vengeance?” Hah! Like you don’t already know! Hah! I shall elucidate the circumstances for you none the less, as three out of four of my anger management therapists suggest such a process to be cathartic. (Incidentally, the fourth has given up on me and instead slipped me the name and contact details of an eminent Bulgarian hitman who, since the New Year, can move about Europe with impunity. And he’s cheap.)

I returned from holiday at the beginning of November to find waiting for me what I thought to be a particularly badly-phrased, unclear and very rude and threatening letter from your company (hence to be referred to as ‘you’ because it makes me feel better to target something that can be easily crushed) informing me that due to my large bandwidth usage my account was shortly to be cancelled. I was flabbergasted. I have had an uninterrupted account with what is now Orange ISP since back when it was Freeserve, through the period of time when it was Wannadoo, with no problems whatsoever. May I now make a small point, one which is little but of large and repercussive relevance: at no time since the original sign-up with Freeserve have I received any form of contract, be it hard or electronic copy. Bare that in mind Ian. So, in the face of this alarming letter from you I immediately contacted your Customer Service Call Centre. If you reference my last letter to you, dated 15 November 2006, you will see that the matter of my account had been handled in, what I thought at the time to be, a professional and courteous way. The problem with my £17.99 per month contract and the limited bandwidth usage it entailed was dealt with by your Customer Service Representative by upgrading me to the £19.99 per month Unlimited Usage account. Incidentally Ian, for your perusal and education:

unlimited adj. 1. Without limits or bounds: unlimited knowledge. 2. Not restricted, limited, or qualified: unlimited power.

Hence – ‘Unlimited Usage’ – being not restricted, not limited, not qualified in any way. Can it be any clearer than that? I think not.

Things went ahead well. My O2 phone contract was coming up for renewal and I was intent on taking advantage of your company’s combined account for phone and internet access, for myself and strands of the family. That was until one day shortly before Christmas when my username and/or password were apparently incorrect and I cold not gain access to your server. As I mention above, I have had the same account since the days of Freeserve and was in no doubt that I had made no error with my sign-in. I called the Technical Assistance department at Orange only to be told that, not only had my account been unceremoniously and without notification cancelled, but that I owed you around £190.00 due to said cancellation. In my normal polite and well-brought-up manner I apologised in advance to the technical care agent and then proceeded to swear profusely at him. The refined version went a little something like this:

“You what? Cancelled? How can you cancel my account? Why?”

Due to overusage.

“Overusage? Overusage? Overusage! But the account is Unlimited! How can you over use something without limits? This is not complicated semantics! Explain! No wait! Explain first why I owe you near enough two hundred notes!”

Due to outstanding subscription fee on cancelled contract.

“What? Insane dribble! Get me your supervisor now!”

No problem sir. I’ve put a few of these calls through to him today. Don’t worry, I think we drop the charge.

“Good Lord man, what sort of slip-shod operation is being run there? Eh?”

Supervisor here.

“Right, good, explain.”

Well sir, because you downloaded around 80gig last month you have broken the contract with us.

“Would that be the ‘unlimited’ contract?”

Yes sir.

“Unlimited?”

Well, the contract does carry the ‘Fair Usage’ caveat.

“The what? ‘Fair Usage’ caveat? What’s that then? No, don’t tell me, it’s small print isn’t it?”

Yes sir. It means you have to respect other Orange internet users.

“What! I paid for the ‘Unlimited’ account exactly so I wouldn’t have to worry about my usage at all! What are you lot playing at?”

All ISP’s have a fair usage clause sir.

“So what? I didn’t know about it and now my account is cancelled, I can’t access my work emails nor can I communicate visually with my brother overseas during Christmas. You are having a bath, surely?”

No sir. The fair usage clause clearly states….

“Where does it state? At no point during the phone conversation I had to upgrade my account to expressly avoid this exact problem was I informed that I might have my account cancelled if I used it too much. Perhaps the agent couldn’t get their head around the clear contradiction of terms involved? I have received no information about this through the mail or email. How do you expect me to follow a contract I do not have? I demand you get me on-line immediately!”

Sorry sir, but since the account was cancelled BT has flagged the line and it is unusable for a period of at least ten working days.

(N.B. At this point Ian, I informed the supervisor that I was a solicitor and spent portions of my time dealing with Contractual Disagreements. He went quiet and then said there was nothing he could do, he understood my point, he was sorry, there really was nothing he could do, sorry again, happy Christmas. I returned the good will adding that I hoped he enjoyed particularly unpleasant stuffing over the seasonal hiatus.)

So there you are; a detailed account, from my point of view, of the despicable and hugely regretful incident that you put me through. I write this letter for your information only. I do not want nor expect any form of apology or reparation from you. I have no intention of having anything to do with Orange ever again, even if you offer me ‘Free Communications for Life!’ as, and I think you’ll appreciate my point here Ian, that could mean no comms. for a month and a thousand pound fine for even daring to believe that the title of the offer might have some truth about it, somewhere, somehow. I am sure you will not mourn the loss of several customers. Despite the fact that I fully intend to bad mouth you wherever I go in the world, I doubt that the loss of maybe thirty potential customers will keep you awake at night or hit your stock much. I can but try. I would just like you to know that presently the internet aspect of your company is to be found wanting. The fact that I was informed that this problem had happened with other customers before me clearly shows that your service infrastructure is weak, crumbling and, at this time, taking on more than it can handle. A very poor show indeed.

I am still off-line, still angry, still upset and still wishing karmic retribution to be visited upon you.

Don’t mention it.

Yours Utterly Sincerely,

Bruce Campbell

P.S. I'm just kidding about the hitman. Ha ha. Just my little joke.

P.P.S. Or am I?

2006-12-17T17:25:00.000Z

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 is a terrible non-event….”

“…he’s an abysmal and confused twit, no, make that twat…”

“Yes, he clearly needs help, you know, the sort of help you give a small, buck-toothed rodent that you’ve just run over, kinda on purpose, and is now squirming in a dismal little pool of his own excrement. Hammer to the head, repeatedly, is the only form of medication that will work with his sort.”

This harangue went on for quite some time. Not one person could muster anything positive to say about Hubbard’s Numero Uno Beetch. Eventually we changed subject to something less distatseful; well, we had to really - Fiona had become so worked up with her dawning realisation of utter contempt for the Chief Wanker, that she vomited so hard her tongue almost came loose.

In retrospect and the clear light of this Sunday afternoon, I see now that, although it was fun, all the valid points that were brought to light last night were a waste of our time. The poisoned dwarf is so unbalanced in his head like area that all the logical and rational reasoning that might elucidate to him the insane proposition that he now is as a human, would be like water off a duck’s back - the man is deluded.

Therefore I would like to suggest that the ultimate aim of all like minded individuals should be MAKING MR CROOSE REALISE HIS HORRIFIC INSANITY. Admittedly, you might have to hook him upto some serious electrodes to acheive this but, then again, even if it doesn’t work it’ll sure be fun watching the little bugger jump!

-----------------------------------------

I would also suggest that anyone who is so inclined to spend some time Constructively Deconstructing something that needs to be DEAD AND BURIED check this link to some coherent criticisms of Scientology.

And more fun to be had here ripping the shit out of someone who is clearly full to the brim with it! Peace out.

2006-11-30T23:50:00.000Z

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 how far down the waves are, Kerist, probably take about three seconds to get there, wonder if I’d feel much, probably shouldn’t lean too much further out just in case MOTHERFUCKAAA wind Bastard!! And all thoughts ceased as body took over and flung head to the ground, backwards and with a slight twist so my claws could dig at the coarse grass and anchor this momentarily excessively wobbly fuck-wit.

For a while the world was silent.

“I’ve got the number for the Samaritans if you want, dear.”

One of the two old girls walking their pooches past me came forward with what looked like an orange laminated card with writing on it. I lay motionless and, perhaps reasonably, was still considering jumping off cliffs. My camera lay two feet in front of my eyes being sniffed at by an old and decrepit Yorkshire terrier whose hind legs were visibly shaking. Either age or that pooch is about to drown my Olympus in syphilitic dog wizz. Time to arise methunk.

“Thank you. You are very kind to consider my state of brain.”

She pushed the card into my protesting hand, perhaps convinced that the tufts of grass between my knuckles must surely signify a desperate man.

“But I can assure you madam,” as I bent for the camera and righted myself, somewhat unevenly, “It was just the wind.”

“O, I know all about that. Vera there has wind something chronic. Never a quiet moment.” Vera nodded her head at me in what I took to be a reassuring manner.

“No, you don’t understand. A gust of wind almost blew me over, that was all. No need for concern, I’m fine. Really. Here’s your card back.”

She slid it back into the depths of her handbag as she turned towards her friend and dogs. “I don’t know about over but I do know about up. Once Vera had a moment whilst I was feeding the fire…”

“Gosh, is that the time…”

“..no eyebrows for a month.”

“Thanks. Bye then.”

True story.

2006-11-16T22:51:00.001Z

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 he doing, begging to know, cajoling Freddie with all kinds of offers if he would only tell. Frederick thought about candy bars. He lost his virginity to a woman called Rosie Thomas, a gap toothed college dropout who had been dropped by Freddie’s elder sibling. Rosie told Freddie that he was a real man, that he could take care of her. Freddie explained that he had no dough, he was still at school; Rosie told him it was cool, she’d get him money and she did. One night Freddie felt the green notes in his hand, smiled, called Rosie a ho bitch and demanded to know where the rest of his money was. She grabbed him around his knees and wept and cried out that she had no more, that Freddie had it all, and he kicked her away from him and Freddy Rich picked up the phone and called Darlene, a white girl at high school. Rosie picked herself up from the floor and grabbed for the phone but Freddy Rich cocked his left arm and sent her flying across the room and over the bed into the wall with a powerful jab. Mind yo’self he spoke quietly and then back to the phone and turning Darlene out.

1990, Freddy Rich was 23 and he had 17 girls working for his money, out on the streets of Oakland every night, come rain, come shine, you better come on time, bitch. He’d paid for twelve abortions, a small facial skin-graft to cover a nasty knife wound (which he’d made, a little high on PCP one night, a little carried away with his bottom ho, his number one girl) numerous medical bills, countless bail bonds, the odd bag of smack and two funeral wreaths; funerals to which he didn’t go. Freddy drove a Cadillac Coupe De Ville and a Lexus, both decked out with a leather interior of dark purple, to match his favourite custom Armani suits. He was knocking bitches off other pimps every week, keeping his own girls tight and watched over. That year he made a deal with Lieutenant Kowowitz out of the 13th Precinct and every Friday night, poker night for five-o, six of his best girls entertained Oakland’s finest. Freddy Rich’s street cred and infamy grew. He no longer needed to administer beat downs to aggressive tricks or wannabe players trying to stake his turf; no, now he just called 911 and asked to speak to Lieutenant K. He had black, white and yellow bitches; bitches who could swallow two feet of hosepipe, nasty bitches, sweet talking bitches, whips and chains bitches and one double-jointed bitch who could pull in over 10 gees a night when the going was good. And with Freddy Rich, the going was always good.

1995 and Freddy Rich was 27 years old, a mack at the height of the game. He still based his crew in Oakland but he’d run his girls all over the country, hitting big conventions in Las Vegas, the Japanese tourist season in Hawaii, the ski season in Canada. Freddy Rich was now filthy rich. He had met one of Darlene’s regular tricks who was an investment banker for Merrill Lynch and over the course of a couple of years Freddy had taken some of his advice and invested his money in stocks and shares, long term interest accounts, off-shore accounts in the Grenadines and the odd work of art. Freddy was thinking of retiring, leaving the game to the more hungry up and comers he always saw sniffing about or to those he would occasionally deem worthy of hearing a few words of wisdom of how to play the game and not let it play you. Freddy got drunk on Hennesey one night with Rosie, that same first bitch in his stable, and told her he was thinking of quitting the game. She purred and rubbed up against his naked chest and said then it will just be you and me baby. Sure Rosie, you and me. Rosie suggested that Freddy oughta enter for Pimp of the Year at the Players Ball in Vegas in August as how could they not award it to him and what a fine way that would be to leave the game. Freddy Rich grunted.

Freddy Rich won Pimp of the year and was awarded the large trophy in a private room of one of the larger casinos in Vegas, surrounded by his best looking bitches. Darlene was the first to step up and kiss his huge pinkie ring, shaped in gold and encrusted with diamonds, it showed a woman on her back with her legs splayed in the air. All the other macks and pimps cheered as they knew he was a righteous player of the game but they became silent as Freddy started to talk. Gentleman and bitches, from this moment forth I am out of the game. Look after my bitches, they all work real hard for my money and they could for you too, if you treat them right. I ain’t Freddy Rich no more. I am Frederick B. Walters and me and Darlene here are off to Long Island and a life of ease. I salute you! Freddie Walters and Darlene left to rapturous applause.

Freddie Buster Walters never made it to Long Island. Darlene did though, with all the correct account numbers and passwords for Freddie’s extensive wealth. Rosie had brought Freddy’s small derringer from Oakland, had been let into the hotel suite by Darlene and when Freddie was asleep the two lovers finished him off. They weren’t very accurate with the shots or the knife wounds and Freddie took about twenty minutes to die a gurgling death. It just goes to show; as soon as you leave the game you be a chump and a square and you will be played, just like Frederick Buster Walters.

2006-11-16T22:48:00.000Z

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.

2006-11-16T22:35:00.000Z

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 encounter. Taking a few seconds to adjust my eyes I noticed something strange lurking in the depths of the cellar???

All I could do was watch as the intrepid Lindo strode onwards downstairs. What could she see? I saw her shiver twice as she made her way down the rickety stairway, all the time with the comforting noise of the saw by her side. If there was arse to kick, she would truly kick it...

jesus christ.. something had just scurried over my foot..fucking rats I knew we should have called in the pest control..

Amidst the humour, there were still noises aloud. I decide at this point that it was time to get out Uncle's M60. Lindo would not got down to the cellar alone. I stepped up, let her know I was coming and cocked the mammoth weapon in my hands...

I carefully edged my way down scanning the cellar from left to right and then I noticed something at the back of the room that I had never seen before. there at the back was the best wine collection that I had ever clapped eyes on. the noise seemed to be from the corks popping out of the bottles..oh my god what a waste, quickly I ran over to try and save the best vintage..

....too bad Lindo saw the light of fine wine. Just as she had grabbed the bottles that truly needed saving, her long lost great Aunt arose from below and took a great big chunk of flesh out of her arm. I knew immediately that Lindo had minutes, maybe an hour to live as herself. I grabbed the bottles from her arms and kicked her firmly in the stomach. It was too late for her but not for the wines. As I sped up the rickety stairs, the third step broke and I chinned myself proper good. There was blood and everything. As I fell I let a bottle drop, the finest wine ever made ever and it broke on the floor and some of it spilt into the air and into the mouth of the waiting vampire...

the bastard.. if he thinks he can kick me in the stomach and run with the wine he had another thing coming..good job I was medically trained, quickly wrapping a piece of material round my arm I picked up the chainsaw and sliced into Auntie finishing her off with one fell swoop, and now it was time to get the hell out of here..

As my leg was released from the hold of Auntie (all due to Lindo chopping her up proper style) I took the time to grasp the last bottle of wine firmly in my grasp. This was a den of the After Dead. I knew that Lindo had been bitten and therefore, pretty soon, I would have to perish her. But as I watched her chop her way through the masses of the Undead I also knew she was my greatest ally. For the moment...

I knew the next few hours was going to be my greatest battle, knowing that I had been bitten and knowing the consequences I ....

But wait! Suddenly it occurred to Bruce that the curse could be lifted if you killed the head of the family. Lindo could be saved! Would she save herself....

I had to get myself to a place of safety, locked away so that I couldn't harm anybody and to give Bruce time to get me some help, hopefully he would know what to do to reverse the change that would occur within me..

...and it's funny that Bruce was so busy watching Lindo chop seven shades of shit out'a the night hugging mongrels that, for a moment, the importance of the situation escaped him. Not for long though. It all became clear. The headmaster needed to die. Lindo's arm was sagging with the weight of the c'saw, so I grabbed her and thrust my way through the denizens of the dead, taking a few heads with me all due to excessive usage of the baseball bat. Suddenly, I saw a light, like that from the wound of Kerist, shining to me from across the corridor. I knew I must head there with Lindo for full on redemption...

I felt myself getting weak with the loss of blood from my savaged wound, but my mind was sharp and focused, we had to head towards the light and get the hell out of here. the mission now was to find the leader, the head of the vampires and drive a stack through its heart to release me from this curse which would be with me for eternity if we didn’t act fast.. the taste of blood was already in my mouth!!

As I saw the headmaster scamper up the stairs I could also feel Lindo's gaze upon my neck. It was a thin line to walk, being friendly with a vampire but a line that I would see through. I grabbed Lindo and she grabbed me and picked me up. Already her strength was doubling. Together we lurched towards the spiral staircase and upwards. I had a short but sharp wooden ruler from an ancient maths class and Lindo had her, now dormant, C'Saw. We lunged up the steps after the Vampyre Nostra DOminicus...

the head vampire was in our sight, he knew that we were on his trail and that battle was to commence..

The upper courtyard was barren of everything but stone. There was a stone floor, a stone battlement and not much else. At first sight Magnus (head vampyre) was a weedy man, a man such that Lindo might crush between her thighs, but no! He doubled in height as he rose up before us. I nudged Lindo, as if suggesting that if there was any a time for her near vampiric tendencies to be put to use, it would be now. Her eyes rolled, the blood in her eyes abated for a moment and she stood up of her own accord. She growled, I cocked the shotgun..she was about to fly...

the power was surging through my veins, a feeling, which was awesome, I knew I could take on this evil being. I suddenly rose from the ground with the most immense strength surging through my veins; this was the time to kick ass. I lunged towards the demon knocking him to the ground, only for him to jump to his feet and meet my challenge. our eyes locked.......

....and at this point, feeling a little left out, Bruce pulled the triggers. Now, it could never be said that the Lord of the Underground was a handsome fellow, but after digesting the rapid output of a two Mac 10's, there was not much head left. Bruce chose the moment to be a hero, little realising that Lindo, amidst the struggle of the Nearly Dead, had already pulled The Lord Vampyre's tongue out of his mouth and wrapped it around his legs. Bullets didn't hurt the situation much, as Lindo and the Lord lay in a heap on the floor. How would Lindo arise? As one who needed further culling? Or as one who needed a good agent in Hollywood?

lucky for Bruce amongst all the flying bullets, the moment I had pulled out the vampire's tongue I had reached for the sharpened ruler which Bruce had given me and plunged it deep into the lord’s heart..I slumped to the ground on top of the evil demon and felt all that immense strength slowly drain from me...

.....yeah, immense strength, blah-de-blah. All I saw was fucking bonfire night. There were explosions; green light emanating from Lindo's mouth, rising to the sky and exploding. It was clear that we had conquered some kind of fucked up Ancient Evil, with a chainsaw, good looks and the right attitude. Medals would not be awarded but they should be. Never be afraid of the dark. Embrace it and, if needs be, fuck it up!

The morale of this tale is never down four bottles of very pleasant red wine and then go and explore a derelict house with Bruce....

2006-11-15T21:57:00.000Z

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 Friday, in representing her case, be heard with fair and kind consideration, if not solely for the toll this is taking on her health, then perhaps just to enable the smooth running of this fast-track case as Francine’s hearing is far from perfect.

I have no legal experience but have been asked by a mutual friend, who is concerned about Francine’s situation and ability to represent herself adequately due to her deteriorated health, if I might help. I understand that this is perhaps rather late in the day to be making such a request but I have only just been asked to help and this seems to me to be the best way to approach you concerning these, hopefully, extenuating circumstances.

Either way I shall be present at your courtroom on Friday at ten with the hope that you will allow Francine Hurley some assistance.

Thank you very much for your time.

Yours sincerely,

Bruce Campbell

---------------------------------------------

Barnstaple Court
Civic Centre
Barnstaple
EX31 1DY

10.10.06

Dear Judge Willow,

I thought it only right to send you another short missive to thank you for the help and consideration that you clearly showed to me on that most interesting (at least for me) of days, last Friday.

The level of nervous energy that was coursing through my system is best comparable to the first time I dove from a sixty-foot cliff. Trepidation and exhilaration combined with a suspicion that a visit to the lavatory might be wise. However, despite being somewhat of a stranger in a strange land, I did not feel completely lost and this was due to you being so accommodating of a layman.

I do not imagine I shall be sat before you again so I send my best wishes. I was contemplating sending flowers but, what with all the recent media coverage of two certain mildly errant judges, I was concerned that I might embroil you in a fresh bribery case.

Yours Respectfully,

Bruce

2006-07-18T21:59:00.000Z

2006-06-26T19:36:00.000Z

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?!

2006-06-26T11:38:00.000Z

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, coz it's gonna be a shitty fucking night tonight and no mistake."
"Yep sarge, got me wellies and extra pair a'woolie socks!"
"Good thinking lad. And make proper sure you bring all your bracelets. There'll surely be plenty of ravey kids that needs locking up for their own good tonight."
"Yep sarge, I'm proper prepared. But I don't understand why they wanta dance in a field."
"It's the droogs son, the droogs!"

Sorted for e's and whizz. And coke and ketamine, acid and shrooms, and a bottle of amyl nitrate or 'animal' as the two of us like to call it - for very good reason! And I had a sneaking suspicion that Darren had a fat wrap of brown for afters. Me and him had been driving for most of the day and we still had sixty miles to cover to Cornwall - and then we had to find the only field in the county with a pumping pa and hundreds of ravers in it. It was already getting dark so we'd be able to follow the lights to the party, right? "I hope they got the lights sorted." said Darren. Me and Darren had always thought along the same lines. Especially on acid.

"Al'right Kathleen luv, throw the switch now!" *click*FLASH* "And we have light people, now we can see what we're effing doing." Cars and vans had been arriving for about an hour now, full of party people full of effing e's, all wanting the free party to be in full swing about half an effing hour ago. Unfortunately, the only banging tunes were on the stereos in the vehicles, but that didn't stop the genuine nutters bouncing around getting in the effing way of the effing professionals. "They want effing tunes but they ain't doing effing eff about anything." I was mumbling to myself, plugging the phono sockets in.
"Rick darling, don't grumble. It shall all be fine, and a dandy party, no doubt." Ah, the ever comforting words of Kathleen. "Oh, and Richard, there are some policemen down at the gate stopping our guests from entering." O effing marvellous.

"No son, no party here, so why not boiger off."
"But officer, where are those lights coming from then, eh?"
"Look, my lad, don't play the clever turnip with me ol'roight, or I'll have Hunt here slap you in chains, you see if I don't."
"Look officer, there's a queue of cars here and we both know why and there isn't anything you can do about it. Officer plod."
"That's sergeant to you!"
"Thank you Hunt. Now my lad, if you'll be so good to step out of the car, I'll search you for droogs."

“Oh shit Kev, now we're fucked." Darren had a point. We'd just started on the charlie as we were chilling in the queue of cars and now me and my big mouth had gotten us in the shit. We were both carrying enough narcotics to kill a horse and now I'd gone and pissed off officer plod here. But the charlie wouldn't shut itself up. "Alright there officer, if you'll just let us through I won't press any charges against ya." And I gave him one of my winning smiles.
"Very good sir. Now if yoi'll exit your vehicle before I have to smash yoi teeny wee skull in."
"Shit," we both thought,"we're proper scuttled now."

"Oh 'ere we go Kath, police hassling the punters already. Flipping brilliant!”
“Well Richard, I’m sure you’ll be able to smooth the situation out with your excellent diplomatic skills.”
“Yeah right Kath, I’m about as effing diplomatic as a cow. Oh shit, that’s me mobile….babe, I gotta go back to the tent. They’ve got their effing wires crossed. You wouldn’t be a darling and sort this mess out for us?”
“Of course Richard. Off you go, leave this to me.” That’s Kath for you, absolute blooming star. She looked like a million dollars and could talk the gold plate of me fake rolex.

“Roight lad, if you’d be so good as to lean against your car,…”
“Oooof!”
“…, I shall proceed to pat you down.”
“Er, I’m a haemophiliac officer. You can’t touch me. Isn’t that right Darren?”
“Yep, can’t touch him. Or me.”
“Bollocks. Hunt lad, get your bracelets at the ready. I have a feeling we’re about to nick these two.”
“Got ‘em sarge.”
“Why officer. We’re innocent!”
“S’right. We’re not guilty!”
“Really lads? Well, I have this gut instinct, coz I am an officer of the law, that you are nicked, unless you’re both travelling pharmacists…”
“Is it droogs sarge? How do you tell?”
“It’s me years of experience, Hunt lad, a quick wit and an eagle eye.”
“Cor.”

We were fucked and no mistake. Darren looked at me from across the roof of the car and I looked at him. Right proper screwed. And then this saviour appeared, this angel in yellow Wellington boots.
“Hello sergeant, I was wondering if you could possibly help me. I’m in a spot of trouble.”
“Terribly sorry ma’am but I’m busy detaining these two scallies…”
“Who you calling a scally?”
“Shut it lad!”
I was still trying to keep my trap shut but the Charlie just wouldn’t have it. The angel put a hand on officer plod’s shoulder and gave him the full effect of her pearly whites.
‘Well played lady!’ I thought. So did Darren.

Right. All we need now are some records and a DJ or two. Knowing our effing luck they’ll be stuck in that convoy down by the gate. C’mon Kath, do your thing.
“You see the trouble sergeant?”
“Yes ma’am. Your flatmate, the Queen’s niece, is stuck at Exeter station and looks loike she’ll be late for her natural birthing ceremony….”
“Which is just about to start in our tent as soon as all our guests have arrived…”
“Roight, and the Queen’s niece needs an escort from Exeter to here you say.”
“Indeed officer. I don’t suppose……?”
“Hunt me lad, you stay here and direct the guests to the tent. I shall leave for Exeter Central station immediately.”
“O officer, you really are too darling! Beatrice will be overjoyed to have such a sweet policeman escort her, but you’d best hurry as she could be waiting there now. She might be a little later though…..”
“No problem ma’am. Leave it to me.”
“You’ll probably get a knighthood sarge!”
“Probably, hunt lad, probably.”

“Roight lads, if you’d be so kind as to get into your vehicle and proceed through the gate so the rest of the guests can get in I’d be much obliged.”
“Of course officer.”
“No problem officer.”
“Thank you officer.”
“Hunt lad, I’ll be leaving you in charge.”
“Righteo sarge, leave them to me. I’ll get all the droogs!”
“No lad, you will not. You will guide the Queen’s niece’s guests into that there field and you will smile a great deal.”
“Right you are sarge.”
“Good. I’m off to Exeter.”
“Ah constable, I’m just off back to the tent to meet our guests. Do let me send down a thermos of coffee for you.”
“I’m okay fankyou ma’am. I shall do my duty to the Queen.”
“Nonsense constable. I insist that you have some coffee whilst you do your duty. I’ll send some right down.”
“O, okay ma’am.”

“Jesus..”
“fucking H..”
“Christ.”
Then the angel came knocking at my window. “Hello boys, I’m Kath. I don’t suppose you’d be as kind as to give me a lift back upto the tent?” Wow, look at that smile! Even if she hadn’t just saved me and Darren’s drug riddled bacon, I would have given this divine intervention a lift wherever she wanted to go.
“Sure, ma’am, jump on in! I’m Kev and this is Darren.”
“Hi Kev, Hi Darren. Thanks.”
“Thank you!” in unison.
“Was that a narrow escape then boys?”
“Err, it was a flipping miracle Kath!”
“Here we are, just to the left there. I was wondering, would one of you be a complete darling and take a thermos of coffee down to our police sentry on the gate?”
“Of course…” I was saying as Darren interrupted.
“Give it to me. I’ll do it.”I looked at Darren and saw a glint in his eye and a tiny smile turning up the side of his mouth.
“Why thank you Darren.”
Errrrrrrrrr. Yeah right.

Well, quite an effing free party this has turned out to be! Here I am standing like a wanker behind the decks with no records and no DJ to be seen. The punters that made it past the effing SS road block are still dancing around the cars like trip happy beat junkies. “It’s all effing marvellous!”
“Deep breathes Richard dear, here comes the cavalry.”
“Kate! You pulled it off didn’t you? You should be a negotiator for the effing UN!”
“But Richard…”
“I know honey, what would I do without you! C’mere girl.”
“Oh Richard.”

“Hey Darren, howzabout we drop a couple more tabs each, y’know, to get to old juices running good and proper?”
“Er, we can’t Kev.”
“Why not mate? We got the whole night. No fuck that, we got the whole weekend to get good and fucked up. I demand that we continue to get righteously unbalanced right now.”
“Er.”
“Kev, dear tripped out colleague-o-mine, give me some acid!”
“Can’t mate.”
“Why not man? Where are the little beauties? You haven’t fucking dropped the lot have you?!” I was beginning to lose my cool. Normally I am a very level headed, calm collected sort of bloke. But what with the Charlie and the first couple of micro dots well and truly kicking in and then Darren apparently turning all his screws loose, I was definitely losing it. I was being tested. I realised this and so steeled myself for the answer.
“I put them in the coffee.”
My fuse having been lit, I was preparing to blow. “What fucking coffee Darren. You total fucking loony we don’t have any….”and then I shut up.
Darren twirled the thermos he was carrying around his finger like a deranged gunfighter and looking straight ahead he smiled that smile that I have never felt conveyed anything but twisted intent and, normally, bodily harm.
“Fuck me Dazza, you really are a total fucking loony.”

“Through the gate, up the hill and turn left.”
“Fanks officer.”
“No problem sir. It’s my duty.”
“Er, right.”
“And I can inform you that my sergeant is on his way to pick up the Queen’s cousin’s niece right now.”
“Okay.”
“And that the natural birthing ceremony will commence as soon as they arrive.”
“Natural birthing? I fought this was a free party.”
“Free part? Dancing in fields…? Have you get any droogs sir?”
“Er no. I’ll just head on up then shall I?”
“Oh hello lads.”
“Hiya PC Hunt.”
“Howz it going PC?”
“I have everything under control.”
“Good, good, glad to hear it. We need good men like you to watch over us in our hour of need. Was it not Shakespeare who said ‘When those tempestuous skies…’”
“Shut up Kev. Here you go mate, here’s that coffee.”
“Thankyou lads. This will help me do my duty.”
“Probably.”

BOOM BOOM BOOM “COME AGAIN SELECTA!” BOOM BOOM BANGITY BOOM “WHO’S LOVING THE RUSH? DJ COME CROSS!” WOO WOO BOOM BOOM BOOM
“…fucking excellent party…”
“…loving those mental tunes…”
“…fucking cars stuck in the mud…”
“…strawberries mate, five quid for the two…”
“…so I said to him…”
“…she sodding told me to…”
“WHO WANTS THE REWIND?!”
“…poppers mate. I was dancing like a mad man. Absolutely fucking blinding! Literally, I thought I was dead like..”
“…lets double drop again…”
“…like we did last summer..”
“…Right!”

“Fuck me Dazza, it’s started. Feel that base…”
“..In my face! Mental bastards, lets go.”
“And we’re running up the hill towards the throbbing, flashing tent fiddling with button bags and wraps and delving deep into our pockets for that elusive pink pig pill, dropping things everywhere, mostly down our throats. We’d been surviving on lines of yang before coz we didn’t know when it was going to kick off so now we were sadly well behind on our evening’s pharmaceutical plan of action.
“It’s gonna take a while for us to get fucked.”
“Maybe Kev, maybe.”
“What!? What’ve you got?”
“I have a glass pipe and I have some crack cocaine.”
“Fuck me Darren, you are off you’re head. I’ve never had this before. What’s it like then?”
“Well, it will turn you and me into mental having-it dancing ninjas for ten minutes and will stimulate your nervous system and whack the pills into third gear.”
“Sixty miles an hour?”
“One hundred and twenty mate. It’s a Porsche.”

2006-06-25T18:05:00.000Z

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!

2006-05-11T13:01:00.000Z

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 landing gear switch for awhile before he put it in his pocket.”

Jack wondered ,”I didn’t notice a missing ear.”

“Well, he got an old papa-san to whittle him a new one out of bamboo but it didn’t fit so he shot him. Then he realised it was upside down and now he swears he can hear better out of that then the original. Shot his daughter too, mad bastard.”

Jack goggled ,”Jesus.”

“Sweet fucking Jesus. That’s what I said when I saw the flash from the trees and then the thin plume of dirty smoke head towards us with a missile in front of it. Fucking sneaky bastards had Chinese S.A.M.s and we were fucked! I shit my pants and Mad Frank starts hollering like a klaxon.”

Jack blinked ,”What was the crate? DC9?”

“Yeah, a flying brick. I tried to fly right the fuck out of its path but it’s got the turning circle of a….of a….well, shit, it hasn’t got one, not at 200 knots and with a missile coming head on at you.”

His companion pictured the scene and found it hard to believe that Brokowitz was here to buy the next round of warm beer. “So?”

“So?” He turned to look at Jack with the cold 1000-yard stare of someone who’s died and lived to tell the tale. “So the missile was getting bigger and bigger and coming straight towards the cockpit and I began to weep and that mad bastard turned to look at me and said ,”Have you shit yourself? I can smell shit.” We looked at each other as the windscreen shattered and the wind rushed over us. I wish that I could read Vietnamese so I could tell what those cunning pyjama-wearing motherfuckers had scrawled on the side of that missile.”

“What?”

“That’s right. It didn’t explode on contact but just bust through the window, shot between me and Mad Frank’s head, straight down the cargo hold, straight through the stomach of the bombardier and blew a hole out of the tail fuselage.”

“What? That’s fucking impossible…”

The captain nodded into his beer glass ,”I know, but that’s what happened. Strangest things happened in the Nam and not just when we were high.”

“Fuck,” said the trainee pilot.

“Fuck indeed,” concurred his teacher.

The cargo plane dropped below the cover of the clouds and Captain Jack Burton pushed down hard on the stick, making the plane hug the contours of the jungle, palm fronds being whipped apart by the propellers. “Sweet fucking Jesus Lenny, I think we lost it!” The navigator nodded in a daze. The plane tore across the canopy of trees and then shot out over the Mekong delta surprising a flurry of migrating flamingos as they rested on their single legs in the water. “Shit,” both men quietly commented.

When the plane was found two weeks later it was mostly still pink and feathered.

2006-05-10T12:23:00.000Z

She was a small 27-year-old from Buenos Aires with long dark hair on her head and prolific over her pussy. She fidgeted constantly, always seemingly ill at ease wherever she was and would make small ’mewing’ sounds to accompany her mild spasms. Her English was patchy and she would often spill into Spanish despite noone around her being able to understand her effusive explanations. She described herself as a “bad woman” but never elucidated her misdemeanours and she dressed like she slept in a box behind the municipal library, albeit quite a smart box.

Our relationship was barely one; the conversations were notably one sided as was the sex. She seemed consistently elsewhere when what was really needed was her immediate presence between my legs. It was a struggle but I was stronger so I normally won. One night she bucked and mewed whilst I nearly drowned in her cinnamony juices and then when I resurfaced for treats she rolled on her side and waved a little hand dismissively in my direction. I looked at the curve from her backside upto her shoulders and focused on the freckles that populated her back. I still had fun with her that night. A little later on when she was asleep I joined the dots with a felt pen and made a big mess.

Things continued much in the same vein for the remainder of the two months that we saw each other. It was convenient for me that her interest was so cursory as she did not interfere with my project and I enjoyed paying her way and talking gibberish to a head that was normally looking elsewhere. In addition, her backside was perfect; if anyone ever tells you that there is a better means of stress relief than a quick squeeze of pert bum tissue then take it for written that I disagree. She only occasionally turned with a ferocious look of Latin execration on her pockmarked face and I would have to grab first one wrist and then the other as they headed towards my cranium and instead take a sharp knee to the balls.

All was good until she either failed to understand or simply ignored the door to the basement clearly labelled “KEEP OUT FUCKERS!” I did my fly up as I left the bathroom only to see the door ajar and a light on down the steps. Then Maria screamed and her small feet came bounding up the stairs carrying her rigid torso straight into my arms. I tried to explain but she could not understand so I carefully broke her delicate neck. I don’t normally keep mementoes but I still have her bottom and her right breast because that was my favourite one.

2006-04-16T21:07:00.000Z

So, one from Brown Lady to the next. I am experiencing problems with a particular petite, dark number who hails from Buenos Aires and whom I am drawn to like a rusty magnet to the earth’s iron core, despite my best efforts. She looks like a young Teri Hatcher and her smile makes me smile uncontrollably, even that one time when she shut the passenger door on my fingers and then giggled innocuously as if the world is so wonderful that a few crumpled and soon-to-be purple fingers cannot even begin to abate the joy. Perhaps it has something to do with the heightened blood temperature coursing through our veins in the recent spate of sunny days, but as soon as I met her I wanted her. So I asked her out and she agreed upon the idea. Hence followed two weeks of me behaving like an absolute gentleman; everything from opening doors to waking at 6a.m. to pick her up from Bristol after she had spent a week with her ex-boyfriend in Spain. Not that I want appreciation for the fact as I deem it to be the proper way to behave, but she did not dip her hand into her pocket once for three weeks as I took it to be my honour to pay her way. I must make it quite clear that I expect no reimbursement for such things, be it monetary or otherwise, as this is simply the way I operate when I find someone for whom it is a pleasure to do such things. Friends told me that I was being a fool, being played, being taken advantage of. And perhaps I was to an extent but such an extent that I was happy to entertain. Everything seemed to be progressing satisfactorily; intimacy was achieved after our second date and, dare I say it, the sex was good. No, it would have been good but with the burgeoning emotional connection I felt towards her, it became great. I could now expound on her wonderful ways above and below the sheets but I shan’t because I’m at work and noone is going to join a DVD store that is fronted by a wide-eyed, drooling and shaking pervert. Anyway, what I’m trying to make clear, dear Teegs, is that all was very well in the World of Bruce and M. That was until two weeks ago when, to cut a long story slightly shorter, she expressed the view that she was not in a place where she could match my intentions for a potentially longer relationship. She then went on to say that she was unbalanced in her life, insecure, couldn’t believe the compliments I paid her and had always, in the past, ended up with bastards and that I was just too ‘muy simpatico.’

“What the F.?” thought I as she kissed me goodbye and alighted from the car and skipped off into the arms of anybody but me without a glance backwards. Ahhhhhh! The heart rot began immediately, sensations I had not felt in such a time. In all my adult relationships, I think, I have always been the one who was less involved than the other. My last bird is apparently still hooked on the idea that we will eventually end up together, a feeling, as you shall learn if you struggle onwards, that I am now recently made all too familiar with. It is absolutely the pits. Perhaps there are other fish, I thought, but there’s only one with slightly pockmarked cheeks, a bum that I would happily sacrifice myself upon and the tiny ‘mewing’ noise that she makes just before she begins to shake. “I want that fish!” I moaned endlessly. Then, as you say to be the ‘right route’, I spent a day in a big ol’drunk and cleansed her from my mind (and possibly heart etc.) The next day one of the alternative fish that I had been informed about swam confidently into the store. “Fine,” thought I,”M. be damned, her loss, now I shall get back on track and ask this fine filly out.” She beat me to it and all was right once more in the world of Bruce.

That was until three days ago when M. called and wanted to meet. Which we did and chatted and then scrambled into bed. Issues had been resolved, our future at least looked like it now had a future and I easily slipped back into an adoration of the M. I was aglow, although, strangely enough, I did not cancel my date with A. Good thing too as it turns out as, once more, M. has shoved a particularly strong stick in my spokes. It was last night as I drove her from her door to the end of her road so to take us home for an Brucie-Special meal and then a night of sweat and the rest, she suddenly told me ,”I don’t want to spend the night with you tonight.” Honestly, a lesser man might have taken advantage of the passenger ejector seat I had fitted last year, but I decided against it. I drove her back to her door and then we sat in the dark in the car talking about exactly what she is on. If I can remember correctly, she expressed the view that I was far more into her than her into me. I asked her if this was a test – no sex but would I still want to be friends? Again I managed to suppress the desire to boot her out, swear etc and then drive off -–I knew the satisfaction garnered from this impulse would last, at most, two seconds after completion. I asked what had made her mind change so suddenly and unexpectedly and she replied that at least she was being honest and that she had been hurt, like I would be if we continued, before. It felt a little like my kneecaps had suddenly been shot-gunned out from under me. I floundered and explained that if we were only ever going to be friends then I would have to say goodbye right then and there as I will always harbour emotions towards her far stronger than plain, simple, platonic friendship. She looked at me and I looked at her. ‘Right’, thought I ,’this is B.S. She doesn’t have a clue what she’s on about. She’s just fleeing from the potential magic we could generate between us, something which you, Bruce, have done many times before yourself. Fuck it, you haven’t got anything to loose, you can handle the anguish if and when it comes, you’ve been through far worse things, you really like her, you’re obviously convinced she likes you a bit and here I am now about to tell her that I’m not going to quit but I’m going to stick with it and try and help her see that I am potential boyfriend material and just because I’m not a bastard, her normal fayre in men, I shall show a bastard’s perseverance and make her mine over time.’ Yes, that is what I thought and then told her. She shook her head disbelievingly. I started the car, told her I’d still take her to mine, feed her, help her study her English and then drop her back home so she can sleep on her lonesome. By the time we made it to the supermarket to buy every type of sodding vegetable that they had on offer, she had said ,”Yes.” to nothing in particular and as soon as we were back at the flat she was all over me, trying to illicit kisses and cuddles from yours truly. I ignored her and we talked. After the meal she stood in front of me and stretched up on her tip-toes to wrap her arms around my neck and look at me with her head to one side and asked ,”Why do you still have me when I have behaved the way I have for the last month?” I looked into her dark eyes, felt a simultaneous throb in my head and my groin and answered truthfully ,”Because I want to.” Then to bed and no sleep. At about 4a.m. she reiterated her belief that I was a fool and that she wasn’t for me and so I told her I had a date with A. on Thursday. Not a flicker “Where did you meet her?” she asked. “In the shop.” To which she started laughing. I let her chuckle on to herself before I adeptly grabbed a tit and made her make that noise. Conversation was halted. This morning, as I dropped her off at the bank, rather than her normal peck on the lips and then turn and skip away motion, she kissed me properly, then kissed my cheek and then came back for the lips again. Perhaps I am reading too much into it but for a girl who professes no real interest in the Bruce I like to think she is just a little confused. She wished me luck on my date and I thanked her before telling her that I would be calling next week. So, that’s where we are. It’s gonna be hard work and probably won’t happen at all but I am convinced that I should try. We shall see.

2006-03-17T15:11:00.000Z

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 intolerance. I picked up De Quincey's :"Confessions of an English Opium Eater" last night and flicked through it's tough and chewy verbiage to find some jewels. This is a book that I requested as one of the literature prizes that I won at school about eleven years ago, along with Bill Burrough's "Junky", to be awarded to me, in front of peers and parents alike, by the bastard headmaster of the time (long story - unjust urine tests etc. etc!) just to cause a small stir - as it turns out, I missed the ceremony due to engorging myself on marijuana in the sun with friends, before the beginning of the holidays. I meander. Well, actually, whilst I am here, perhaps it is notable that I turned into a junky myself (part-time admittedly and not for along time from this moment onwards etc etc) while having every benefit a growing lad could have, including the opportunity to get my mitts on any book, or any drug. I guess I was just fascinated (and easily influenced, experimental, curious, unafraid, foolish etc etc).

Fuck it, anyway, Confessions was written in 1821-ish A.D. which explains why it can be hard going. However, I read most of it last night and found a few absolute gems. I include a couple hear because I think they are relevant to myself right now. So there...

"In like manner, I do by no means deny that some truths that have been delivered to the world in regard to opium: thus it has been repeatedly affirmed by the learned, that opium is a dusky brown in colour; and this, take notice, I grant: secondly, that it is rather dear; which I also grant:for in my time, East-India opium has been three guineas a pound, and Turkey eight: and, thirdly, that if you eat a good deal of it, most probably you must do - what is particularly disagreeable to any man of regular habits, viz. die." Penguin Classic p. 72

AHa Ha Ha...and on the distinction between fine wine and fine opium:

"But the main distinction lies in this, that whereas wine disorders the mental faculties, opium, on the contrary (if taken in a proper manner), introduces amongst them the most exquisite order, legislation, and harmony. Wine robs a man of his self-possession: opium greatly invigorates it." Page 73.

And finally, for good measure, the words of the surgeon Dr Abernethy:

"'I will maintain' said he, 'that I do talk nonsense; and secondly, I will maintain that I do not talk nonsense upon principle, or with any view to profit, but solely and simply,' said he, 'soley and simply, - soley and simply, (repeating it three times over), because I am drunk with opium; and that daily.'" Page 74.

Hmmmm.

See also: Plan B - "Missing Links."

2006-02-04T00:30:00.000Z

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 will add up eventually (maybe sopmetime next financial year) and any and all distemper that we have and display is but water off a duck's back. Fuck it - I am having fun - pissed and riding the wave of popular dissent. Life goes on and I need another beer right now, so I'm off. I'll probably be back later - in about ten hours time to say the same shit. O man, people are strange, when you're a stanger...etc

2005-12-14T17:21:00.000Z

Happiness is Togetherness, champagne, water and a small fish.

2005-12-14T17:12:00.001Z

Charlotte making last minute repairs to her outfit, by the sea.

2005-12-14T17:12:00.000Z

Tomat looking a bit like a triplely hard bastard gangsta, by the sea.

2005-12-14T17:10:00.001Z

Bruce laughing at his own joke (again), by the sea.

2005-12-14T17:10:00.000Z

Dan and pizza slice, getting to know each other.

2005-12-14T17:09:00.001Z

2 hours and one pizza slice before "I do!"

2005-12-14T17:09:00.000Z

3 hours and half a speech before 'ching,ching'!

2005-12-14T17:08:00.002Z

"Hey, hey man, stay away from the slice. Ah-Huh."

2005-12-14T17:08:00.001Z

2 hours are not enough for him to get dressed.

2005-12-14T17:08:00.000Z

Rock chick slash KGB seductress look. Ahem.

2005-12-14T17:07:00.002Z

"Look, I'm so calm and collected, I can't do my shoelaces!"

2005-12-14T17:07:00.001Z

Nice belt-shoe coordination going on there.

2005-12-14T17:07:00.000Z

Very dapper Stu. Just one thing, that's my suit mate!

2005-12-14T17:06:00.000Z

"Say 'Nibblesome-cheesey-bits!'"

2005-12-14T17:05:00.001Z

'Didn't lose the rings. Good. Ten minutes to finish speech. Not so good. Hat. Impeccable.'

2005-12-14T17:05:00.000Z

Unfortunately, despite his muppetry, you have to credit Tomat on his timing....

2005-12-14T17:04:00.002Z

The Artful Dodger at age 27.

2005-12-14T17:04:00.001Z

Ollie emerging from the jungle, a la Predator.

2005-12-14T17:04:00.000Z

What a Happy Chap!

2005-12-14T17:03:00.001Z

Excellent curves, wonderful frame, what a set of hooters! O, and Kate and Ben.

2005-12-14T17:03:00.000Z

Funny captions on a postcard please.

2005-12-14T17:02:00.001Z

"I look so happy because I slaughtered this polar bear with my own two hands!"

2005-12-14T17:02:00.000Z

Stupot. What a happy clappy smiley chappy!

2005-12-14T17:01:00.002Z

Work it Dan, work it!

2005-12-14T17:01:00.001Z

"Right, round the table quickly.." Charl starts with a look of questionable intention....

2005-12-14T17:00:00.003Z

...and the graceful Natalie (I think) cracking knuckles...

2005-12-14T17:00:00.002Z

...followed by Tom who is trying to smile without dribbling....

2005-12-14T17:00:00.001Z

...then Daisy whose neck had come loose...

2005-12-14T17:00:00.000Z

...and Dan, still pondering if my cry of ,"Nice thatch" was directed at him or the roof...

2005-12-14T16:59:00.000Z

...and Simon looking like a disenchanted, rabid Cornish farmer...

2005-12-14T16:58:00.001Z

...and finally me looking incomparably smug about something or other.

2005-12-14T16:58:00.000Z

Daisy and Dan enjoying speech immensely.

2005-12-14T16:57:00.003Z

Best Man's speech done and dusted and Stu's feeling pretty damn good. Huzzar!

2005-12-14T16:57:00.002Z

Ben and Si. Notice satanic symbology of a certain bloomage....ahem.

2005-12-14T16:57:00.001Z

Nat's funny bone was also tickled pink.

2005-12-14T16:57:00.000Z

A missive from Mr Boyd and Mr Ben is speechless.

2005-12-14T16:54:00.001Z

Thumb-sucking rules!

2005-12-14T16:54:00.000Z

Ben and Bruno and Boyd's Boat.

2005-12-14T16:53:00.001Z

"Demented? Moi? Surely not. I've just trapped my left testicle in a car door is all."

2005-12-14T16:53:00.000Z

Bubbles! How they doth float and shimmer and pop.

2005-12-14T16:52:00.001Z

It's all smiles just before Daisy performs the famous reverse head-spike-grab-slam, a la WWE.

2005-12-14T16:52:00.000Z

"Hey, hang on! Where the fucks the end of my nose?!"

2005-12-14T16:50:00.000Z

Dr Roger, possibly thinking ,"That's the last of my kids married off. Thank the Lord."

2005-12-14T16:49:00.002Z

Stu and Bruno discussing the merits of crotchless knickers.

2005-12-14T16:49:00.001Z

Stu and Bruno noticing I have a pair on my head.

2005-12-14T16:49:00.000Z

A cricket umpire, Ben's sister Anna (I think) and Ben's pa.

2005-12-14T16:48:00.000Z

Anna again. Can we say "photogenic"?

2005-12-14T16:47:00.000Z

Bruce again. Can we afford a new lense?

2005-12-14T16:46:00.000Z

The charming Ms. Pyke with my cigarette.

2005-12-14T16:44:00.002Z

Once again, all good intentions of sobriety successfully ignored.

2005-12-14T16:44:00.001Z

"Look Kate, a dancing squirrel!" (How have I managed to dribble down my waistcoat again?!)

2005-12-14T16:44:00.000Z

"I sense you're thinking something right now Bruce..."

2005-12-14T16:43:00.000Z

"No, don't tell me. I can read your mind!"

2005-12-14T16:42:00.000Z

"Hey, don't hate the playa, hate the game!"

2005-12-14T16:41:00.001Z

Did someone say "Dancing Squirrel?"

2005-12-14T16:41:00.000Z

"Oi! Lanky! Piss orf! I'm trying to nibble me nuts!"

2005-11-18T16:00:00.000Z

Far from being sensible, as always, I find myself reemerging into the slightly differently tinted light of a day, a week, a month, without the tendrils of hallucinogens tweaking my cerebellum. It is all because I have taken full participation of a little known and publically frowned upon season that occurs sometime around September. Each year the exact dates differ and I think they mostly depend on the weather and the toilet habbits of one's local bovine populace. I am talking, of course, of the Mushroom Season.

I recently met someone in one of my local public houses, this one being The Junction on Mutley Plain, who has dreads down to her backside and a face full of metal, leaning against a speaker and staring intently at the ceiling. I watched her for awhile noting how she occasionally rubbed her small pot-belly showing between her top and trousers, how she licked her lips and how she smiled as she watched what she saw above her head. I knew perfectly well it was only swirly patterns of paint but I could see that she was twisted, one way or another, and that she was seeing far beyond what was actually there. The band that night, a loose collective of eight who have the audacity to call themselves "Riffalicious", kept me entertained for a while but I couldn't keep my eyes off this tripping yogurt-weaver and on the way to the gents I tapped her on her shoulder and said hello.

Hey there. Is the sky about to fall on our heads?

My head is the sky. What? Er, what?

It's okay, I was just curious as to what you were seeing.

Oh. Well, the normal. You know.

Yeah, I think I probably do. Shine on.

On my way back to my table we smiled wickedly at each other and she carried on twirling about to the metal and staring at the ceiling.
Two days later and she came into the shop with a friend and we got talking. It transpires that her brother-in-law has a farm and one of his fields is annually home to gazillions of mushrooms. Liberty Caps. Smallish, lanky, soggy, weepy, chewy, emesia-inducing shrooms of mush that when imbibed allow the imbiber a temporary release from the constricitons of mental normality. Yes, you trip the fuck out.

So that's what I've been doing for the past month and a half. Not everyday because then you build up a tolerance to the little bastards, but several times a week. Some people boil them into a tea, or eat them between bread because they can make you vomit violently if you're stomach is not hardened to such things. My personal method of self-application is cherry yoghurt. The yoghurt covers most of the taste and the bits of cherry flesh mix up with the stalks and heads of the shrooms and you can gobble down fifty caps in seconds.

The trip on fresh mushrooms, straight from the field, is quite calm really. Even if you take upwards of 200, depending on your mental constitution and experience, things never really get out of hand, like they can do on strong acid or deep in a plummeting K-hole. I've been munching about fifty a time to facilitate a nice and easy mellowing of perception into an amalgam of free thoughts that make a change from the normal ones. I have also been watching the entire A-Team series back to back whilst tripping, TV I have not seen since I was about ten and the funny thing is that I have started eating Sandwich Spread again. By the bucketful. I can't get enough of the stuff. I remember when I was about eight or ten, I used to eat Sandwich Spread on toast in front of the A-Team. Talk about a flashback.

Then the season comes to a close, because the weather becomes too harsh for the spores to spread, and you are left with those mushrooms which you haven't gobbled and are now drying or dried out. Now, I haven't done mushrooms seriously for about a decade and it appears that I must have forgotten some bits of useful information about the whole practice in the intervening years. For example, well, no, the only example of this is that I forgot that dried shrroms are about three times as potent as fresh ones. Admittedly, I only forgot this for about the fourty minutes it took me to come up on the first handful of dried shrooms that I took, but I was certainly reminded in no uncertain terms. The expression you are looking for is ,"Tripping my bollocks off!" I used it many times that night, normally in conversations with the mirror or the cardboard cut-outs of Uma and Will Ferrell floating about my flat.

Anyway, all that has come to a close now and it is almost as much of a trip to return to normal, everyday perception. Apparently Chev has dried some shroms and will distribute at Christmas time.

Another of my best friends tied the knot recently. It was another great wedding and as Charlotte was repeatedly heard to exclaim, "This is really FUN!" And so it was and so it should be. Here's some of the pictures that tell the day's story from my point of view. I can't be arsed to write anymore. For God's sake, I haven't written anything in months and you want more?! Well, I've got news for you - this is it buster. Deal with it. And send those you-know-whats. Please. Merci. De nada.

As soon as I work out how to effing do it.

2005-08-05T18:16:00.000Z

Dappled light amidst the evening breeze
Blinding me and curling leaves
Which will fall and tumble down
To lay like lost organs on the ground.

"Yes, it’s called Autumn. Well done. Are you taking your medication?"

Pill upon pill upon pill upon pill
Upon a high right now flying free
But pretty soon my arse will kill
As I have to take this suppository.

"Right, well feel free to leave out the details. Still talking in rhyme I see?"

Rhyme is some

times so restrictive must o
f
t
e
n
Become manipulative to a degree
With some riddum instead.

"Kerist son, you really are out there."

2005-08-04T18:31:00.000Z

Went to an old school mate's wedding last weekend. St. Lucian born and bred Ziggy (or Chris) was to be wed to the lovely Anna who hails from a small village in Hampshire. I traveled up in my Peugeot. The largest problem I have with that car is the alternator which seems to live upto its name perhaps a little too literally by alternating not only AC to DC but also between working and not working. I think the rectifier is knackerred and according to the voltmeter the damnable thing only charges the battery when the engine is running at 2,500 revs or less. This means that I have to keep the car at under fifty for as much as possible and any chance I get to I free-wheel, I sodding well free-wheel. Redlights are a godsend as I get to spend ten to fifteen seconds idling at the junction, all of which is contributing more juice to the battery. In fact, that alternator has changed my entire driving style. No longer can I use the gears to slow my passage before a bend because if I drop into third in order to carry me round the hair-pin and to allow a quick and fancy exit the revs shoot upto 5,000 and I know that when the car fails to start in the morning it is all my fault. As often as possible I park on hills leaving the car pointed downwards in case I need to perform a rolling start. Anyway, ignoring all that, I floored it from Plymouth upto Salisbury sticking as close to ninety as possible and fuck the consequences. It was Friday afternoon and the Friday Feeling was unfightable. I was on a goddamn mission godammit and I made it in about 2 and a half hours which was rapid indeed. I was picking up the Shirlster at Salisbury and then driving onto Petersfield to pick up Tom and then onto the village where the wedding was being staged. It is a sad state of affairs that between the three of us we have only one car and that car is debatable.

I was sitting in the car outside Salisbury train station as it clinked and clanked during its cooling down cycle. I checked to make sure the battery still had some juice in it and then my phone rang. It was Ben the Shirlster, otherwise known as The Mole due to his extreme astigmatism.

“Bruce, it’s Ben.”

“Yo man! Where you to?”

“O, you know, still at Westbury. The fucking train gets delayed every minute by two more minutes! Fuck it!”

“Sheet. Well, I’m sitting in Salisbury waiting for your sorry arse.”

“I’m sorry man. Have a beer on me. I’d fucking murder a beer right now.”

“Cool. Call me when you know when you’re getting in.”

“Cool. Fuck’s sake……”

I exited the car and headed towards the Railway Inn just across the road. As I did my phone rang again.

“Bitch!”

“Ah, monkey fucker, how you doing? You in country yet?” (Tomat lives in Bulgaria at the moment and was flying in for the wedding.)

“Yes, just.”

“Cool. I’m in Salisbury waiting for the Shirlster. His train keeps getting delayed.”

“Really? How late is it?”

“Well, about an hour so far but it keeps getting prolonged. He’s going mental.”

“Okay, well, that might be cool because I’m a little delayed…”

“What?”

“..yeah, coz I forgot I had to pick my suit up from across London.”

“Tom, you fucking amateur! I thought you were getting into Petersfield at 9?”

“Yeah well, I’m gonna be a bit later mate.”

“How much ‘a bit later’ are you intending on being?”

“Well, I’m sure to be there by 11:30.”

“Shitbags! Fine. Just call me when you’re close. The village is about twenty minutes away, okay?”

“Sure. Laters.”

“Bollocks.”

Two pints, four rollies and almost two hours later Ben arrived. He’s a slightly combustible chap at the best of times but because of the two hour delay and the fact that he had found out that the reason for the two hour delay was that some ,”Fucking wanker saw a plastic bag on a platform and reported it as a suspicious sodding object and the whole Bristol station was closed for fumigation or some fucking thing and what a total wanker!” he took a while to calm down to his normal mostly affable self.

We made it to the village and the pub where everyone was gathered for a pre-nuptial family barbecue. I hadn’t really seen Ben much since his return from Argentina, where he had been living for about three years, but the hour long journey that I had just endured revealed to me that someone or thing had invaded his head and filled it with as many conspiracy theories as possible. Ben regaled me with the truth about JFK’s assassination (“It was the Mafia. Kennedy’s father had promised the Don something and he didn’t pay up. Budda Bing and Johnny gets blown away.”), the Moon landing (“It never happened mate.” Actually, I agree with that.), why Marilyn Monroe was assassinated (“She knew too much so she had to go.”) etc. I dropped Ben off, instructed him to get a grip and went to go and check into our country B&B before 10:30pm. One hour later and I picked Tom up from Petersfield station and we headed back to the Pub for a bit of a lock-in. Chris’ Aunt Sophie was legless and Ben was eyeing up his chances. He might well have been in there but Sophie kept falling over and her ten-year-old daughter was pleading for them to go home.

A working sheepdog at the farm we stayed at.

Meg, who is far from a working sheepdog. She's a bit mental.

Tom being molested by Sprout the Jack Russell and pretending not to enjoy it.

Tom post-molestation."

Tomat and Bengee.

Me et Tom and a bag with the large bottle of Johnson's Baby Oil in for the lucky couple!

Christ. This is all bollocks. Listen, it was a splendid wedding, very moving in a lovely old church with some bearable hymns and a palatable enough sermon etc. Very happy for bride and bridegroom. Lots of pictures in the sun,

Ziggs and Anna

Shirlster, Kate, Benedict and Tom.

lots of champers and delicious canapés on the lawn. Someone fell in the pond. Speeches, dinner,...

Ben theorising in a conspiratorial manner with Nic and Hannah.

...drinks, speeches, cheering, tear, more cheering, dancing, dancing with sixty year old lady, spinning her around rock n’roll style, span her too much, she span out across and over the edge of the dancefloor, like a demented ballerina, hit a chair fell over the table and crashed landed onto the floor. Thankfully no broken hips. Met lovely Irish lass called Cathy who was there with Ziggs’ elder brother Andrew.

The Lovely Cathy.

The lovely Cathy's lovely Leg.

Tom and Zander pissed.

Tom, Cathy, Zander and Cathy's Leg.

Had an argument with good friend James about him being so gaddamn tight with his weed.

Bruce's nasal passages.

Took lots of pictures and then someone stole the bottle of red I was quaffing from, turned to see it was one of the catering staff trying to clean up, found this particularly unacceptable and so chased him into the back tent where old wizened dinner lady of doom attempted to stop me. Fool! I careened around the tent after the bottle of wine they were passing between themselves trying to keep it out of my reach. I stopped following the bottle realising that they were taking advantage of my drunken state, and suddenly lunged at the dinner lady, grabbed the bottle and tore it from her grasp with a triumphant cheer. She turned to the table behind her and came up facing me with a butcher’s knife. I fled screaming like a petrified eunuch but WITH MY WINE! Huzzar!

Tom more pissed.

Tom more pissed still (and looking for a thick ear!)

Anyway, those who were still reveling were finally ejected from the marquee and into the quiet and very sleepy streets of East Mince at about four in the a.m. What followed is patchy at best. I think I was challenging some huge bald bloke who I had been told was the head of South African Special Police Forces to a kung-fu match. Thankfully he was all loved up on something or other and so we ended up leaning against each other for support as we walked about the village singing garbled songs about women that we’d loved and lost. Two people opened their darkened bedroom windows to join in, or possibly to convey their desire for us to “Cease your singing immediately. I didn’t fight in the war to have to put up with this!”

Sometime later still and Tom and I, failing to find Ben, decided enough was enough. Tom couldn’t stand up and only barely managed to mumble whereas I was quite morose because Cathy had left the doorway that we had been sitting in chatting to go and find Andrew and then head to bed. I was particularly enamoured by her Irish lilt and witty banter (and her leg!)by this stage and so obviously felt near suicidal when she got up to leave. Seeing Tom leaning against a wall and dribbling onto his sock made me feel better and so we found my car and set off for the three minute drive back to the B&B. Two things; firstly, Ben’s tent was in the back of my car and, yes, I was incredibly drunk. This has never stopped me before and I am glad to say that Tom, my car and I made it back to the accommodation perfectly fine.

I awoke bleary eyed the next morning and it all came flashing back. It wasn’t so much that I was drunk but more that I was drunk therefore in utter hysterics with Tom when I found myself no longer on the windy country lane but on a tractor path. I tried to amend said detail by yanking the steering-wheel hard to the right, thus hitting the bank between tractor path and tarmac, creaming the front of the car and almost flipping us over. And then there was Ben. Where had he got to after I drove off with his tent? I quickly showered and drove back into the village and to the playing fields where I had last seen the Mole. No sign. Next I tried the pub where Ziggy and Anna and the whole family were having breakfast.

“Hey, morning Bruce! How’s it going? Heard you crashed the car!”

“Morning Chris, hang on how the fuck do you know that?!”

“Small village my friend. And now I guess you are looking for Ben?”

“Oh god, what has he done?”

“Well, as I understand it he broke into Anna’s parents’ neighbours’ house and tried to goto sleep in their bed whilst they were still in it..”

GROAN

..”yes indeed, but they kindly redirected him to the attic room. I believe he is still there. Shall we pop round and drag him out?”

“Yes. And apologise to the owners. I don’t know if adequate apology exists.”

Sunday morning Revelations.

*KERBANG*

"Morning Mole!"

Tom pointing out the fact that he's a retard (and the bank and the bit that fell off my bumper etc. etc. murmur, murmur....)

Anyway, this is a boring story and I’m bored now. It was a wicked wedding and a great laugh. The Peugeot made it back down to Plymouth but then exploded the next day. I have a new car now, thanks to a certain Dr. Jones, so all’s well that starts off sketchy, gets worse, crashes and then end’s well. Blah-de-Blah YAWN!

2005-08-03T16:11:00.000Z

03.08.05

To Whom It May Concern,

I am writing concerning your Toilet Roll Product with Aloe Vera – core number: 04 21 066 5 0945. I purchased a four pack of this product full of expectation for a thoroughly excellent Deposit Accessory. However, to my dawning dismay, upon utilising said product in the time honoured fashion I found it constantly fell apart in my fingers. I will not elucidate any further but you can imagine the angst this left me in and the trouble I had on my hands. It appears that the seams between sheets are too weak and fall apart with the most meagre application of force during a wipe. Even quadrupling the ply by a complicated system of folding, the sheets still failed to hold together adequately so to allow me to satisfactorily finish my absolutions.

I write for your information. I can only hope that this pack was an exception to your otherwise excellent record in my experience. I have one and a half roles left and I am loathe to throw them away. Instead I shall simply grin and bear it. Rest assured I am not a particularly satisfied customer.

Yours Grimacing

Bruce Campbell.

2005-08-03T16:09:00.000Z

RANT BEGIN

Is the concern for the state of the planet a fear over the potential longevity of the planet itself or just the environment that will allows us humans to continue to exist? I think it is quite obvious that the answer is the latter suggestion. There are two pictures here, the Little one that considers us and the Large one that considers Earth.

A characteristic that both we and Mother Earth have in common is a tenacious level of resilience. We have survived together over 4 million years, both the onslaught of cosmic events like meteors and the home grown variations of environment that the earth provides. However, I feel that is no doubt that the earth will still be spinning in space long after we humans are but a memory of concrete foundations and a polluted atmosphere, despite our best efforts.

Dominant species come and go. Presently we Human Animals are experiencing a population explosion that, because of our technology, is not able to be checked by the balancing scheme of Gaia. We can overcome famines, earthquakes and diseases that might otherwise crop our constantly burgeoning population back down to a reasonable number. John Gray, in Straw Dogs: Thoughts on Humans and Other Animals’ talks of a population check from over 6.6 billion to around 1.25 billion as being necessary for us to exist in a harmony within Gaia.

As Gaia is unable to balance us human animals out, as we have taken control of our destines to a far greater extent than, say, the dinosaurs, perhaps it is only fitting that we do the job ourselves. I will have to admit to a moderate level of misanthropic opinion resident inside my cranium but I refuse to believe that humans have more rights to existence than any other fellow animal on this planet just because we have more power. If we cannot sort out our place and behaviour within Gaia and on this earth then perhaps we will get what we deserve.

RANT OVER.

2005-07-08T16:29:00.000Z

Just got caught licking my lips in a very lascivious manner by Freya and Lee-Ann from the sandwich shop. I was idly staring off into the space outside the front of my store when they passed, started to wave, saw the look of festering salivation and hurried on. Obviously the situation has not improved since yesterday. Just been talking to one of my cousins and she is revelling in the fact I am a horny and desperate man at large with a weapon in my palms dying to be aimed and shot at some suitable target (although she prefers the term ‘victim’.) She tells me this makes up for all the times I was getting busy and she couldn’t get hers no matter how sluttish she dressed and behaved. I never told her but I’d have quite happily done her. Yeah, well, we’re like cousins once removed or something. I’ve done a cousin before and it was wonderful. Cigar-butt nipples and a veritable flowing font of cream. Anyway, I digress into the realm of incestous perversion. Enough already.

Got a text from an ex-girlfriend last night who lives in London. After I broke it off I insisted that we have no contact at all as she seemed convinced that when I said, “Look woman, I do not love you.” what I was really saying was ,”Look babe, I’m a man and as such I have no clue as to my real feelings whatsoever and when I say that I do not love you what I actually mean is that I do love you but I just haven’t fully realised it yet and that coupled with the fact that I can sense impending commitment basically scares the Living Heck out of me and makes me want to head for the hills so if you could just bare with me and continue to insist that I don’t know what I’m doing or thinking then I know I’ll come round and we can get married and stuff.” Anyway, I know when I am in Love and when I am not and so that was that. She texted me last night for one of two reasons. The first is that as I had not called to check to see if she was still alive and had not been decapitated by a flying seat on and exploding underground train, she was letting me know that she was still alive enough to punch the keys on her phone. The second is that SHE IS STILL READING THIS BLOG!

2005-07-07T16:49:00.000Z

Legs, legs, legs, passing me by all day. Busoms, bouncing or pert, hair long or short, dark or fair, flicked and shook. Me hard. Very hard indeed. Horny, like a total bastard. Must have a shag soon or, at the very least, a four hour sweaty wank on ketamine. Must score some at next opportunity.

Anyway, that is really neither here nor there. The French have bombed central London today. Poor sports about the whole Olympiad thing. People are dead. Possibly someone I know. I do not care. I don’t know why I am even writing this.

I AM SO BORED MY TESTICLES ARE ATROPHYING.

GOD! Would you look at the split-skirt cruising past again. Those legs are sublime. Pale (clearly protected from the sun), long and thin and when a foot hits the pavement a ripple of tension passes up through the toned arrangement of calf and thigh. Long blonde hair atop a sharply attractive face. Maybe 25 on the way home from work as a legal secretary, flicks her hair and looks at me as she passes by the door. I stare menacingly willing her to turn ninety to the right and stalk in here to me. All I get is a second flick and all her parts are gone. I am on a busy high street. This happens every minute.

I should not complain really as a certain proportion of honey does enter the store and occasionally I end up sat on a terraced restaurant as the summer sun descends into the Solent and I am only seconds away from uttering those choice words ,”Let’s blow this joint baby!” Great words which mean a great situation. They are used because as you and I sit here looking at each other, becoming accustomed to the lips and the eyes and the skin up close for the first time, it is clear we shall be making greater and more personal studies just as soon as we can leave the restaurant without knocking chairs and tables over in our rush for the door. No need for the bar and then the club and litres of alcohol. It’s a done deal. You and me are going to get honestly intimate. How bloody wonderful!

Laura the medical student was the last and that was about a month ago. She’s left the city now – off to another for her final years at Uni. Too bad. She had a lovely friend as well as a tastefully plump bottom and a very sweet smile. God I’m horny. I’m never normally this depraved. I need a sympathy shag. FUCKING BOLLOCKSA!

And now I’m hungry as well. Can I bring myself to eat another pizza or burger or kebab? I’m not sure I can. Fuck this Shit Monsewer, I’m fucking Offski mate!

2005-06-17T17:18:00.000Z

cris smoking

2005-06-17T17:17:00.002Z

new dragon, 2nd day

2005-06-17T17:17:00.001Z

dabbing the dragon

2005-06-17T17:17:00.000Z

more of the tattooing hotness

2005-06-17T16:05:00.001Z

hotness tattooing

2005-06-17T16:05:00.000Z

hotness being tattooed

2005-06-17T15:38:00.001Z

Humpty

2005-06-17T15:38:00.000Z

Humpty 2