Apathy UK

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 yo...

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 ...

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 ...

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. The...

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-...

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, aroun...

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!

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 ...

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! H...

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 ma...

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

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

Too Much Beer and Rebus. Bent at the knees, Contents pouring to the floor, Balls enraged and glowing, From the boot to the groin and fist to the jaw. “Eh, see you Jimmy, I’ll fucking have you, pal! You’re one dead doss cunt” (There’s no where safe for me now in this town.) Inspecting the pavement Hearing the furore from overhead, Carefully checking they’re still both there, Someone’s gonna die, someone’s gonna be deid. “Oi Tommy, fucking leave him, He’s fucking had enough.” Says his lass, As my eyes focus and my fingers close, Around something empty, hard and made of glass. “Not yet. He needs a bit fucking more!” As another boot comes in And I know enough is enough as I move from the floor. His foot finds air where my head should have been. Rising I take his ankle and twist, Enjoy the look on his face as things swing From how it was to how it is, And I move fast and he sees nothing. “You killed him! He’s Dead! TOMMMMMY!” She screams at her ex-boyfriend. Better him than me.

Lindsey and Bruce Wax Drunken Lyrical. So there we were.... on a dark and windy night .... the shutters weren't staying shut..and there was a noise from below... an eerie strange noise that was not of this planet So I tugged gently on Lindo's arm and stood up and moved towards the trap door. Something was alive below.. our minds were racing..what could it be?..heart was pounding so hard that I thought it would beat through my chest. One of us had to approach the door. I didn't want to, nor did she, but to spend the rest of the night awake, in some sort of sleep, but still knowing that IT was alive below our heads was untenable. Lindo grabbed the chainsaw... the revving of the chainsaw now drowned out every noise in the house including the thumping of my heart... ...and I admit, I sat there as Lindo took the reverberating saw in her hands and nodded towards me. I carefully lifted the trap door and Lindo stepped inside... the darkness was the blackest light I have ever had to...

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 co...

Just a quickie. Having another tattoo, this one on my inner lower lip, so once again it is only visible if I allow it etc. But, and this has been bugging me for about a week, what word/words to have? Eh?! Only enough room for one or maybe two words. So far all I have is "BOLLOCKS", "This Hurt" and "Fear & Loathing." The first because that is probably my most frequently uttered word, the second was from a friend but I doubt it shall see the dim glowing light of a day within my mouth as apparently lip tats don't actually hurt much and the last, if you have to ask, you don't know. Any suggestions you lacklustre commenting muthafuckers?!

Big night out tonight and no mistake. "Ain't that right Derek from Falkirk?!" "Too fucking right mate. I'm gonna be right proper cunted later, off me head with biggles with a bit o' charm, eh!" "Well, we'll see you there chum and we can all get donald ducked! Cheers." We pulled out of the carpark leaving Derek from Falkirk eating burgers from one hand and shrooms from the other. Funny who you meet at motorway services. Busy night tonight and no mistake. "It's been an effing busy day already and we still ain't found enough extensions for all the strobes." And as Kathleen had been reminding me all effing day ,"One cannot throw a replete free party with only a glow globe and a few lighters, darling. You must have strobes!" Kathleen was my bird. We had something special even when there was no grass left, only mud, and the strobes wouldn't reach the effing scaffold. "'Ope you brung your wellies young Hunt...

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

BIRDSTRIKE The radar stopped screaming. The clouds rose up and kissed the descending underbelly of the twin-propeller plane. Jack Burton had been a qualified pilot for three days, two hours and three quarters of a return flight to Laos before he encountered a situation only briefly hinted at during his two-year training. Flight Captain Leo Brokowitz had covered comprehensively all aspects of emergency manoeuvres, normally the pilot’s last resort in instance of severe mechanical failure, but had only mentioned ‘missile attack’ the one time when they had propped the bar up for 36 hours and ‘Broko’ had slipped back to his memories of the Tet Offensive. “We’d eaten about two tons of small arms fire flying those damn missions. We didn’t even know what the fuck we were trying to bomb but there was definitely a whole barn full of Charlie ripping shots off at us. Mad Frank, you remember him from that strip joint, Mad Frank’s left ear had been hit and blown clean off. Shit yeah, it stuck to the...