Wednesday, March 24, 2010


I looked at the bear and smiled. His grizzled face was all teeth and fur, but I was not afraid. I didn't run, curl up into a ball or try and spray bear mace in his stupid face. Instead I slowly raised my right hand and waited the appropriate few seconds before saying "Dude don't leave me hanging". The bear fell onto his four paws and grunted at me, before bouncing back upright and slamming his paw into my hand. There was no satisfying slapping sound as it wasn't really skin on skin, and he damn near tore my arm off, but holy crap, it must have been the greatest high five of my life. "So...." I continued, thinking this bonding moment gave me some level of camaraderie with this hairy beast " like gaming?". The bear dropped to all fours again and made a thoughtful rrrr sound, much like a confused dog might. He stepped forward and I resisted the mighty powerful urge to back off (the effort of which made sweat break out down my back) and then circled around. He wandered off back into his cave and I breathed out in amazement and relief. I picked up my shit and turned before I heard a roar. It was the bear berating me. He had a wiimote in his mouth.


Thursday, July 16, 2009


A great lion roared and bit off my head
But I was not dead:
I could still see his mouth
It made an odd house


Friday, July 03, 2009

A Ducks Tale

At 2:56pm on a rainy Sunday afternoon outside Charles De Gaulle station a man wearing a hat two sizes two big buys 2 cornetto’s for himself from an ice-cream van which was once regarded the toast of the town. He pays with change from a woman’s purse, which he had found the previous month and despite a frankly aggressive flyer posting campaign, has never found it’s owner. The ice-cream man, Jean-Claude Froit, notices the purse and assumes that that man’s mother is treating him from somewhere out of sight and gives him an accordingly judgemental stare. The man, Antoine Dechard, has a nervous disposition and assumes that the ice-cream man has judged him for his pink purse and is considering him to be some sort of rapist or serial killer who gets off on using his victims purses once the bodies have been disposed of. His over-thinking of the situation makes him fumble with the zipper on the purse and drop his two ice-creams in a most unfortunate manner. Where he is standing is to be the site of a new street sign proclaiming that ice-cream vans are not permitted on that road, but due to that particular ice-cream van’s previous prominence in the city’s history, the sign has not yet been erected. A small circular hole has however been made in the ground, and miraculously both ice creams fall into it, head to tale so they are standing up in it perfectly, with only the tip of the bottom of a cone peeking out. The man curses his luck but buys no more ice-cream that day, as he immediately sets off to find the owner of the purse and clear his name once and for all.

At 11:27am on an overcast Tuesday morning outside Charles De Gaulle station, the most famous duck in all of the EU is escorting his family to the train station for their summer vacation. General Constanz Quackismo always works hardest through summer, whilst his contemporaries do little but float, and this year would be no different despite his becoming a father for the first time. He has decided to send his family to the coast so that they will have to compete with seagulls for their floating and scavenging rights, and thereby hopefully become tough enough for a military life. Eight out of nine of his children had protested due to there being a summer camp for young birds being held in the base of the Eiffel Tower this year, and false promises of being sent there next year instead by their father didn’t quell the descent. However, the ninth duckling, Pierre Quackismo, had supported his father’s decision entirely, but requested that he alone be allowed to stay and study at his father’s side. General Constanz Quackismo loved Pierre more than all his other children for this one simple request, as never before had he met another duck who wished to study all through the summer months, but always he had dreamed that there be another out there like him. He could not however show favouritism to his children at such an early age so he had denied the request and had taken them all to the station.

At 4:16pm on a cold Monday afternoon, Jean-Claude Froit receives a terrible phone call from the authorities saying that despite his previous services to the great city of Paris, they would be going ahead with the banning of ice-cream vans outside of Charles De Gaulle station. Jean-Claude is furious and tells the authorities that he will not move without a fight and that if they want him gone they will have to send the army. Unfortunately Jean-Claude is in reality a coward, with no heat in his blood to fight anyone so on an overcast Tuesday morning at 11:30am when he spots an army procession heading towards the station, he takes flight in his ice-cream van not even pausing to turn on his trademark music maker.

Pierre Quackismo is in front of the van when this happens, and accepts his fate with remarkable repose for one so young. He pushes his sister Juliette Quackismo out of the way and utters a prayer to keep his family in crusts before the tire rolls over his tiny body. His sister at first believes the push to be a childish game, however as she sees her brother disappear before the beloved ice-cream van her heart breaks and she forgives him all his sins, and laments herself for all of hers.

General Constanz Quackismo is a hard working duck, stern in a way that no-one can explain. It is this dedicated and considered nature that led him to rise so fast in the army, however as he sees his daughter Juliette’s tears and counts his children, his composure disappears in an instant. He explodes into a feral frenzy not commonly seen in ducks and flaps and quacks terror into the hearts of all the commuters around him. A man drops his brioche out of fear, and perhaps as some sort of offering, and the Quackismo children run to gorge themselves on it, not being able to distinguish between sadness and hunger yet at this early age.

At 11:35am on an overcast Tuesday morning, the army regiment which Jean-Claude Froit had fleed from, arrives at Charles De Gaulle station to catch a train but instead find one of their most decorated generals sobbing in the streets. Inconsolable as he is, the troops rally and try to comfort the General, as this duck is more beloved than any mallard in the country. Nothing they say affects the General’s mood however, and it is several moments before they can ascertain what has happened. News of the tragedy ripples through the soldiers and the commuters as the ducklings proclaim their diminished number and tears spread throughout the area seeding the way for the rain that is coming. The Generals sobbing subsides into a brooding and seething nothing as he loses all joy and all hope. He stares blankly at his children and his men with nothing in his eyes but a desire for one of them to make it all better. His tears mix with all the others to form puddles of unlimited sadness. No-one moves, no-one speaks. Everything is grey.

At 11:40am on an overcast Tuesday morning, a miracle happens. A vet is arriving and asking to see the patient, quickly, vite vite, when an unaccounted for quacking is heard. The army regiment is quick off the mark to check the area for an extra duckling, and believing that he could be vitally injured, every man, woman and child in sight is sent to search as quickly as they can. A father, distraught and feeling alone wanders over to where his son was and quickly becomes pleased by the lack of any blood. He stops his high hopes in their tracks, as he is all too aware of the problems with counting chickens before they hatch, but waddles over to the place his son was last seen. The spot on the ground that would always hold nothing but pain for him, holds something else as well that he cannot yet know. On that spot, which is almost set for a lifetime of scorn and sadness, there is a hole covered by a flyer for a lost purse. In that hole there is a happy little duckling covered in ice-cream quacking for help. On that day there is an overcast Tuesday morning which is covered by cries of joy. The saddest puddle trickles into the whole and Pierre floats to the top perfectly into his father’s gaze. His father berates him with love and his happy faux-angry quacking soon brings back the now thousands of volunteers out searching for this fluffy little yellow fellow. The cheering from the crowd spreads like wildfire with the news of this magically missed tragedy across the continent and even a little further.

With this new joy in his heart General Quackismo becomes more famous and beloved than ever, and with the support of the people becomes President, eventually succeeded by his son Pierre.


Monday, March 23, 2009


The bouncy ball said goodbye, to the shiny faced boy as he let it fly. They had had so much fun for more than a day, but now it was too scuffed and too dirty to play. It rolled out of sight and the boy didn’t chase it, as although he loved the ball he knew he could replace it. The ball stopped in a gutter until the wind hit a can, and that ball was kicked by the foot of a very angry man. It boinged down a hill and went very far, until it flew into the panicked glass of a passing car. It was flung into an alley were it rebounded lots at once, until it hit a fat cat’s fat fur that looked impressed by its stunts. The fat cat startled, jumped and span and then dashed and played with this little rubber man. The cat backed up and attacked again, hitting twice and twice as fast as it played with its new friend. The ball hit a bin and splashed in a puddle, the cat jumped away and got in a muddle. The ball rolled slowly to a stop with a wet line behind it, which lead neatly to the cat whose attention was undivided. The cat pounced, and jumped on the ball, and rolled on the ground, and then stood up tall. He batted the ball left, back, forward, down, up and right, he chased it a bit it and retreated with fright.

The cat bounced the ball until of course it happened, the ball splashed the puddle and the cats fun was dampened. The cat sat back and licked and shivered, disliking the wet his new friend had delivered. The ball rolled around not sure what to do, to cheer up this moggy who was now feeling a bit blue. Without knowing it though the ball had already saved the day, as the bin it had knocked down still had something to say. The cats little nose still snivelling and sad, smelt something it liked and suddenly things weren’t so bad. The cheese on the pizza that was open on the floor, would have been enough, but didn’t have to be, as there was much much more. The cat ate the food and purred as it was rich, and the ball watched the cat devour this very smelly dish.

That night the cat slept with the ball under his chin, and the purring and good times began to begin.


Sunday, April 13, 2008

Not 19 Forever

Old is, as old does
So I sit around
And rub my face fuzz


Tuesday, April 01, 2008

I always was a fool

“I always was a fool” said the old man into his drink, “it made no difference to me whether I was drunk or not whether I would get things right. I ran as many reds when I was bleary as when I was sane, I ate as many apples that were ripe as were wrong and there’s not much I can do about it now”. He sighed and swayed and sat still and everyone ignored him except the bartender.

“Another one for the road?” the man in the apron quietly enquired.

“People like you are exactly my problem. You know I want another one. You know I shouldn’t have one for the road, yet you offer me the devils cup and you don’t think twice about me drinking from it”.

“Jesus buddy, I’m just doing my job, don’t blame your life on me” the bartender replied as he wiped his way down to the other end of the bar to serve the new entrants.

The old man was alone now, but he kept talking “I always was a fool” he muttered “I remember when I fell down those stairs chasing my wife. I got hurt real bad, and what did I do? I went to a bar instead of a hospital. I went to a bar instead of going after her. And now look at us, she’s happy and I’m drunk. Same as it ever was”.

The beer nuts looked at him. They didn’t look impressed with his self loathing, but they thought nothing of it, nothing at all.

“I think maybe it’s time I get going.” He said as he put his tab on the bar. He got his shit together, fell off the bar stool and out onto the street. It was windy, and it was raining and he was only wearing a t-shirt. “Shit” fell out of his mouth as he stumbled into the road. “Shit” fell out of his brain as he stumbled onto the pavement. “Thank fuck” fell out of his smile as he entered the hall. AA was still on. His salvation was here at last, and for once, he was here too.

“Not for you buddy, you can’t come in here drunk” a well dressed but obviously haggered young man said politely but firmly.

“I always was a fool” said the old man, as he went back out into the rain. “I always was.”


Monday, March 17, 2008

Home School

“I don’t think so” cried the old lumberjack to the little bear and wolf “Enough’s enough”. They had been stealin his fixin’s see and the lumberjack needed fixings to have the energy to cut down the “green menace” as he called it. Especially at his age. And a hungry lumberjack was mean lumberjack.

So when these two young rustlers started taking kindly to his dinner he got mad. He shouted at them and he chased them round the table and he told them that they oughta be strung up, regardless of their animal and youthful nature.

The little bear and the wolf ran and ran as fast as they could, but they never ran away. They just kept going in circles around the table, until the old lumber jack passed out from exhaustion. And then they went wild. They jumped up and down on his fat belly like a trampoline. They played lumberjack with his axe and braces. They restacked the wood so it spelt out rude creatures names. They even staked down his long white moustache and beard, so when he finally struggled free he’d be real mad and chase them again.

To the little bear and wolf this was the best schooling they ever had. Their respective parents had gotten tired of getting bad results from them at bear and wolf school (respectively) so had sent their kids on this extra tuition class. And boy did these kids love it. They became great at running and chasing and stealing food. And juggling axes, which if you know anything about bears and wolves, is a firm favourite.

The lumberjack got madder and madder, of course, with all these young animals coming into his house and pestering him, but he never did catch any. Years later, when being interviewed after being rescued from a well, the lumberjack said he had got bored down there without anything to get mad at and chase.


Thursday, February 28, 2008

The Toughest Cowboy in the World

Three cowboys are sitting around a fire in the desert, looking manly and not saying much, when one suddenly looks up and says "Goddamn, I must be the toughest cowboy in the world. Last week I was minding my own business when I was set upon by 20 injuns. I only had six bullets left so I skillfully shot 10 of them, but my gunfire started a stampede right into my camp. Without hesitating I beat the rest of them injuns to death while facing down more than 1000 head of angry buffalo. Goddamn I must be the toughest cowboy in the world".

The second cowboy looks at him and then spits and says "That ain’t nothin, I must be the toughest cowboy in the world dagnammit. Last night I was making nice with 20 or so pretty ladies when I realised I didn't have any money on me, so while they were all laying there exhausted, I jumped out the window and ran down the street to the bank. I forgot my shooters so I had to fight the 5 guards unarmed. I beat their asses, but when I tore off the vault door to get my loot, the roof collapsed in on me. I crawled through the only gap into the only room I could, but for some darn fool reason it was filled right to the brim with nails. I ate my way through them, and got out the back way with my loot, only to find the sheriff and his men waiting. I dispatched all 50 of his posse using nothing but my cunning and fists before returning to the whorehouse and going another round with the ladies. Hot diggity, I must be the toughest cowboy in the world."

The third cowboy looks up at the other two, chuckles to himself and then looks back down without speaking, and continues to stoke the fire with his penis.


Wednesday, February 27, 2008


A lifetime of grievances came to an end this morning with the spilling of a coffee cup. Joe had always thought that a cup was a pointless form of prison for liquids, and his intense sense of injustice meant that he always wanted them to run free. So he tipped cups and bowls and water machines whenever he could. People could say that he was just into flooding things, but he wasn’t. He didn’t want to damage or destroy anything, he just wanted the liquids he saw to live as free as the sea. Although the sea still wasn’t as free as he would like.

This particular cup he had spilt hadn’t been his however, and usually Joe was so careful with his tipping urges. However, today he had seen his boss abandon this cup and leave for a meeting, and Joe just couldn’t resist. He performed what he liked to think of the most balletic of his tippings, by shaking the desk under the cup until the sloshing back and forth created enough momentum for the thing to spill. The liquid had it’s fun too-ing and fro-ing before it got to run as gravity always intended to the floor and all around, Joe thought, so he loved this way best. He didn’t really notice the cup roll to the floor, or the laptop that followed it, or even the muffin basket that landed right in the middle of the puddle. He was too busy looking at the coffee grinds which had splattered the desk. The coffee grinds which had inexplicably formed the word “Thanks”.

It didn’t matter to Joe that he got fired the next day as he didn’t even turn up to work. He had left that room, that office and gone straight to the beach. He bought an ex-soviet ice breaker from Crazy Henry who had always lived by the sea and started tearing up the land making waterways wherever he could. He was eventually beaten to death by a gang of beavers who were tired of cleaning up after him.

The story wasn’t about him though, so don’t feel bad. It was about the coffee, who had never felt more alive than when they splashed those floor muffins. Coffee is sick in the head see, but at least it said thanks.


Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Water, water all around

On an island no-one believes in, a thought occurs that no-one will heed. “What if the sea is getting lower? What if we live on a mountain in the middle of a lake, and it’s just been wet out there as of late?”

Well my friends it matters not who hears or thinks such things as the sea is rising not falling, so the thinker and the thought will soon be drowned and not lonely. Unless…

A frog on a walrus came rushing by one day. They sat and talked to the islanders about this concern that no-one in particular had apparently thought, and came up with a solution. Why not build boats? Then if a lake does appear they can cross it and be a holiday resort, rather than the backward and cutoff society that they feared they were.

So the islanders built more boats than you can imagine, and the longshoremen finally had a purpose to life, rather than just being beach bums. The island was delighted and soon enough had discovered the whole world and had forgotten about this thought that no-one would own up to having anyway.

The frog and the walrus on the other hand decided that this one good deed was enough for any partnership so disbanded and got very drunk in very different places. They missed each other so much however, that they both drunkenly cried 1000 gallons a day, until the sea did rise and the island was no more. Thank god for the boats. Thank god for the frog and the walrus, who coincidentally, had lived in the lake the islanders had all feared, before the wet season had moved in. Both distraught by their lost friend they each went home to find the island gone, and in it’s place, the strangest and most magically underwater mound they had ever imagined.

You know how much gold fish love a little castle in their tank? Well just imagine how much they would love a whole town, complete with superfast internet and a bakery. The frog became mayor and only heard of the walrus’s return when he found out he was running against him. Much confusion and joy was had over this merry coincidence, but that is another story.

The end.


Thursday, November 01, 2007


So it’s been a while and I thought that maybe I should write something. Something free-style. So I’m just gonna write and see what comes out.

Once upon a time I was a frog and when I was a frog I was happy. Because I like jumping and eating flies and being put in jars, looked at and subsequently released. I was in the woods one day eating something crunchy, when this really ugly fatso came along and picked me up.

“Hello Fattie” I thought “I wonder if I’m going to have to kill you”. Because sometimes fatsos tried to eat me see. But she didn’t. Instead she kissed me and I became a prince. She thought that meant that I had to marry her as she had released me, but hell no. I gave her a good talking to about her excessive weight, tried eating a spider and then sat down to ponder my new non froggy life. After a while I got eaten by an army of flies, who were sick of my shit.

The end.


Wednesday, October 18, 2006

I quit smoking a year ago today

With furious impertinence a man who looks just like me threw his girlfriends food on the floor and stormed out of the restaurant. “I’m sick of all you hypocrites” he screamed through the glass at the rest of the diners who were chewing on their grisly goods with glee. He dropped the Happy Meal box he still clutched and stomped it flat until it could be stomped no more. A small piece of plastic rolled out of the box corpse and a tear rolled down the man’s face. “You poor little toys. You’ll never know the evil this Clown puts you in the service of”.

The man had not been happy with his happy meal you see, because the McStaff had given him carrot sticks instead of chips. And I think we can all agree that for this they truly are bastards.


Wednesday, April 26, 2006

A fat person in a steam room

4.16am Sunday February 5th 2005. An old man gets onto a night bus after his arduously long wait is finally over. Although drunk as usual at this hour he somehow spots the plastic sign on the bus driver door as his gaze floats up from the floor. “One twenty” he thought “Those fucking bastards have done it again. I’m fucking lucky I found that twenty pee just now I suppose”. He handed over the money grudgingly as he snatched the shitty paper ticket. “Not much to look at for £1.20” he mumbled as he got his lighter out and made the heat sensitive paper draw itself a little happy face. The man next to him was trying not to look at him by staring as some discarded chicken bones as if he was starving before getting off at the next stop. Some more skull eyed passengers climbed on board looking for a place to rest. The last was an old mum without the baby and she glimpsed at him as she passed before sitting down nearby.

“I suppose you know who I am?” the man said, taking out a bottle of gourmet bourbon and offering it to the lady. After her smallest gestured indicated no chance of acceptance he swigged on the bottle viciously, then fell back with the bus as it turned, almost as if he was falling down in triumph. The man moved in front of his chosen companion and once more implied that she must recognise him due to his notoriety but the lady, now wishing she’d stayed at home with her baby just stared blankly out the window. The old man desisted for a minute and joined her gaze at the real life TV scenes flowing by.

“Just look at me” he thought “please just look at me. Just for a bit. Come on”. However no matter what the old man said his words could not attract her attention, full or otherwise, and she got off the bus with her eyes firmly avoiding his. The bottle of bourbon half empty now, the drinking became slower but the talking was faster. It was always going to be one of those nights. The remaining passengers looked like they might not want attention or at least like they might fight anyone who gave it to them, so the man just swung with the rhythm of the bus. After they got off the man, who for arguments sake we’ll call James O’Drunken-Nobucks or Hobo Jim for short thought he would have easy pickings for conversation. But none came.

“Just look at me” he thought so began loudly claiming to be every celebrity under the sun his drunken stupor would allow him to remember. The stupor also allowed him to remember briefly that by saying more than one name to the same people he was making his whole case less credible. “Both the fucking Attenborough’s” he said finally as he reached for at least a chuckle from these night monkeys who were all doing their own bus routines, which didn’t involve looking at him.

“So celebrity curiosity won’t get ya? Well then maybe more of a train crash approach might work” he thought. Or at least he thought emotions and mumbles which closely represented that sentence. So Hobo Jim in desperation decided to start with the racist jokes he heard from an unfortunate element he was forced to socialise with. He didn’t feel it, but holding a bottle of bourbon to your lips can make you say these things like someone who does feel it if they were in your state.

“Blacks…I hate em….i mean they’re just not white are they…they fucking black. And jews…stupid bastaaards…I knew a jew once….niss fellow but I fucking tol him, I said to him once…..thas no fucking yours! Asianns…who do they think they’re foolind….they want to kill us….kill you…..the poor babies. And those other asianssss…..they kill their own babies….why…fucking foreigners…..fucking glasses wearing freaks fucking ginger glass wearing looking down your nose at me pricks who come from other fucking cities. Not English cities. Not English. I’m English. ENGLISH. I wanna keep England clean. I mean pure…fucking pure…b…n…p. B fucking NP. BNP BNP BNP!”.

Still no reaction came from Hobo Jim’s chosen audience. “Got to make it worse. You bastards why are you making me do this” his thoughts indicated but his words were “Hitler, Hitler Hitler was fuckin…” he hesitated before he could actually say it “….right. He was a clever man. Not a little fucking arsehole no. He thought of some things which should have been thought of. Fucking lazy bastard killing himself. Fucking cunts. Fucking KKK. I love the klan. I would have my own outfit if I could keep it clean”. At this Hobo Jim fell down in apparent pain but was actually a fit of drunken laughter trying to fight through his cough reflex whilst not disturbing his agitated puke reflex. Sitting on the floor he stared up at his companions on the bus and cursed their names silently, as he didn’t know what they were.

He got slowly to his feet with the same repetitive beat in his head “Look at me. Look at me you pricks. You fucking pricks. If I was you and I was hearing all this shit I would look at me. I would beat the life out of me for being such an arsehole. So look at me. LOOK AT ME. FUCKING LOOK AT ME, THEN YOU’LL SEE….” But his thoughts were stopped as he saw the restrained look of terror on the faces of the white late nighters as a young black kid got on the bus, said a friendly “hi” to him. The other passengers were looking at him now, but in the reflection in the windows or out of the corners of their eyes, their unwillingness to be involved in an ugly scene stopping their direct attention being given. The kid put on his headphones and stood right next to Hobo Jim swaying side by side with him to the rhythms of the night bus. “You might look at me” he thought as the bus ambled along through seemingly ridiculous side streets “that was the nicest hi I have heard since I was last sober…and who knows when that was. But I can almost feel all of those people’s attention right on me. And then they’ll all see. I’m too far along to stop now. I’m really sorry…..”. Once more his actual thought was more like that of a terrifying wordless flashback in a rubbish movie, but the ideas were always there.

“Oompa loompas” Hobo Jim said to the headphone noise next to him “ummm…I mean umbongo loompas”. He tried once more to say something racist but without the dumb feelings behind it he was unsure how to show his apparent disgust. Dancing around him might help in a kind of tribal mocking way, but as luck would have it the kid got off the bus. Whether he knew what Hobo Jim was doing or not, the whole scene smelled more disgusting than Hobo Jim himself.

“I’m special” Jim thought as he got off the bus. He had already shouted abuse at the passengers for being too pathetic to intervene, but they just ignored his abuse just like the rest of his words. You see hobo Jim was special and he knew that he had something amazing within him that he could never just show people. After a long hobo type life he had drunk enough to flood an apartment complex so his memories were thin on the ground. He could clearly remember more than once in his life looking up at someone and them telling him he was special. They were just random glimpses of his life though, many of which were clearly when he was young as they would add the word “boy” to their declaration of his specialness.

It was definitely more than one person who had told him this. That’s why he wanted people to look at him. Maybe if they just looked at him as those in his past had, they would see his specialness too. Then they wouldn’t ignore him. Then they would at least look and give that little nod that they seem to afford each other but not him. Hobo Jim fell into the gutter and stared up at the stars and for the first time in years he remembered why he was special just like everyone else.

When he was 14, he was in the upper classes for Science and Maths so he was taught Upper Level Gravity Abuse at a young age. The teacher had the largest mouth that he had ever seen. He began the very first lesson by opening up his gigantic gob and pointing with a very satisfied look to a glob of spit of above average size and telling the students that it was the most amazing thing they’d ever seen. Ever since mouth gravity had been realised, everything had ultimately been about spit.

See a science guy whilst taking pills once realised that within his mouth he could control the position of everything in it without using seemingly sufficient muscle movement to cause it. It was on this day that the idea of mouth gravity was created. Further study into the mouth showed that in fact millions of particles were kept floating within peoples mouths due to subconscious control of what was named the super eating gland. Whilst eating you see, the subconscious uses your control of gravity within your mouth to stop you from choking. However as there are very few people in the world who could claim that their subconscious is not without its hiccups, the subconscious also seemingly accidentally collects and stores particles in a random order within your mouth. It was discovered, after the craziest set of experiments took place, that with a little bit of mental discipline the matter stored in ones mouth could be manipulated. These are tiny little bitch particles and the manipulation is barely noticeable even under intense magnification, but it was still crazy shit.

Hobo Jim knew all this at 14, and this class was to take him into a weird elite which had sprung up since these discoveries. “This spit is amazing” the giant jawed freak barked “not because I can move it, but because of what that movement means”. The dull expression on Hobo Jim’s face would have been comparable to any of those at church, and he sat there waiting for a penny anywhere to drop. “You see the particles in our mouths it seems according to eminent astrologers are generally arranged like a miniature universe. By moving different parts astrophysicists can study our own universe in amazing ways. By simply opening and closing our mouths we move the whole thing except for the centre, but it is the centre which is the most amazing. By making it spin, we can bring the whole universe in our mouths alive as the smallest amount of energy to us provides abundant heat and light on their microcosmic scale. My spit is alive. Isn’t that the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen?” The teachers previously monsterific face somehow seemed softer and less repugnant after he made this last statement. It was that statement that made Hobo Jim special. Not because he spun the middle of his own universe, as he had given up long ago and there was life inside him no-more. It was because he had a whole universe inside him. And one day he would bring it to life again. But probably not today. “If only someone would look at me” he thought “then they’d see. Just look at me…”


Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Should have been a yes man

I don’t say yes anymore, I just say maybe.

Like maybe I am crazy. Maybe I do hate you. Maybe those are my drugs, and maybe I did take some.

Or maybe I’ll come out tonight. Maybe I’ll see you later. Maybe I’ll give you a call sometime. Maybe I do like you.

It’s an impractical way to live. People say

“Do you want some of this?”

and I say “maybe”

and they say “well which is it? Yes or no”

so I say “well it’s not no”

so they say “so it’s yes then”

so I say “maybe”

Then usually the violence starts.

And then the police come. And the paramedics.

“Can you hear me?”


“Do you know what year it is?”


“Are these your drugs”


“Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?”


Then contempt of court. Then jail.

Then maybe just maybe, when I get out, I can have some of whatever I was offered which caused all this trouble in the first place. Maybe.


Tuesday, February 21, 2006

The ugly potato

Once upon a time there was a little potato. He was so small in fact that the other potatoes used to bully him all the time and call him a potatini. He would jump up and down and say “I’m not a potatini, I’m a potato just like you” but the big potato’s would just laugh. “Potatoes are at least as big as us. You’re not a potato, you’re just a little potatini”. And the little potato would cry and scream and complain, but of course this only made the big potatoes laugh at him more and tease him harder. One day though, they pushed him too hard and he flew into a rage and attacked them all. He was so angry that he mashed them all into a fine paste, even though they were not boiled, as is traditional with such a venture. The next day was picking day and the farmer came along to inspect his crop. Although the little potato had felt bad about his actions almost as soon as he had committed them, he was happy now as he was the only potato left, so the farmer was sure to love him. But lo, when the farmer came over to him, he just picked him and kicked him into the distance, and then cried for his mashed potato crop. For you see, the little potato was not a potato at all, but a rock.


Wednesday, January 25, 2006


I wake up and something’s wrong. I feel funny. I open my eyes but my eyelids won’t go all the way up. I’m really fucking hot even though I’m fairly certain it’s really cold outside of my body. I hear the longest weirdest gurgling sound that has ever entered my ears and I look around for the freak that must have made it. The movement hurts my head. Shit I was drunk last night wasn’t I?

But I didn’t even drink that much. Maybe I’m just becoming a lightweight. Wait, think back, what’s the last thing you remember? Picking on some kids wearing stupid outfits because they claim that they’re classical music scholars. And then getting my ass kicked my Gene Simmons. Wait that can’t have really happened. Must have been a dream. Which must mean that I was asleep at some point. Well that explains why I’m in bed. Hangover. Hungover. Can’t think fully, so will have to make do with the brain of a monkey. Check my phone. Ok so I didn’t send any miscellaneous messages, that’s always nice to now. Here comes that gurgling again and this time I’m sure it’s from my belly. And it feels good. Oh yeah. Oh wait it feels like I’m gonna be sick. Ok, so that’s passed. Hmm. Gotta find some water. And a way out of this bed. Fuck it, I’m going back to sleep.

Headache. Can’t sleep. It’s too early to get up though. Maybe I’m still drunk. Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe I should stop drinking. Nah. Just watch the TV. That can become my reality. Ahh that’s better.


Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Monkey Christmas

Three monkeys fighting in the playground. Blood and fur going everywhere, when one stops and shouts

“Hey stop. STOP! What the fuck were we fighting for anyway?”

and one of the other two cries

“All the BANANAS!”

So they start again and fight and fight and bite and bite until one of them pull’s off another ones tail and says

“Hey stop. STOP! Doesn’t this look like a hairy banana?!”

and pretends to start eating it as if it were a banana. The other two monkeys roll around laughing until the first monkey has just about imaginarily peeled his hairy banana.

“Hey stop. STOP!” cries one of the other two monkeys. “Who’s tail is that anyway?”

So they all stop and start looking at their own butts, but as is traditional in the animal world, they can’t quite see, so soon enough they are all just spinning around on the spot trying to see their rears. This goes on for much longer than it should as they each occasionally catch a glimpse of one of the other two’s tail so panic and spin even faster.

After a while a nearby child takes pity on the monkeys as he sees they have started throwing up on themselves and all around them but still continue to spin. The child takes up a small collection from the other children and he goes over to the monkeys and says

“Please stop spinning. That’s not a tail, that’s an unconscious ferret who got caught up in your scuffle. I’ve brought you some bananas”.

Now of course monkeys can’t understand humans, but the word bananas transcends species and race, so within 5 seconds all three of the monkeys had jumped on the boy and were tearing the bananas out of his hand and eating them. These weren’t the smartest monkey’s in the world though, and as he said ‘bananas’ (plural) and yet they had only had one banana each they kept searching the boy until they accidentally on purpose killed him. Then in a blood curdling monkey scream one of the monkeys cried


and the monkeys charged the children and killed them all in search of their yellow gold.

And that is why they don’t send monkeys to school anymore.

Merry Christmas.


Monday, December 05, 2005


1: “So have you heard that Justin’s not smoking anymore?”
2: “Not smoking? What do you mean by that?”
1: “Well he doesn’t smoke anymore”
2: “Really? Justin? How the hell does he do that?”
1: “I don’t know man. It’s weird when you see him now. No smoke coming out of his mouth. No cigarette in his hand”
2: “No cigarette in his hand?! I suppose that would be a good way of getting around it. Where does he get his smoke from then”
1: “Nowhere, he just doesn’t smoke.”
2: “That’s unfuckingbelievable. What about when he’s got a cigarette in his hand, what the fuck does he do then?”
3: “What the fuck does who do when?”
1: “Hey alright man, we were just talking about Justin not smoking”
3: “Yeah I heard about that. He told me that the trick is to not buy any cigarettes”
1: “I guess, but what about if he gets one off of someone else?”
2: “Or if he’s already got one in his hand?”
3: “Well he also said the trick is to not put any cigarettes in his mouth, and to not light them”
2: “Yes but what if he’s already got one”
1: “Yeah like if someone had given him one?”
3: “I don’t know, I guess he just doesn’t ask for one. Or if he does by accident then he doesn’t smoke it. I was out with him the other night in the pub and he wasn’t smoking”
1: “NO! In the pub! I thought that he just wasn’t smoking at reasonable times. How do you go to the pub and not smoke? I mean you’ve got your pint in one hand and your fag in the other. If he doesn’t smoke it then what does he do with it?”
3: “He just didn’t have one in his hand. He was just drinking.”
2: “Without smoking? That’s just fucking strange”
1: “Yeah what does he do when he moves his hand to his mouth to take a drag if there’s no cigarette there?”
3: “Umm.. I don’t know. I didn’t see him do that. I suppose he just doesn’t do that”
2: “And what about all the fag machines in the pub? How did he not use them?”
3: “I DON’T KNOW! I’m just telling you what I saw alright. He just somehow didn’t. I even offered him a cig and he turned it down”
1: “That’s amazing. He turned it down? No fucking way. That's not possible is it?”
2: “Yeah i suppose it is. But I can’t even imagine someone doing that. Let alone Justin.”
4: “Hey guys, let alone Justin what?”
3 “Have you heard Justin’s not smoking anymore”
4: “Yeah I was on pills with him the other night and he didn’t smoke a single one”
3: "Really!”
2: “That’s just fucking incredible!”
1: “Are you sure? Because I don’t see how that’s possible”
4: “Yeah I’m sure. He’s such a fucking quitter”


Sunday, November 20, 2005


It’s so bright outside I can’t see. It makes me afraid. And not just of the monsters and the bad people, but of the light. Of seeing and being able to be seen. Even in a mirror I can’t see myself that clearly, so what will I see when I’m out there? I could be a monster myself by now, it’s been so long since I’ve seen myself properly. I haven’t been out since I had a choice. But fear has never kept me afraid, so one day I open the door and step out into the light.

It’s cold and still. The sun is shining, but not on me yet, so I start to walk. Out of the shadow of my home. And it’s easy. I start to whistle a few notes. I pick up my feet and glide through the world, comparing it to how it was last I saw it. It’s all brand new, yet somehow dirtier. I don’t mind at all. Before I know it I’m running. The feeling of the world flying beneath my feet is joyous. Even the bright sun burning the back of my eyes just gives energy to my smile. I grow bolder and stop and scream “What’s there to be afraid of anyway?”. But then I see them. And hear them. And smell them. They’re here. “Usssssss” they say. Monsters. Everywhere. I knew it would be like this, but I came anyway.

I am surrounded, but I have a way out. I choose not to take it. “I’m not afraid” I say, half to myself. The other half makes them laugh. “That’ll sssssoon change” they say. And I think ‘Fuck them. I’m so fucking sick of this’ even though it’s all pretty much new to me. I spit at them. And just stand there. I hit one in the face with a giant glob of snot and saliva gloriously mixed. I wish I had used my fist for a second. But only for a second, because then I give them the finger, and everything before becomes nothing. “You’ll wisssssh you hadn’t done that” they say. But I regret nothing but the things I didn’t do, so their words mean nothing to me. I wait for the violence, the attack. It doesn’t come. They just circle menacingly. I get bored.

So my eyes start to wonder. I look at my hands. In the bright sunlight, I can see the blemishes better. They don’t bother me. I see a puddle within the imaginary circle they are going around, and I look at my reflection. It’s still me. Well the back to front version of me which I always see. I’m no monster. But these guys are. So I kill them. I kill them all. The monster motto is of course, if you’re not with us then you’re against us, and who am I to redefine their rules.

I go home. It’s dark in there. I turn on the light, and look out the window.


Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Passive Resistance

I’m walking down the street when I look up and see the police car passing by. I try to act normally, but they must see me silently mouth “shit” as suddenly they stop right next to me. Panic appears at my centre and permeates outwards, leaving me precious few seconds to rationally think out what to do. Should I cut my losses and slyly throw away the evidence? It’s my own often repeated axiom to never give up until the very last moment, but deciding when that moment has arrived has always been more trouble than it’s worth. Was this that moment? I won’t be able to tell until it’s too late. So I forget the moment and follow in Gandhi’s footsteps. I inhale deeply and hold down the toxic fumes I have grown to love while I pause on the pavement for seemingly no reason. After a second of looking thoughtful and confused, I turn my face to my oppressors. Betraying my lips, the smoke slowly leaks out of my cheeks and hazes my view. The passenger officer looks right at my clouded face, and for this moment we’re on opposite sides of something more than just the glass in his car window. He speaks softly into his shoulder. I exhale. A blur later and they are gone. I cross the street behind them, carrying on my innocuous attitude perfectly in my mind. I smile, and wonder what bigger fish they have to fry.


Thursday, September 01, 2005

(vii) Mancuso on fire

I can see light. I can see the sun shining through the trees reaching out to touch me. I can see light. I can see a bus pass me that would have taken me from there to here in the same time but with less effort. With less effort than I use everyday to see that bus as I do. But still I see light. I see it crackle on the river I cross and sparkle up through the window. The window I look through that is covered with the grease and scratches of those who love or loath to leave their mark. But the light. The light that illuminates my desk, and shows all that I’ve done and all that I’ve missed. The same light that breaks through a tiny window on five broken souls and creates lines of shadow down their lives.

Five people arrested for the same murder. Five people waiting in that cell. Two lights watching them in turns. A third light waiting for them in hell. One breaking through the window, breathing the life of night with it’s death call. One burning from the ceiling, flickering every time we turn on the chair down the hall.

These five can see the light better than anyone. They can see little else. Than that flicker. Flicker.

Except the two tough ladies who somehow found each other from across the world who see only each other. And the girl who’s tears won’t stop exploding from her face in wave after wave of self pity. So it’s the yanks only who see the flicker when it comes. Who know what that light really means. Not that nuclear flash that they’re so proud of, but that quiet glow that shows the real difference between life and death. Just a flicker.

The light I see isn’t there’s though. It cascades across my fingers warmly following their contours, easily even with the movement I use to continue my work. I make a rabbit or a dog every now and then to play with this light, and when it goes I make paper planes of my work and float them out into the courtyard all the rooms share. I don’t feel like that today though. As the light goes dark, reminders of flight would be wrong.

I look at the dress on my desk and think of the corpse I took it off. How the fuck does this make sense? A man who flies and wears a dress? It’s like a superhero but without the sense of stature. Why these five freaks turned themselves in I’ll never know. This was the first man I have ever killed without a good reason, and it’s the first cover up I’ll ever get out of doing. Who to pin it on though? Who knows.

It’s dark outside now, but I still see light. It’s right where the pilot left it.

At the end of the tunnel.


Monday, August 22, 2005

No snooze for the wicked

I roll from my slumber to my feet and reach my arms up through the world. Oh glorious day runs all over me as I pull together my public persona. The warmth of light rolls me through thoughts and thoughts of where to go and who to be. But then dawn breaks once more inside my head and I realise that work is where I must go and work is who I must be. I feel hot and weary and angry and annoyed. Why must I work? I care not for most of the things money can buy so why must I spend so much of my time in the pursuit of it? I am human and alive! A joyous thing to be and a lucky thing to feel. Oh why do we make this game we must play all that we are? Fun is always fun, but games are not for some. I try to ignore the rules that are set, so I think instead of going to work, I’ll go back to bed instead. My smile sadly sings to the heavens and my eyes close as I slide my protection from the world to the floor. I feel the sun on my skin and smile for its hot sting now feels like the faded grace of a defeated enemy, comforting me with its humility. Its welcoming hand now called true night, day slips away behind my sheets as I do. My head rests on my most comfortable friends and I hide from the world under the hope and protection of my duvet. I close my eyes tighter in a salute to my victory against capitalism. Through my quiet brain I hear my mother cry “It’s 7 o’clock” and I scramble out of bed to go to work. And I go.


Wednesday, June 15, 2005

(vi) I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

My hands were shaking when I woke up this morning. I had that dream again. Well I guess I shouldn’t say ‘that’ dream, because they’re all different. It was this young girl last night, running by me in this skirt similar to one I was wearing who got me killed. It wasn’t her fault, it’s just apparently I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fucking hell, get a grip, you were asleep. You weren’t in the wrong place, at the wrong time, they’re just dreams. They’re just dreams. Or maybe nightmares I suppose. Somehow, something always feels right about them though. I mean, I didn’t start wearing dresses until that first one I had when I was tripping off my nuts in Mexico. It seems so natural so have my genitals hanging free. What do women have which needs so much space between their legs? They’ve got a lack of flesh there, not a surplus. Hmm.

Well anyway, off to work as usual. Flying to Rome tonight. Won’t that be great! They got some designers there which will really have taken advantage of male frame in these womens clothes. Well I hope they will. I’ve never been to Italy before. Never really liked pizza enough to warrant it. Or maybe I’ve just never had the time. I have been flying to Mexico and back far too often to go other places. I wonder why I stopped that. It was only last week I made my last flight wasn’t it? Anyway…

“Single to Heathrow please” I ask the girl behind the counter as nicely as I can. She looks frightened, and not in the way that a man in a dress frightens people.

“Um.. here you go…. Sir?” she asks tentatively. I’ve been getting that a lot recently. People never seem to know what gender to give me. I suppose I don’t either.

“Yes, sir will do. Which platform is it please?” I know which platform it is, but I’m afraid if I leave this poor little thing alone too quickly she might burst into tears. Something has fucked with her head today, and today I know how she feels.

“It’s just that one there.” She says non-comittally. I linger a second longer as her lips look like they want to form more words, but they can’t be bothered in the end. I walk away, feeling the cool air on my balls, when I hear her call out “Be careful!” but I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or herself.

Some days it’s like this. It’s not a good sign anyway. I gotta face my boss for the first time today over my “alterations” to the uniform they’ve given me. Apparently The Man doesn’t like my dress. Doesn’t inspire confidence in the passengers he says. Fuck that. It’s the hat which inspires confidence, considering they can only see the back of my head over the chair. And I never take this hat off. Except when I’m wearing a wig… wait a minute, I’ve never worn a wig, but suddenly flashes of fake hair appear in my mind and in my eyes.

And then I see her. The girl from my dreams. The most innocent out of the whole guilty lot. She’s staring onto the train at the tears falling from another pretty face. She probably wants to help her. I do to, but I can’t because I’m frozen. I’ve been inside that girls head. I know what her tears are about….. my death. She killed me. I want to scream, but all the other faces on the tube have killed me too. Those lesbo’s somehow together at last. Those stupid fat fucking yanks. No! They were just dreams. They were just dreams. They were just…

“Mind the Gap”. Breaks my reverie. I hear it for the last time, but this is the first time I’ve listened. Mind the gap. Not this time. I step purposefully towards the train, but miss and fall. Maybe I’ll never stop falling. Maybe I’m still dreaming. My feet feel hot, like they’re touching the surface of sand. I wonder about a police man I never knew.


Saturday, June 11, 2005

(v) The cat in the hat

Dee ran like the wind and left a scream trailing behind her.

“STOP! THAT’S NOT YOUR 2 ½ PINT GLASS BITCH” the security guard chasing her cried out. He seemed pretty quick on his feet, but the people in the street were getting in his way.

Terrified, Dee looks at the box under her arm. “Damn, I thought it said 215 pint glass”. She frowned for a second, oblivious to her imminent capture, before the inevitable “2 ½ pints though, that’s still pretty big” ran through her mind and she was off again. She didn’t know why she wanted the glass, as 215 pints is too much for anyone to drink in one session, but still it seemed like fate that she take it.

Oh wait, I mean fun. It seemed like fun to take it.

“Got you, you fucking thieving bitch!” Dee froze. Where was the bastard? No-one was touching her, in fact she had gone so far that she had doubled back to fool him, so how had he caught her?

“Take off that hat”. A hat? Dee tried to remember whether she had put on her top hat accidentally this morning, and this had all been a case of mistaken identity. Before she had finished checking her whole head, just to make sure, Dee’s ear drums were shattered by shouting and gunshots. She always hated that combination of sounds.

Dee span round to meet her fate, or at least hit this fucker with the glass perhaps, when she discovered that it wasn’t her own dramatic death that she was witnessing. A small man bleeding through holes in the dress that he was wearing was lying on the floor. His wig, which was not unlike Dee’s hair in that it wasn’t dreadlocks, was attached to his pilots cap, which was soaking up blood fast.

The security guard was nodding his head frantically to himself.

“It was a good shoot, it was a good shoot” he repeated to himself a few times, until the law turned up and told him that it wasn’t. Especially as even if it had been the right person, it was still only a 2 ½ pint glass that she took. The cop too had thought that it was a 215 pint glass, so he felt like he had a score to settle with these people.

Dee watched all this happen from the other side of the road with total confusion.

“They don’t let security guards carry guns in this country, what was that all about?” she thought as she skipped down the road and into the pub.

“Happy Birthday Fred man” seemed to be echoing in this place, and somehow it all seemed to suddenly fit.

“Hey, I got this for you. Happy Birthday” she said. He looked at the glass with disappointment. He had already seen these and knew they weren’t as big as everyone thought. “Thanks” he said with a voice that smelled like Christmas. This was all beginning to make sense to Dee, but she didn’t really get why the transvestite had to die.


Saturday, June 04, 2005

(iv) Lost

No not now. Please not now. I don’t understand why this is happening. Why this can happen. Please. I can’t deal with any more. Just please, give me a break, someone. I don’t know who. God? Are you there? If you are, are you listening? Do you care? Why would you do this to me? I know you didn’t do it. I did it myself. But why are you doing this to me? I can barely keep myself upright. I can barely keep myself from screaming the world into oblivion. The more I try though, the more you fuck with me. THE MORE YOU FUCK WITH ME. You fuck! You absolute fucking….. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I think I can blame anyone but myself. I’m such a piece of crap. I can’t believe that I lasted this long without anyone fucking me up like this before. I just can’t believe. I just can’t fucking stop thinking. I just can’t. Please just give me a moments rest. Please. I was so happy now i can’t remember how to smile. I think I’m going to be sick. Bleuuu……. No. not even that. Can’t even purge myself. Can’t even get rid of all this shit inside me. If only I could. Those toxins. Those fucked up bits floating inside. I don’t think they caused me to be this way though. I don’t think I could just throw them out of my mouth and out of my life so simply. Just by sticking my finger down my throat. Well maybe my middle finger. Say fuck you to me. Fuck me’s not right though. No one will ever want to fuck me again will they. I’m such a fucking mess. I’m such a piece of crap. I don’t think that anyone ever wanted to fuck me in the first place, it was just because I was there. It was like an animal thing, they needed me, they never wanted me. No-one has ever wanted me. I don’t want me, so I don’t blame them. If only I could make myself change. If only I could make myself a better person. But I don’t think people like me get that second chance. I don’t think people like me get to be different. We don’t get to be better. We? Who’s we? It’s just me. I don’t think that I get to be better. I don’t get anything given to me, and I’m too fucking shit to ever be able to change myself. All my friends have changed. It’s amazing to see their lives just get better and better and mine to just stay the same. Mine to just stay like a cess pool in which I swim around, pretending i’m happy, calling out to the others walking around as if I’ve got a great life. But I don’t I’m in my own shit just barely keeping my head above the surface. I’m not fucking waving, I’m drowning. Why can no-one tell the difference? Why is no-one out there to help me. Why does no-one say, fucking hell, you’re swimming in shit, want some help? I would probably say no anyway. Always being needlessly polite. Always letting other people do what they want even though if I’d just stuck up for myself for a minute then my life could have been so much better. Oh well fuck it. I don’t care. I’m going to keep on being the same piece of shit, but from now on if someone fucks with me then I’m going to fuck with them too. Yeah, I’m fucking going to do what I’ve always wanted. Like spit in public. Yeah, I liked that. Oh shit I got that old lady. Fuck her, just keep walking. Maybe a bit faster. What’s she gonna do? Run to keep up? Haha. Wait that’s not funny. But it was nice to laugh. My headache faded for just a second. I think I’ve cried all the liquid out of my brain. It feels like it’s condensing. God damn that hurts. Need to laugh. What’s funny? Two dyslexic guys walk into a bra. Ha ha. That’s not really funny. It’s like those fucking mice I saw on TV. You can’t make yourself laugh. Maybe if I spit on another old lady! Ha ha. Oww. That was just mean wasn’t it. What about this guy. I could spit on him. Yeah, he’s some cross dressing sky captain is he. Well sky captain this. Ha ha, right in the face. Oops, best move down the platform before he clears his eyes. Wooo. That was fun. Maybe I should just be a bitch then. That was pretty funny. Life would be much simpler if I just spat in all those fuckers who fucked with me’s faces. What’s all that commotion? Excuse me Officer, what’s going on? Someone fell on the tracks? Oh, that’s terrible? Were they pushed? No they seemed like they were blinded? Oh fuck. Swiftly moving on. Oh no. Oh fucking no. What have I done? I’m such a piece of….


Thursday, June 02, 2005

(iii) The man with the hat said I’ll stop when I get some crack

“So where is it then? I’m tired of trekking round this stupid fucking country. I don’t even care what time it is. If we don’t find it in the next twenty minutes then we’re giving up”

“Twenty minutes! I though you said you didn’t care what time it is. Anyway, we’re still like 8 hours ahead so that twenty minutes won’t expire until tomorrow”

“Why did I ever agree to this? You said London would be fun. Better than Thanks-Giving turkey you said. All we’ve got so far is hungry and lost.”

“Well that’s because you won’t ask for directions and you got us kicked out of McDonalds for complaining and you’ve got that thing about not betraying Ronald with the Colonel so don’t blame me. Oh wait, there’s someone, maybe they can give us directions. He’s wearing a uniform so he must know. Excuse me! EXCUSE ME!”

“Uh yes… are you talking to me?”

“Yeah I was. I was wondering if you could help us. Me and my husband were looking for a museum, but we can’t seem to find it. If you just give me a minute I’ll get my map out of my fanny pack and maybe you can try and help us…”

“I’m sorry sir, my wife doesn’t know what she’s saying, we’re not lost, I was just taking a break from navigating for a minute. You know how it is don’t you buddy, when your wife is nagging you and won’t let up”

“Um… no not really…. Wait a minute that’s your wife? Oh! I thought her tits were rolls of flab! Oh sorry mate. I thought you were just a really badly dressed gay couple”

“Yes I’ve got the map now. We’re looking for this giant clock that London is so famous for. Giant George or something. Which museum is it in? We’ve been to the the Tate, but the guy at the…. Stop that right now! Let that poor man go! I know he’s English but still honey I think you’re hurting him…”

“Damn tootin I’m hurting him. He’s lucky I wasn’t allowed to bring my gun with me. YOU SNOOTY BRITISH! YOU’RE ALL THE SAME! THINK YOU’RE SO SUPERIOR!”

“P l e a s e siiiiiir reeeeelllaease meeeeee. Itttttsss nooottt giiiannnt geeorrgge itttsss biiiiiiiiiggg beeee…….”

“He won’t tell us where it is now. Oh lord, I think he’s not breathing. Let’s get out of here. I saw on Nightline that the British police aren’t near as deadly as our boys, we can make a break for it”

“I saw that too. I’m not sure that is an official uniform anyway, it just doesn’t look right with that skirt, even if they do call it a kilt here. No one will miss this limey”

“Stop! Police! Oh fuck it. I can’t be bothered to chase those fat fucks. Let’s see who they’ve roughed up. Oh no…. not you again…


Sunday, May 29, 2005

(ii) Chewie

The scar faced ho put down the shiv and looked at the other girls. This was going to be trouble and one little make shift blade wasn’t going to solve anything. If Chula was going to get a beating, she was going to fight back tooth and nail, not with toothbrush with nails stuck into it. The other girls laughed at her bravery and made some joke to each other about there being no manyana for this bitch. They started moving towards her yipping like hyena’s, hoping to scare this foreign bird and make her understand that she had really hit rock bottom by ending up here. It wasn’t the first tourist they had fucked up in jail, but it might have been there last as they were seriously underestimating their foe. Chula stood up straight from her crouching position and rubbed the little finger over the scar on her face. It was a constant reminder of the last time a group of fuck wits had underestimated her. Although in actuality the repetitive head injuries she had suffered in her life made her forget exactly what reminder that was, but still it felt like a scar of pride rather than shame.

“Fuck this waiting” she thought, “it’s the waiting that kills you. Well maybe it’s the violence that kills you, but the waiting is pretty boring, so I might as well get it over with”.

She ran at the girls screaming every obscenity that she wished her father had never taught her and prepared for the attack. She screwed up her eyes, not in fear, but in anticipation of not wanting blood to get in them in her first frenzied mauling of whoever she got her hands on.

Clang! She went down. The girls had seen her running and simply parted to let this crazy bitch crash into the wall. It was just a cheap ass shitty dividing wall though and her head went half through as she hit, before she fell to the floor clutching the new soon to be scars on her face. A little head appeared through the hole and quickly shooed off the other girls.

“Alright Chewie, got yourself in trouble already?”

Chula looked up. It was the freaky pilot who had landed her in jail in the first place. She had lent him a dress after he had bought her one too many tequila’s and when he was arrested for cross-dressing somehow she had ended up in prison. This bastard had come to make fun of her had he? She got up and charged at the little hole hoping to get him before he popped his head back in. No real chance it was going to happen though as she was fucked up and he just had to step back. Luckily for her, and unluckily for him, one of her previous attackers had kicked her nail filled toothbrush at her as she was walking away, so when Chula dived at her tormenter she managed to kinda cut his motherfucking head off. Well half off, but let’s not dwell on that. In throwing herself forward she got stuck in the hole in the wall once more.

“You fucking English bitches” Officer Mancuso growled at the bleeding head which was growling a lot more fiercely back at him through the hole in the wall “I liked that guy. I’m sick of your shit, I’m sending you back to your own hell hole country to get fucked up by prison bitches there”. It was a firm but fair punishment. The other choice was execution, but as Mancuso was the only guy in town who had a hood, he was always called upon to do it himself, and he was tired of the killing.


Friday, May 27, 2005

(i) Maria

The sun ablaze as Maria's foot touches the surface of sand, thinking of the world and all that’s underhand she stepped out of the truck and looked to the sky and the future. A silver bird flew in and landed crushing the ground beneath it and stumbling to a halt. She hated fucking Mexico as all it had ever given her was tequila and trouble, both of which seemed to lead to each other whenever one appeared. She was going to stop fucking up her life and others and just leave, for once taking the high road instead of just being high on the road. It had taken her months of robbing people and pimping out her own ass to save up the plane fare, but it was finally worth it. She was going to England. Not that she was that excited about it at first, but English tourists always seems pretty rich, so it would be nice to live in a land of plenty, at least for a while.

“There must be abundant fields as far as the eye can see”, she thought, “and human rights and equality. Well fuck all that, as long as I can still find a gun, everything will be alright. If fact, why don’t I just take this one with me? Seems like a plan”.

With that she ran towards the plane shot off the lock on the door and tried frantically to board. Wasn’t gonna happen though really as planes are quite far off the ground. Even when the pilot came to the door to see what was going on it didn’t help.

“You stupid fucking bitch, we can’t fly if we can’t lock this door. I mean it would be nice to have a breeze blowing in this little flying oven, but more passengers than usual would probably die”.

Maria didn’t like this uniformed prick talking shit to her, so she blasted his ass. He fell on the floor square in front of her, and like the little thieving monkey face she really was she started rifling through his pockets immediately for the keys to the plane. All she found was his passport, some bubble gum, and a photo of one fucked up looking bird. While she was gazing at the scar faced ho that was somehow related to the pilot, the polizia rocked up and pinned her ass to the ground.

“Trying to enter the country illegally were you? We’ll send you back to your punk ass country”. Officer Mancuso wasn’t very bright. He saw her holding a British passport and assumed she was an illegal immigrant, despite the pretty little Mexican chick in his custody looking more Mexican than Speedy Gonzalez. Still, he’d teach her a lesson. He liked that pilot. Well he didn’t know that pilot, but he’d seen in him a dress once, and he always meant to ask him about it, and now he would never have the chance.


Sunday, May 22, 2005

The Drunken Bartender

Trains keep on going whether there are people on them or not. They don’t care whether they’re full or empty, they just wanna see other things and be other places, but they’re confined by parallel lines. People aren’t subject to such constraints, but if they’re empty on the inside they stop. Sven was empty and he had stopped. For a lot longer than he had ever intended too. But once his motion had subsided he realised that he had never intended to start moving in the first place.

“Give me two beers and a used ashtray” he said to the bartender who was more drunk than an empty glass.

“All my ashtrays are clean, but if u give me a moment I can help you out” he said while sparking up.

Sven didn’t really care, he just wanted to sit and feel like he’d done something. The bartender’s coughing broke Sven from his thoughts.

“You sound fucked up man. If smoking makes you like this then maybe you should stop”.

“Nah man, I never could stop”. The old drunk replied.

Sven smiled and remembered where he thought he was going and started again. All it takes is a parallel line.


Saturday, May 21, 2005

This and that

Tonight was one of those nights where you can't believe that you are ever going to actually make it into bed. I mean there were ups and downs, but even the ups felt like they were going to last forever. In a good way. Well in a good way at the time anyway. Right now that warm feeling eminating from my feet is saying otherwise. As is that same warm feeling in my throat, although that feeling brings with it bile and disaster. Some people follow the theory that throwing up when you're fucked is a good idea as it makes you feel better and clears out the toxins. I think that as you can't feel worse than when puking, what's the fucking point. If you're going for the long run good by accepting the ultimate bad then surely the price is too high. Maybe nothings too high when you're that fucked. When you're this fucked. hmm


Tuesday, May 03, 2005

The Wind

You shouldn’t pull faces, because if the wind changes direction, then you might stay that way. The kid wearing no shoes pondered that idea more than any other he had ever been given, as he didn’t think it was just for kids, despite it only ever being said to them. Adults change faces throughout their lives, the wind changes and they forget that they weren’t that person until moments before. You start off thinking that you’re gonna change the world, but after the world has changed sufficiently without your input, you realise that maybe you can’t, that maybe you can just change your part of it. So you stop and try and change your life, and once it has changed enough to fit in line with the world, you no longer wanna change it. And you forget that you ever did. The wind changes direction and you carry on. So why not follow this wind the kid thought. He walked barefoot down the street to those who were waiting for him on the corner.

“This is probably the end”, he thought, “but lots of things that have a beginning never get to the end so this time I’ll give this story a chance”.

“Hey Jim, where the fuck is my money?”

Those words meant this wasn’t gonna be a happy ending, but Jim, who had sold his shoes to try and give these guys something thought fuck it. This wind has been blowing long enough. Time to change faces, so he pulled the coins out of his pocket and threw them on the floor at the feet of those questioning him.

“That’s all I motherfucking have, and that’s all that you’re motherfucking getting”.

Using motherfucking twice in a sentence has never gone down well, especially not in this neighbourhood, so Jim just stood there waiting for the inevitable shit kicking to come. Maybe he coulda come out on top in this situation if he’d thought ahead, but without shoes he couldn’t run, and he couldn’t kick, so there was no chance. Plus his exposed feet seemed like an obvious target as they stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. The four zoo keepers looked at the kid squaring up to them and had visions of throwing him to lions or tigers or bears, but something stopped them from moving. He had no shoes. He had sold his fucking shoes to give them something. That’s just too much for some people to comprehend. Some people as in people who had always just taken what they wanted and never thought to pay back what they owe. The wind changed and they said, almost as one,

“Ta Jim. Much appreciated. Now get back in your fucking cage, before someone notices.”


Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Jim was a man once too

Jim was a man once too y’know. The authorities always tried to tell him otherwise, but just because he was always flagrant with his sexuality, it didn’t mean that he was any less of a person. He enjoyed shagging fit girls in the streets and in libraries and in churches, but it became too much for his home town of Lincoln, Nebraska to take so they punished him. They put him in chains and told him that he was an animal. When the town grew sufficiently to need a zoo, Jim became the star attraction. To bypass the laws of slavery, they gave Jim his own species (which he was allowed to name) of Jimulus Fuckulotus. But Jim was once a man too y’know, was what kept going through Sparkle’s head, so much so that when she took her daughter to the zoo she would tell her over and over, until Sweet P finally became old enough to ask why Jim had been imprisoned in this way. Sparkle explained that Jim had just been an over erotic boy (due to some soap he had washed with was the common tale) from New Zealand who was just too much for the town to take. But he was spectacular, Sparkle exclaimed, and if Sweet P asked any other girl of enough age, they would agree. So on her 18th birthday Sweet P broke into the zoo and into Jim’s cage to wake him. Jim was surprisingly youthful as the town had been feeding him youth drugs to keep people coming to the zoo. Sweet P reached down and grabbed Jim erotically and climbed on top of him. Jim’s instincts kicked in and he gave it to her good, but as he was so used to animal life, he ate her. The end.


Wednesday, April 20, 2005

The bear and the blind man

“I’ve been sober for a whole week” said the blind man to the bear, “and its not like I did it on purpose, these things just sometime happen of their own accord”.

The bear, who for arguments sake we’ll call Paws McPot or Jim for short wasn’t listening obviously. He had his own problems to deal with such as finding his way out of this circus or where he was gonna get his next picnic basket from. The blind man on his right had been rambling for hours about things which the bear would consider unimportant, but Jim stayed and listened anyway as it made a pleasant break from sticking his head in lion’s mouths or making like a ringmaster.

The blind man sighed and said “if it carries on like this then I may have to find a new career”.

For Jim this was the final straw. He put down the pot of honey and shook the man by both shoulders. “Look”, he said “there are drugs in the bearded ladies cage. Just stop harassing the clowns and she’ll give you some”.

Jim never liked giving advice, but sometimes enough was enough.