Saturday, 23 April 2011

here goes...

Wrap your head around this.

The wind must be afraid of commitment...






(anyone who gets it wins an as yet undecided-upon prize)

Tuesday, 19 April 2011


So many smear tactics its like fingerpainting at a nursery. David opted for a dark old red and smudged it up with his favourite blue making a pretty purple colour, which was, coincidentally, Nigel's favourite colour too.

I really hope there is a 'back to the drawing board' checkbox because I don't really like either option. Unfortunately thats not how British democracy works.

(that joke is coming - you just need time to prepare yourself for quite how colossally funny it is. Just a few more days and you'll be ready)

Saturday, 16 April 2011

(exit pursued by a bear)

Sorry about the long time away, I've been spending time sliding down mountains on planks. Luckily though I also wrote the best joke ever written, in all history, ever. Keep your eyes peeled because it'll be cropping up as soon as I've had enough sleep.

Sunday, 3 April 2011

Thursday, 31 March 2011

Royal Wedding

Mike took a sip on his (continental) beer; he felt embarrassed.
"So it's not fancy dress then?" He asked, and Karen said
that it definitely was not.
Other guests milled around him in their suits, ties or dresses;
he was beginning to draw quite a crowd.
He crossed his arms tightly around his naked, oiled torso,
regretting choosing The Rock as his favourite wrestler. He had
even got the armband, and shaped his eyebrows.
"It's just... I swear Liz said something about a Royal Rumble?"

Sunday, 27 March 2011


I'll tag you in my status girl I don't care if there's haters when we go official you're my profile pic my number one chick and I knew it from the get go is the song on the radio when we are driving through the Pennines and the sun is shining and are the hills yellow or green I don't know but they should come up with a new name for that colour I've never seen anything quite like it before its soothing my head after last nights. I don't know how long I've been staring out the window for but is my mouth open? Gawper. She's not looking at me its alright she's looking at the road, just had to check. That song is still playing, silly trance pop the lyrics say nothing and everything.
    "We were talking about threesome politics last night," she says, and laughs.
    "What did you conclude?" I ask, bet I could guess though.
    "Well, who does what to who and for how long; who decides that stuff?" I don't think anyone decides that stuff I think people just follow their hearts or their. Hearts don't belong in threesomes. A Renault Clio is trying to undertake the old man driver creeps into my vision and now I can't see the yellowgreen hills. Has she ever had a? No don't ask. A cloud curtains the sun.
    "Had Lily ever had a threesome, then?" I ask. Safe question.
    "Yes I think so, she wasn't very forthcoming with information though," she replies. The Clio driver swerves across the road line and she swears and accelerates past him.
    "Fucking dick should pay attention," she says, and I laugh.
    "We could have died at least three times today," I say.
    "And its always the foreign drivers," and yes the numberplate is in the wrong order and there's the blue white red. French, verb tables a nightmare. Too many angry boys at school. Could never understand tu. Je tu il elle nous vous.
    "I don't know if they'd be my kinda thing," she says. What I je wanted to suis hear.
    "Yeah, not with someone I actually liked, thats for sure," I say. The cloud draws back and the hills are yellow and green and elle est I can see them again. To walk along the top of them and see the cars over this side in the distance, the wind in your hair it'd be like. Tilt shift. Can't wait to get out the car now we have so much to do and can't wait I want to be that yellow and that green. The song on the radio has finished now.
    "And it is nice being with someone you like," she says, and is that a smile? I hope that's a smile because this is a nous sommes smile.

Thursday, 24 March 2011


There is nothing worse than not being able to write; despite the fact it happens to nearly everyone, it just leaves me feeling disgusting and sordid. I was on a coach the other day and trying to put words on to paper with a pen and it just wasn't working. I started drifting off (shouldn't have drank beer before going on warm coach journey) and I had the most beautiful dream. I was James Joyce and Ezra Pound (except I thought the Jews were alright really, all considered), and I was Jacques Derrida and Michel Foucault, and I was Bret Easton Ellis and I was Chuck Palahniuk, and I had something to say for myself. And then I woke up and I was lying in the middle of the aisle, wanking and screaming at the top of my lungs. And the bus driver pulled over to the side of the road and made me get out for being a "shameful human being". And he didn't give me my trousers back, and it was 8 p.m. on a Sunday night.

That's the story of how I got arrested at Watford Gap for indecent exposure.

Friday, 18 March 2011

For Brian


A series of words on a page describe
a road viewed from an attic room;
British, terraced, an incline,
a place called a home by
countless families, and not
one of them wrong.

Growing up is something that is done
by all of us; whether we think that's bad
and philosophise about history, and life,
the certainty of death, or ignore problems
of that size and are glad for what is left:
a chance; an experience; to make a mark.
Me? I feel a pressure in my chest when
confronted by this mess; the stark, woven
mess of opportunity that never ends.
The cliché of the blank page feels very apt
as I try to write a letter I will never send.
Those are just words on a page too.

Half a century ago, I think - the nineteen-fifties -
you started your own Ulysses. Day after day
was a journey; a journey that stands out
no more than Poldy. No more than any
bus driver or school teacher, no priest,
politician or pub keeper. They are all alive
and they are nothing more than words on a page.
Day after day becomes year after year and
children of children are the heirs of heirs:
me and me now look to you, and you then,
and it is a soft blanket to my fears.

Back in the attic room there is a collection
of workbooks; it looks like something
my father would write. Does this mean
he was once a child? Does this mean he
once felt like I do now? I have no idea
how to be a person. Am I too concerned
with myself? Is this solipsism really
just selfish? I should ask him one day,
hopefully before I have my own attic room
because that would be far too late.
The other contents of the room are important:
it is mostly books, more words on a page,
documents and toys and the occasional
heirloom, each one the pointed tip
of an iceberg waiting to be thawed out.
Each one a narrative that never fought
to be told. Each one growing old.

Nothing more than words on a page,
but what more could you ask for?
A word on a page is a permanence,
A piece of life in a penstroke,
and a part of you, or I, that will never die.

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

In The Office

Nick puts his head in his hands.
    "What's up?", says Susie.
    "Oh, nothing," he sighs, "its just him again."
    "What's he doing now?" she asks, cocking her head to the side.
    He shakes his head.
    "Come on, you can tell me", she says. "It'll be safe with me."
    He stands up, walks to the window and closes the blinds. "He's dressing... he's dressing as her again." He shudders visibly.
    "Yes", he says, "but it's got worse. He's started doing the voice."
    "Please Susie, please, you have to help me, you have to make it stop." His voice is strained. There is a knock at the door.
    "Come on, Nicholas, I need help getting into this new dress!" It is a trilling, boyish voice.
    "It's him," says Nick, all colour draining from his face.
    "Well, go on," says Susie, "after all, this is what you signed up for, isn't it?"
    "Not for this," he says. Then he clears his throat and says, "Coming, madam." He goes through the door.
    After he leaves, Susies tries to write up some documents. In the background: a series of smacking sounds, gurgling and the occasional scream.

Monday, 14 March 2011


So, I wasn't going to post about music on this here blog but after madly ejaculating over my speakers for about half an hour straight over this tune, I decided it was probably best to share it:

Now to get out the mop...

Wonders of the Universe

Brian comes into the room and sits down.
    "Hey Julie," he says.
    "Hi," says Julie.
    "Did you see the show last night?" he asks, catching her eye in the mirror and grinning.
    "Um, yes", she says, looking down. She starts to cover his hair with a styling gel, tousling it into a boyish sweep across his forehead. She stops as she feels his hand creep up the inside of her leg.
    "It was good, wasn't it?" Him.
    "Yes, I liked it," she stutters, reddening slightly. His hand now caresses her upper thigh.
    "What was your favourite bit?" He is grinning wider.
    "I'm not sure". She is struggling with her words as her breath deepens. I'm not sure she is enjoying this though. You can see the muscles in Brian's arms oscillating rapidly underneath the skin (what is he doing up there?).
    He gurns maniacally. "How about that bit where I made the sandcastle?" His hand is now grabbing at the soft silk of her undergarments (she has a date after work and wanted to wear something special; the sky blue ones with the ornamental lace), tugging the material down until it feels like it is going to snap. "That bit was really clever, wasn't it?" Twisting his head around to look her in the eye.
    She doesn't reply. She is holding her breath.
    "Wasn't it?" He asks again, pulling down harder. Julie squeaks, barely audibly.
    David pokes his head around the door. "Mr. Cox, you're on in one minute."
    He lets go of the silk - SNAP - and Julie gasps for air.
    "Thanks for doing my hair", he says, reaching for a tea towel and wiping his hands on it. "See you after the show". He walks out.
    Julie sits down a stool in the corner of the room, weeping openly.

Friday, 11 March 2011

So what's it about?

James - "It's about a psychiatrist who turns to terrorism, it'll blow your mind"

Teri - "It's about the abuse of domestic pets, it's a gripping tale"

Mike - "It's a thriller about a surgeon in the Swiss Alps, it'll chill you to the bones"

Dave - "It's about a young female boss of a knife factory, it's pretty cutting edge"

Tulise - "It's a tale of sordid passion as a married flour manufacturer finds new love whilst training for the marathon. Unfortunately, though, its a run of the mill affair"

Sally - "It's about an earthquake destroying a public library, it's a cracking read"

Tristan - "It's about a canine on heat, but it doesn't really go anywhere. It's a bit of a shaggy dog story"

What a novel idea for novel.

Monday, 21 February 2011

When I'm in charge

Policy #1: Coke is free in bars and restaurants, much like tap water

How to work it: It'll probably be a bit of a logistical nightmare at first, right, but with a shuffle around of current taxes and stuff then it should be possible to make it so that no-one loses out, and potentially we (me and my co-tyrants) gain, in this deal.
       First of all, coke (I should have clarified; I did of course mean Coca Cola, not the class A drug. More on that later) are going to want a big payout from us to facilitate all these barrels of their stuff that we are going to need. So we will amp up the taxes a bit on some other bits and pieces here and there to make up for that. If people complain its like, so what, you get free coke now? I'd happily pay an extra 22p per bottle of wine from Tesco, say, for the chance to have free coke with every meal or social function where I would be driving (theoretically that is, I should probably get a license first). Just imagine that. Coke, for free. You pay nothing, and get as many ice cold cokes as you want. Who would have water then? Only vegans and women, probably.
       Anyway, raising taxes may not be an issue. Because, luckily, coke is really quite bad for you. So now everyone is going on mad coke binges, bouncing around the streets powered by caffiene and sugar (diet coke is of course still full price in this scenario). At first they are just belching at each other and suffering from communal halitosis but it won't be long until their teeth are falling out when they chew anything tougher than a yoghurt, their stomachs are one giant, throbbing ulcer and they are one square of dairy milk away a from fatal diabetic coma.
       How is this lucky? Well, thank FUCK for the tory government that came before me, the greedy fucks, because they only went and messed around with the NHS. Now what with it being all private and that, they can charge whatever they like (I've only got a basic understanding of how this works because I don't care enough to research it, but I'm assuming that to arrive at this hunky dory situation, they will have had to greased some palms somewhere, so a portion of their revenue is more than likely going to be depositing itself into my savings account on a monthly basis). With this in mind, insulin will now be triple the price: want to silence the demons of your nagging coke addiction with a drop of the sweet sweet treacle that has snared you? Fill your veins with this so you don't die as you do it, only fifty quid a pop. Want to be able to chew solids? Here, we will fix you with some dentures to cover the crumbly stumps of your former teeth. Just sign on the dotted line, and hand us your pension plan. God, I'm going to be rich.
       There are obviously a few things to be worked out, but at the end of the day it is all going to be worth it, because EVERYBODY, literally EVERYBODY, simply cannot wait to be able to consume coke for free, day in day out, until it tears them apart, a giant shaft of hardened cola sediment rips them in two (much like the alien in Alien when it fucks that bloke's chest) leaving them a wasted pile of part dissolved, rotten flesh. Their dying words: " lemon please..."

They just don't know it yet.

Next week: Policy #2 and #3 - Why paedophiles should run after-school clubs and a new naming system for Britain's Motorways, based on T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land.

Thursday, 10 February 2011

The Little Girl


The little girl was in the park with her mummy,
taking their dog out for a walk.
She was eating an ice cream in a cone;
not a Mr Whippy, but one of those
fancy ones from the stalls with Italian sounding names;
it looked like it was raspberry ripple.
The dog suddenly started sprinting
towards something he had seen in the distance.
The little girl giggled with glee, and followed
at top speed, ice cream clutched in her hands.

(Two months earlier, in the same park, a youth
named Lee was working,
putting in new paving slabs along the path.
It was 4:45pm on a Friday night and his boss
was yelling at him: "hurry up! Finish the ****ing
job so we can go home!"
Lee was displeased, not least because of
the bosses' spittle, splashed across his cheek.
So he rushed through the last few slabs
(the last three he barely even cemented.)
Then he sloped off
to smoke cannabis with his mates
and throw stones off the pedestrian bridge
that went over the A2 near his home.)

The dog showed no sign of slowing down.
He remained unaware of the fact that
the little girl had caught her little red sandal
on the edge of an unsecured paving slab,
and was sprawled across the path.
She was crying and her knee was grazed.
The raspberry ripple lay, cone pointing up,
the (now dirty) pink scoop splattered across the slab.

In Superdrug

Richard was hovering in the aisle for 'Mens Products'.
The deodorant was giving him grief; there was just
too much choice. He had narrowed it down to two:
this one had 'forty-eight hour protection' and also
contained bits of silver.
This one had an 'extra cool scent'.
Richard debated.
Richard dilly-dallied.
Of course, forty-eight hours was the safe option.
It would mean application could be more spaced out.
He closed his eyes and rubbed them with the
palms of his hands, and as he did so the words
'extra cool' flashed up, in various technicolours.
He couldn't resist. After all, only clouds have
silver linings (well, clouds and expensive wristwatches)
and maybe smelling extra cool might mean
he could finally attract a girl to be his wife.
Women like people that are extra cool, don't they?

He took his selection up to the cashier,
a thirty-something, peroxide blonde woman
with beetroot coloured lipstick. She asked him
if there was anything else that he needed (he said no)
and as he handed over the cash (£2.85) their
fingers brushed. As he left the shop,
a smile teased the corners of Richard's mouth.

Monday, 7 February 2011


Tim was aware he was a protagonist
of a poem.
He decided, "enough is enough",
and brought the poem
to an end.

spot the obvious reference to contemporary poet/comedian.

Sunday, 6 February 2011

You Were Lonely

"Do you remember that time, fifty years ago, when everything got quite hard?" he said.
"Yes, I do." I replied.
"It didn't ever get much easier, did it?"
"No, not much."
"Thank God we are here now, though. At least we stuck it out."
I took a drag on my cigar. Yes, at least we stuck it out.

Thursday, 3 February 2011

Reptilian Philosophy

Don't discard your shedded skin,
Wrap yourself in the carcass of yesterday.

two mediums

[underpinned by thudding techno]
Jennifer:    How come you're late?
David:       I got distracted.
Jennifer:    Oh really?
David:       Yeah.
Jennifer:    Ok...
David:       I wasn't wanking.

John wanted to give Ella
a kiss on the cheek
but Ella wasn't there.
She'd gone on a bike ride.

She'd be back soon.

(It'll probably be one medium next time you are here)

Poem #3

A man came into my room
with a small hammer
and set about my personal possessions.
He smashed up a picture frame
holding up all my friends. He
shattered a ceramic bowl
crafted by my mother.
Worst of all, he tore apart
all of my notebooks.
He also broke my laptop.

I asked, 'How much
will that cost me?'
He said, 'two hundred
and twenty two pounds.'

I should have told him to
but instead I apologized
and unfurled the notes.

Wednesday, 2 February 2011

An Invaluable Lesson

"So, how much is it gonna cost this week?" I ask.
    "I'm not sure I can say," is the reply.
    "How am I supposed to pay you then?"
    "Well... how much was it worth to you?"
    "I honestly couldn't put a price on it. Maybe thirty three pounds? Thereabouts?"
    "Yes... that's what I used to charge." He looks down at his clasped hands, and sniffs pointedly.
    "Listen, mate, is everything alright?" I ask.
    "Um, no. Nah, not really, since you ask." He exhales. "I'm having a bit of an existential crisis, if you know what I mean."
    "I'm familiar with the work of some of the key figures of the philosophical movement, your Sartre and your Camus, yes. But how is this reflected in your line of work?" I'm not sure I really care enough to hear the answer, but it's already 12:19. Loose Women is on soon, and I just want to get inside.
    "No, you don't care," he says. You're right.
    "Of course I do, c'mon, just tell me what's on your mind?"
    "Its just... it hasn't all been so easy since Shelley died. I mean, that dog was my life. We did everything together. Now, with no-one to buy bones for, and stacks and stacks of Cesar-in-gravy just going to waste in the pantry... you just start to wonder: what does it all mean? These metal discs and sheets of paper we revere so much, they just don't have her soft fur, her wet nose, her tongue. Oh god!" He starts quietly shaking and a tear trickles down his cheek. I look out the window. "I'm sorry to pile this on you," he sniffs, "I know its not your jurisdiction, but she was the one I went to with all my problems. And now she's just not there. And now she's not there, I feel like I'm not there. Everything I hold is just passing through my hands without even considering my broken, broken heart; every smiling face I pass sees the wall behind me. I'm not here any more. Without Shelley, I'm not here."
    12:23. "I'm so sorry, I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you," I say. "But you need to be strong. There are other Shelleys out there, and as much as it hurts to hear now, just think: she would have wanted you to move on. To find new fur, a new tongue to make you whole again. You just have to be strong."
    He wipes his eyes and looks up. "Yeah... yeah, I guess you are right. Its just such a strain, y'know?"
    "I know."
    "Thanks for listening."
    "That's OK."
    "Well," he clears his throat, "that added another half hour onto your driving lesson, so at eleven-pound-an-hour, that brings today's total up to... thirty-eight pounds, fifty pence." He holds out his hand. "Whenever you're ready."

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

A poem and a short story and another poem


I fill up a water bottle
until the top erupts
and water fountains over
my hands. The kitchen towel
is really really dirty;
I can't dry them on that.
This thought sends me into a blind rage
I smack the bottle against the side of the sink
until it splits and showers the floor with water.

I sit down and feel it soak into my cotton trousers.

Short Story

Jack was just pouring gravy on his sausage-and-mash when he heard the thud of his sister falling from the third floor window.

Another Poem

It's snowing;
I'm going to get up really early
and bounce around outside
until no-one can look at me any more.

If I had the capacity, critical commentary would follow. Revisions may do; do sisters thud as they fall? Answers on a postcard.