Monday, 29 June 2009

We Came For Blood

He wraps his whole self around his food. Puts his face up right close to it, moves so his shoulders and arms wrap around it, as if he’s some starving dog ready to snap at any hand that even contemplates taking it. Watching him makes me feel sick, as he crowds around his plate, breathing out and in rapidly as the food sucks down his gullet. Mumma sow's little piglet, pimple pocked and red faced from the exertion it took for him to walk to the KFC counter, from way out there, fifty metres to the carpark. She chuffed in after him, she in her 40’s and he around 20.

“Well, what do you want?” she wheezes.

“Ultimate burger meal, the one with the burger, the chips, the drink, the potato and gravy and the chicken wings. Make it a large. And I want a second burger.”

She orders the bucket for herself.

Twenty dead chooks later and they look at each other, he shrugs, as if to say “well I didn’t ask to be born”, and she shrugs back as if to say “they said you can’t get pregnant the first time. Or, for that matter, the last time.”

Friday, 26 June 2009

Michael Jackson Won’t Let Me Close The Door And Get To Sweden

They haunt you; you remember this is why you started putting vodka on your cornflakes instead. This one immediately became your favourite. As soon as you did it. Why would she collect pigeon feathers? Wasn't her life grey enough as it was? See, that’s always been your problem. Part of you almost thinks you’re doing them a favour. You think childhood comprises of little more than trips to the headmaster’s office and trips to the doctor and trips to the dentist and trips to grandparents and old people in general. Obedience, decay and then death – that’s all that was hammered into you. But you never wanted to obey, not whilst you were decaying, not whilst you were dying.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. We should all rage against the dying of the light, instead of just sitting there like the servile pricks we are. You walked to church, through frost-glistened graveyards and saw little girls, flanked by their mothers, squealing in delight as they desecrated the dead with their sugary sunshine-coloured piss. It was inevitable really. But look at you now. Her face pressed against your forehead. It’s so blissful; you’d happily melt into her. Everyone’s staring at you. This isn't how us In-glish do things. Pull yourself together, man. Get killing again.

Tuesday, 23 June 2009

Bat For Gnashes

Fish. Creg had it on good authority that if you liked fish, you’d like doing what it was that he was planning on doing. He had a friend who had an Uncle who knew about these kinds of things, you see. So Creg decided the first step was finding out whether he did indeed like fish or not. He prayed he would but his only previous experience with fish had not been a happy one. His mother had served him and a young nubile, whose panties he had been hoping to get in, each a fillet of frozen cod. Their consuming of the frozen cod had led to upset stomachs for both of them which had led to Creg not being able to get inside said nubile’s panties and had nothing whatsoever to do with erectile dysfunction.

“Your most expensive fish for less than a fiver!” announced Creg, slapping a crisp five pound note down on the desk in front of the bewildered shop assistant he was addressing.

“Our most expensive fish is more than a fiver…” she said.

This appeared to knock the wind out of Creg’s gay little sails. It was about the only response he hadn't anticipated and prepared a witty response for prior to entering the shop. “Well… well… um…”

“We have some tins of tuna on offer?” the shop assistant offered, growing in frustration and not wanting to prolong the agony any further.


“Okay, well they’re at the end of that aisle over there.” Creg followed her finger and where it was pointing him before returning his gaze to her strangely Buddha-like face.

“You’re a girl, aren't you?” He was pretty sure she was but you never could be too sure these days.

“Uh… yes?” she snapped back, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red in either anger or embarrassment, maybe both.

“Well, I was just wondering what do you girls like? Like, if you were feeling down in the dumps, what could I do to cheer you up?”

“Shut the fuck up I should imagine.”

“Okay then,” smiled Creg breezily, seemingly not taking any offence at her remarks despite her clear exasperation and dislike of him. “Thanks for your help.”

Back home, Creg managed to convince himself that he liked the tuna enough to make the long trip upstairs to his half-sister Charlene’s bedroom. He placed three carefully-measured and carefully-timed knocks on her door before stepping back and straightening himself up. A good stance and posture reflect a proper state of mind his mother had always told him. He wasn't sure if what he was about to (hopefully) do was proper but he wanted to go about it properly.

“Who is it?” came the muted response from behind the door.

“Creg. Your brother.” He wasn't sure why he added the bit after his name, to the best of his knowledge Charlene knew what relation they were to each other.

Creg thought he heard her let out a deep sigh and he definitely heard her say “What do you want, munchkin?”

“I heard you were feeling a bit down. I’m here to shut the fuck up and let my tongue do the talking. I like fish. Baby.”

There followed a whole minute of silence in which Creg tried to keep his sweating, palpitations and hand-wringing down to a bare minimum before finally Charlene tentatively, curiously whispered “Come in….”

Sunday, 21 June 2009

Jesus Wants Me For A Moonbeam

I'm sprawled out in a double bed, empty except for myself, making the shape of a crucifix. The moon outside looks as cold as snow and I don’t want it poking its nose through my window so I get up and close the curtains and wait for my instructions.

When I get them, I don’t understand them. Well I understand them but I don’t understand why they’re my instructions. It’s past 4am, around about this time every weekend during the height of summer, his father used to get up and start mending the house. He was a carpenter. I don’t know why I'm suddenly reminded of him. Despite the 2,400 e-mails about him and his family, I thought I’d put him in the past…

…I drift off to sleep and an angry fat man leans towards the bartender and says to her “Do me a favour, do me a favour! Shit on my face”…

…I wake up on a helicopter with a porn star’s head jerking up and down in between my legs. It’s been years since a woman’s touched me like this and it’s not even real. I put another tape in the VCR so a different actor can play me.


Happy Third Sunday Of June

I took the gun carefully out of the brown paper bag and placed it under my chin. Something didn't feel right though. I wanted to know what would happen when I pulled the trigger. I mean, I knew what would happen. My head would go SPLAT like some lard arse sitting on a strawberry cake, decorating the walls a sickly red. No that wasn't enough though; I had to see it with my very own eyes before I went ahead with this. So I took the gun and went to my son’s room.

“Hey kiddo, guess what your ol’ dad’s found. A toy gun, looks pretty real doesn't it.”

“Wow,” was all my son could offer as he stood dumbstruck in awe and amazement and I placed the ‘toy’ gun in his hand.

“Why don’t you put it to your head and pretend to shoot yourself. That would be pretty cool, wouldn't it,” I said, affectionately ruffling his hair.

He hesitated for a second, looked into my big, trustful, fatherly eyes and then figured what the heck. Oh, and what a spectacle the ensuing seconds provided. I'm glad I did this; I've changed my mind about killing myself now. It looked fun and all but I don’t really think it’s for me. Plus, I have all this mess to clear up before my wife comes home. I should get cracking.

Ode To Meryl Streep In D Minor

Dear God,

I doubt you get many letters these days. Everyone’s too busy tweeting Ashton Kutcher and Demi Bore to even remember you exist. Sometimes I think you made a world full of cretinous cunts but Mum says I'm not allowed to swear. Dad doesn't mind so much, at least when I'm swearing he can understand what I'm saying because he’s a bit of a moron as well to be honest. Anyway, it’s my 11th birthday in a couple of weeks (24th December) and Gran said I should write to Santa(!) asking for something special, bless her senile cotton socks. As I obviously don’t believe in Santa, I thought I’d write to you instead. I don’t want any presents or any nonsense like that; I just want to ask you for a pardon. You see, I plan to kill my mother, I think it’s the least she deserves for bringing me into this wretched world but I don’t want it to affect my chances of getting into heaven. I really think heaven could do with more people like me. So think about it and if you could get back to me before my birthday, it would be much appreciated.

Love Sophie xxx

And This Is How It Happened

So we were sitting there happily minding our own business, in a quiet little microcosm amongst the raucous of the public house. Tim, to the right of me, was a strapping young gentleman of 6′1; a well-mannered and well-educated individual who shared my burden of nursing a quiet drink. Across from us at the four seated table was another young man and his buxom wench. She was an average looking girl with plenty of bosom on show, which Tim and I agreed was mildly pleasing. Suddenly, Tim’s current thought was interrupted by something, a drunken yahoo had attempted to lick his ear. Pushing the yahoo away, Tim exclaimed that the man was a cunt. Then, being the well-mannered individual he was, he apologized to the table.

“I’m sorry about dropping the C-bomb there guys,” he remarked.

The bosomly girl who had up to this point not opened her mouth and had therefore seemed quite mature and respectable suddenly piped up, “don’t worry about it, it’s pretty much my favourite word.”

“Your favourite?” Tim blurted, flabbergasted, his opinion of her dropping by the second.

“Yes. CUNT!” she ejaculated back.

“Calm down, please,” requested Tim, as politely as he could.

“You know what my new favourite word is? JESUS! FUCK!” she yelled as she slapped her hand on the table. “JESUS! FUCK!” she did it again.

Tim and I looked at each other perplexed at this woman’s unabashed display of immaturity.

“Did you know he was black?” she asked of us.

“Who?” Tim replied.

“Jesus. He was black.”

I disagreed.

“He was. I bet you’ve never even thought about it.”

“I think most races were living in most areas at that point,” Tim recalled, drawing on his knowledge of the immigrations and migrations during the Roman Empire.

I piped up and offered an opinion about Jesus being brown, a Semite, and that I had indeed thought about it.

“Have you never seen anyone from Saudi Arabia?” she demanded.

“Yes, and they’re brown.” I replied.

“Brown, black, what’s the fucking difference?” she paused. “And do you think they had ships back then?”

“Yes,” I replied, for the first time in my life using something in everyday life from my $15,000 ancient history major.

“No. You’re wrong,” she said.

“They did. Jesus lived around the area of Galilee, there is a lake there. His friends were fishermen.”

“Hah! And do you know how big a lake is? A lake is this big,” she indicated with her index finger and thumb a tiny portion, “and an ocean is this big!” she indicated throwing her arms out.

“They had ships back then,” both Tim and I agreed.

“Lakes can be pretty big. The lakes in the states, or what about the Mediterranean sea, that’s pretty much a big lake.”

“Of course I’ve seen the Mediterranean sea! Fucking hell, I’ve floated in the Mediterranean sea!”

“What are you even talking about ships for anyway?” I asked.

“What am I talking about ships for? I’m making a point, fuck.”

“It wasn’t even related to the conversation, you just started talking about ships.”

“Come on we’re leaving,” she said, her eyes welling up. She stood and grabbed her boyfriends arm, pulling him from his chair where he sat completely bewildered by the entire conversation and stormed out of the room.

Tim and I looked at each other, laughing at her surprise departure.

“Did that just happen?” Tim asked.

Yes it did. And that is exactly how it happened.

Everyone Makes Me Feel So Great

When a man starts talking a little too much about one of his female work colleagues, his partner asks “Is she pretty?”

When a woman starts being a little too coy about one of her male work colleagues, her partner asks “Are you fucking him?”

You see, us men get straight to the fucking point even with all our superfluous invective. So I’ll get straight to the fucking point.

First, I took a hammer to her shins. Watched her crawl around for a bit. When that was no longer entertaining enough, I blindfolded her so as her attempts to escape became even more desperate and pathetic. Then when her pleading came too much to bear, I took a hammer to her teeth and filled her cunt-mouth up with blood to muffle the screams.

There is no fucking point.

Saturday, 20 June 2009

If You Came Here By Mistake Then Maybe It’s Your Life That’s The Mistake

I dreamt I could travel through time. All I had to do was bounce a tomato off a baby’s head, catch the tomato, run with it to the nearest ladder I could find, climb up it and then jump off the ladder into thin air. Simple.

Friday, 19 June 2009

Osteal Me Away

As her mouth opened to take the best of what I had for her, all I could see were the rows of teeth. White, like bone protruding from her head. And all I could think of was how she would look without skin, that deep down, I was receiving oral pleasure from a skeleton. I screamed and pushed it to the floor, putting one of my feet on the skeleton’s head, and punching it’s ribcage until it went quiet. I looked at it, skin taught from stretching over its horrible frame, hiding as best it could inside this thin covering, but it couldn’t fool me. I hear footsteps. I grab a knife. Maybe there are more. I’ll have to check them one by one.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

Not Fade Away

I suppose it’s like that in the end. A little bit cold, a little bit lonely, something you need to do on your own. No more tits where you’re going. No more drugs, no more alcohol or two girl threesomes. Yet for some reason you accept it, go quietly into the dark, forgettable. Your soul waited so long for her to be born, yearning for her to give you the time of day and for her to look upon you and to know you like you knew yourself. She never did, though you spent many hours begging it from the universe. As if the universe ever owed you a single cent. So she disappeared out there somewhere, into the huge small world and was never heard from again. For some reason, now, it matters. You can only put her out of your head for so long before she creeps back in, never aging, perpetually youthfully gyrating and flashing you smiles she never showed you. All her curves in the right places, tits so young and firm you could crack eggs on them, and you would if she’d let you. There wasn’t much more you could’ve done for her at your age, a young girl like that. Crack eggs on her tits, watch the yolks and albumen trail down her stomach, and thank her for her time. If even her perfect body couldn’t rouse your local member into her polling booth, then what hope did you have? Better just to die and fade away. 

Nothing But Sickening Melancholy

Your daughter has her back to you. For an all-too-brief-moment you think it’s your wife.


“I don’t understand. I’d stepped out the shower and was blow-drying my hair. It was definitely on. I mean, hairdryers are so noisy you definitely know if they’re on or not. It sounded louder than usual in fact. Deafening almost. And yet my hair felt like it was getting wetter and wetter the longer I dried it. Touch it, see how wet it is.”

“It’s okay, the ambulance is on its way. They’ll dry it for you.”


How easy would it be to pretend your daughter was your wife? You run your fingers slowly down the nape of her neck in between sharp intakes of breath. She knows it’s you. Who else would it be?

“I'm not a radiator, Dad. I can’t generate warmth towards you just because you feel cold.”

“What an odd thing to say,” you tell her as she turns round to face you.

“I meant cold inside.”

“I know what you meant and you’re right, but what an odd thing to say,” you repeat, gently twisting one of her bra-less nipples through the soft fabric of the green jumper your mother knitted for her the Christmas before last.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Dad.”

“You’re all I have left and I don’t even have you,” you laugh bitterly. The absence of the word ‘anymore’ being deliberate.

The Other Prostitute Story I Scribbled In Pablo Picasso’s Empty Sketchbook

“How much do you weigh?” I asked, prodding her belly with a couple of fingers.

“I dunno, mate. I can sit on your face and you can take a guess if you like,” she cackled.

“Lord almighty, you really are a pathetic creature aren't you. You've only got a few minutes left until we do this and you choose for that to be one of the last things you ever say. Have you no sense of the profound, not to mention any dignity?”

Her expression turned serious as she started to think. “Well, you know how people meet a celeb and they often say they’re much smaller than they look on the telly. Well, I met Peter Andre once and I was expecting him to be quite short you know, but he wasn't. I mean, he wasn't particularly tall or anything but he weren't really short either. I guess he was about average. Yeah, about average I’d say. I dunno. I'm babbling, mate. Guess I'm a bit nervous. What do you want me to say? Talking is the last thing on most punters’ minds.”

“Nothing. I think you've said more than enough already. Let’s just get this over and done with.”

“And you’re sure this ain't gonna hurt too much?”

“What do you care? I'm paying you two hundred thousand pounds to do it.”

She thought about this for a second or two, shrugged and then stuck out her tongue.

I leaned over and took out a pair of scissors from the glove compartment in front of her.

Saturday, 13 June 2009

Is It Still A Crymax When You're Crying On The Inside?

He’s calling her phone again.

I tried gentle persuasion to get her to turn it off, but she refused. Gave some excuse about one of her girlfriends ringing up with an emergency. I’d tip the only kind of emergency being a relationship or fashion crisis. For that’s what I’m down to. Sleeping with self-absorbed girls who have sex with virtual strangers for spite. I should be grateful. A man like me, she’s better looking than what I’d normally get. If I ever so much as smiled at girls her age, they’d walk past and give each other looks of horror, before putting their fingers down their throat in mock disgust and heckling laughter.

The phone rings out, diverts off to voicemail. She waits for the bip as the message is received. I thrust away as she listens to it, a stern look on her face. She hangs up and places the phone back on the dresser. It immediately starts ringing again.

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

Dose and Don'ts

“Don’t worry, it happens to all guys,” she said.

And yeah, maybe it does, but not to this guy. Perhaps it was the flecks of dead skin hanging on like grim death from the red rings around her nostrils. The fantasy was so much harder to keep going when it was obvious she was a drug addled coke whore. Squat down there, between your knees, pierced and tattooed, she slobbered her drug puckered mouth around your shaft which failed to bother coming to the party. So I put my hands around her neck and squeezed. Just a little; just enough to flush her cheeks and make her show a bit of emotion. Fear and anger flashed into her eyes. It made me wonder if she has a dad out there, who used to kiss her cheek and tuck her into bed at night. A little brother she rings from time to time, tells him she’s doing great, making it big in her acting career. Anything to avoid the truth, that the last legit work was a car advertisement two years ago and the money was spent in one score. Now life is just about the three C’s, cock, cash and coke. But perhaps I’ve gone too far, her eyes have rolled back into her head and her body has gone limp. 

Thursday, 4 June 2009

What I’d Do With Gemma Arterton’s Twelve Fingers

Whilst Jesus and his disciples lit fires and regaled me with tales, Satan told me just the one thing – God is a liar. I thought my lungs were ashtrays, I thought her head was a sponge and would soak up the blows. Would you rather your back ached from fucking or gardening? Whilst I sat around and lit cigarettes, the cancer spread to others. Would you rather your hands ached from fucking or gardening?

I come moseying along, just to blow you out the water again. It’s effortless. Knees sore from bending, hose coiled and distending.


Nothing is ever tidy. I took a pair of rusty scissors to my scalp when I should have just trimmed round the back and sides. Made more mess than before I started, blood crowning my shiny pate. Always so much clutter where there should be closure. Rush in, rush in. Then flee from the scene of the crime just as soon as you rushed in. You should let the waves come to you. I hate words. Use too many. I was going to say something flowery about the birds singing but I'm going to sleep instead. Wish me well.

Wasn't Anything So Could Be Nothing

I was in the supermarket minding my own business when I felt a hand on my shoulder.


“Well, actually it’s Annette,” I said.

“Oh my god, it’s such an honour, I love you, I mean I really love you. Are you still with that husband of yours? Please god, tell me you’re not.”

“Well, he’s only my husband on the show…” I laughed nervously.

“Leave him.”


“He’s a bastard. He’s cheating on you. Leave him and run away with me.”

“Look, it was nice speaking to you, but I really must be getting on. I need to pick my children up from school soon.”

What happened next happened so quickly that I didn't have time to react. I stood there frozen in abject horror. When I play it back in my head now, I see it all unravel in slow motion. The man put his shopping basket down on the ground, dropped his trousers and underwear, leaned down and picked a tube of superglue out of his basket. He then squeezed the entire contents out of the tube onto his erect penis, grabbed my hand and placed it over it. I didn't even try and pull away from him despite how much my body wanted to recoil. I was too scared.

“TOGETHER FOREVER!” he shouted triumphantly, as the tears started to well up in my eyes and the bile rise up in my throat.