Monthly Archives: January 2012

the clean up

Another part of the series, a gift from me to you… enjoy my friends and fans! Gx


Brian the maker

Part two of the blog series


Mrs Sebahat had called the police five days after he had just upped and left in his car. He had looked panicked and drove away ay great speed. He wasn’t carrying much in the way of luggage, a large holdall over his shoulder and what looked like a football under his arm.

She had a key to the flat, but didn’t want to go down there on her own, it hadn’t been the same since her husband had died.

It was the smell. It had started to come up through the floor several weeks ago, that paired with the weird sounds coming from Brian’s rooms, sawing sounds, machine sounds, sex sounds. She had no intention on walking in there without big, burly policemen in front of her.

The police car arrived around 4pm, and the officers took the keys from Mrs Sebahat. She explained about the smell and the sounds and how the tenant had fled in the night at high speed. They wrote down a statement and headed down the concrete front stairs to where Mr Brian Exeter lived.

The smell was heavy as the opened the door, the thick, sickly sweet scent of putrefaction., one of the officers throw his partner a knowing look. They entered with caution to be met with, what looked like at first glance quite a normal living room. TV, coffee table, bookshelves, X-box, stereo cabinet, sofa… ah the sofa. There was something amiss about the sofa. Something odd. It was covered with a large Indian throw over, decorated with a print of a multi-armed Asian goddess.

But the sofa underneath was odd. The officer nearest took a corner of the throw and whipped it back. The both stood agog in shock at what was underneath.

A mass if tangled limbs and metal rods, fashioned into the shape of a large two seater couch. Hands and feet planted firmly to the floor, rows of thighs as seat cushions, arms upright as back support. Thick wire stitching holding everything together. There where also two severed heads, eyes and mouths sealed with red wax and arranged like scatter cushions.

“Fuck, is this thing real Mark?”

“I’m calling this in, this is rough.” his radio crackled and beeped.

Its seemed like a matter of moments before the house was crawling with officers and bathed in bright flood lights intermixed with the flashes of blue light and radio pips. Officers buzzed around, tapping off this and sealing off that. Holding back the crowd of neighbours that had started to accumulate outside, a barrier of yellow tape keeping them at bay. The sound of an officer vomiting could be heard over the clamour of police work.

Men in blue chemical suits hauled out black, heavy bags to a waiting private ambulance. A skinny, pigeon like man in a white overall to cover his cheap, Primark bought suit jotted down notes and ID numbers from the bag tags on a clipboard, stopping every now and then to shake his pen or push up his glasses.

He tapped his pen on the top of the clipboard to the beat of some tune that floated around his head, his internal radio, the radio that always gets stuck on some cheesy 80’s station. “Don’t save a prayer for me now….” he mumbled under his breath in an off key.

Another black bag, this time the shape of a pyramid was presented to him. He glanced at the tag and jotted the number. “where was it?” he asked.

“Kitchen, was some kind of wine rack made of arms.” came the reply through a white dust mask from an officer in full, blue hooded attire.

“Wine eh? No doubt those bottles will make their way into the staff canteen down at the morgue, ha.” He raised an eyebrow to the man in the mask.

“Whatever mate.”

The officer lugged the bag back up to his chest, and trudged towards one of the privet ambulances. He threw it in the back with the several other that had been tossed in like mail bags. He took out a packet of fag’s from his pocket and made his way towards a makeshift buffet table that was really an old bit of wood and a few beer crates that had been knocked together by some of the WPC‘s, but there was coffee, that was good. He pulled the mask over his head and the hood of his dust suit with it to reveal the face of detective inspector Simon Jennings.

He poured a cup of lukewarm dark liquid in to a standard issue white mug and lit his cigarette. “So Mr Exeter, we like to make things out of young girls, do we,“ he said under his breath, exhaling a thick line of smoke into the air. “Hmmmmm…“ It was going to be a long night.

what a mess

So, you lucky people, I have decided to post a small short story in several parts on this blog for free… your welcome!


Brian the maker.

Part one of the blog series.


Now if Brian was to get pulled over now, his life would be over. If people were still hung in this country they would probably have to resurrect him several times to gain justification for his crimes over the past few days.

He had no clue where he was going, or what he would do when he got there. But by now the authorities would have broken the door down to his basement flat and found the collection of necrotising fuck dolls he had ’made’ for himself. Several of which had orifices sawn up, and others cut into them for perverse gratification.

He hadn’t realise it at the time but he had gone quite mad. He had to have done, otherwise he wouldn’t of done all that stuff to those innocent women.

He looked down into the foot well of the passenger seat, the woman’s head looked up at him. It wasn’t so much a human head anymore, more the face of one of those cheap plastic sex dolls you’d find in a crap sitcom for cheap laughs. Mouth agog, eyelids stretched with constant surprise. The whole thing arranged with a layer of clear tape and fish hooks. Her green eyes dull under the binding of the tape, her blond hair red now from the struggle and the sharp blow that lead her to be here, now, staring up at this monstrous pervert.

He was slightly glad it was the middle of the night, wet and drizzling, made him harder to spot, even for an eagle eyed policemen, taking turns wanking each other off in a lay-by somewhere. He would have to ditch the car someplace, find an alternative route, alternate means of travel, he had driven some distance and hoped that the police hadn’t thought to look this far yet. Maybe they hadn’t even found his collection yet, they’re still sitting and laying there, holes forced open and pre-lubed, waiting, wanting him to fill them with himself, and whatever came to hand. Wine bottle, knife, hacksaw, cricket bat, the next door neighbour’s pet cat Winston, whatever came to hand.

It had started when he was at university. He had a girlfriend that got him into some weird stuff sexually and when she left him for a guy with a bigger cock, some gay looking chump with muscles and a tattoo, he needed to fill the void of perverse sexual practises.

He had bought one of those ‘real life’ sex dolls online from a Japanese company, FUKARADA Inc… and boy, did the thing look real. But there was something missing. The smells, tastes and the feel of skin. You cant emulate that. So Brian attempted to.

He had captured a girl from another school nearby and tortured her, masturbating over her bruised and battered face. After killing her, by accident because he had hit her to hard, he trussed her up and use lengths of bamboo can to fix her into poses. This way he could manipulate her into different posses and positions, just like his rubber companion but with the added bonus of the thing being human.

It was after his third attempt at the perfect fuck toy that he discovered that he could put the canes inside the flesh of the girls arms and legs, and using thick wire could hold them into position for longer.

It was around this point that he started to become really creative. Letting go of his inner pervert and giving way to his darkest fantasies. He had stitched two girls together, back to back and removed their legs at the hips and their heads. He then turned them upside-down and placed their arms out like the legs found on a plant stand. He now had himself a four hole fuck toy of outstanding proportion. You just walked up to it like a urinal and picked a hole. He had enjoyed it for several days before some of the holes had become over bruised and had started to turn to a rotten pulp. He kept that in the bathroom now.

And now he was here, running from the police that might not even be looking for him. He was running from his own paranoia, after all he did have a girls severed head with him in the car. He was toying with the idea of pulling off into one of the country road and mouth fucking his ride along companion, but he was to afraid of being caught in torch light. How could he explain that one? It would be bad enough getting caught fucking a live girl on privet property. He would have to find a motel, off the beaten track, somewhere to hide for a few days. He would have to lose the car too.


This is a snippet from a steam punk story I’m working on… let me know what you think.


Steam hissed and sprayed, thick condensation, boiling heat in the air, stifling. He digs his heavy black shovel into the never-ending pile of coal, over the shoulder into the furnace at the heart of the giant dirigible city of New Heaven. Molecular, sweating, filthy with a thousand layers of coal dust he digs on, unstoppable like a robot. The single beam of light from his hard hats light catching every bead of sweat on his blacked body, his white vest just a blackish grey cloth now.

He is not alone, an army of them. All with the same purpose, the same goal, each a little beam of light twitching in the vast dark of the furnace room, the dull orange glow of the flames the only other light in the perpetual heat.

A song starts as the waterman begins his rounds. For each stoker a single cup for every hour, and it would soon be time for shift change. Food, ale and his bed was calling., perhaps a dance in the navy with a strumpet from the kitchens. A small grin crossed his lips as he thought, taking the cup from the waterman, a tin on a chain linking it to the barrel on the red bearded midget’s back. His song cheerful, soft. Every man that took of water before him now singing, he would soon sing, carry on digging into the black with words on his tongue, a story of work and water, a tale of steam.

‘COM’ON LADS, LETS KEEP THIS BASTARD HIGH! DIG LADS, DIG!’ came a call across the furnace hall. Charged with moral and a song in the air they dug at the pile of solid black, the glow brightening, the steam in the air thickening and the song quickening.


get your rat out!

There is something living in my kitchen. I don’t know what it is but I can hear it moving around at night. I can hear it breathing in the wall when I do the washing up, I can hear it eat sometimes too.

I first started to hear it just after I had to leave a bin bag in there for a eek during the bin men strikes. There was old food in there so it must have attracted ‘it.’

Your probably thinking it’s a mouse or something, maybe a rat living in the skirting, but its bigger than that. I caught a glimpse of it scuttle under the sink when I went to get some oven cleaner the other day. It was the size of a rugby ball, at least and had the odour of rotting food to go with it. I don’t recall seeing any fur, just skin in the fleeting flash that I saw. Its skin was like a dolphins’, no, a sharks, grey and smooth, slightly wrinkled around its fat head. It had a nub of a tail, if I recall.

And I saw teeth, hundreds of them, like shinning, long white pins, razor sharp I have no doubt. I hear them clicking together while I’m trying to sleep at night as it feeds inside the wall behind my head.

It took a chicken the other day. I had left it on the side, under a bowl on a plate to defrost. I had only gone out to get some mike for a cup of tea. When I came home I found the bowl and plate smashed on the kitchen floor and no sign of the chicken. There were scratch marks on the work top for its hook like claws. Later that night I could hear it chomping on what was going to be my Sunday roast. Bastard!

It was time for desperate measures.

A few days ago I called a pest control bloke out of the yellow pages. He said that he would be around first thing Monday, today. He came over as promised and had a look around. He didn’t seem to take me too seriously when I described the creature to him, telling me that it must be just a big rat. But it was when he was looking in the cupboard under the stairs that I heard it thing scuttle towards him in the wall.

The exterminator guy let out one of the most blood curdling screams I have ever heard. It wasn’t like in the films. This had real fear in it intonation. There was a scuffle within the cramped confines of the small store cupboard and then silence.

My fear was replace with curiosity and I peered around the small door to find the pest control guy, sat bolt upright, torch in hand, minus his head. There was blood all over the place but no sign of his head. I did see a flash or grey skin and that thumb like nub of a tail, just for a split second, followed by the scurrying through the runs in the walls. I went into shock, and staggered back into my front room.

So I sit here by the phone debating what to do. My hand still shaking, to afraid to go check on the body. Scared that its not going to be there and I have gone mad, and scared that the hideousness is still in there. Do I phone the police or just take out all my savings and make a run for it? No one will believe a monster rat within the walls could have done this.

I don’t know what to do!


Dan, Dan the Satan man

Dan Aykroyd keeps going from strength to strength.

While being held in a minimum holding facility in southern Cali, awaiting trial for the shooting of a liquor store clerk, he formed an escape plan with another inmate Willard Dooks.

On the night of Jan 16thAykroyd and Dooks held one of the guards hostage within their cell using a crude blade made with a toothbrush handle. The hold up soon descended into anarchy as Dooks used it as an excuse to start a dirty protest about the quality of the food served in the canteen. It seems a fight broke out in the cell due to a piece of poop messing up someone’s hair, but the facts of this event haven been confirmed.

A couple of hours into the siege there was a mix up and the authorities let the pair slip out of a side gate of the facility dressed as Mexican laundry workers. This later was found NOT to be part of the plan. When the plan fell apart the pair jumped some Hispanic workers and stole their cloths.

On the morning of the 18hthe search continued. Dooks was picked up wandering in the Hollywood hills. He had taken LSD that he had found on the Hispanics who’s cloths he had stolen. He was babbling about a satanic cult up in Seattle and that Aykroyd was heading that way to find refuge with the sect. he claimed that Aykroyd knew one of the heads of the satanic order and had called him to confirm sanctuary. Alas he didn’t know the exact whereabouts. He did however confirm the name of the sect was ‘the mighty order of the Horn!’ a cult based around the worship of the third horn of Satan. Basically a sex cult that uses the devil as an excuse to have orgies.

So if you have any info on the location of the Blues Brothers star, please, please see if he knows here my car keys are, I swear I left them on the side?!

like a room full of space hoppers

So… as I try to get over the shock of the bastards at Bluewater shopping centre shutting down Chilango’s, I reflect on the last couple of days spent in Gravesend and the surrounding area. In conclusion, it was a load of old shit!

Lets just start with the town itself shall we. What exactly is the point of Gravesend town centre? There aren’t any decent shops anymore. The place went down hill after they shut Our price many years ago. Then E2 records went and then Dennis’s down queen street. There’s nowhere to by good music, comics or films. We don’t even have a burger king, I mean, what the fuck, right! So we are forced to travel, and we do, to Bluewater. And what do we find when we get there? Bugger all.

Have you been in the HMV there? Its fucking pitiful. Its okay if you want to pick up anything in the charts, or the best of the Beatles, but if your looking for anything remotely under the radar then your fucked. Your better off going to the one on oxford street.

So I find myself there on a Sunday afternoon, I only want to pick up some books from Waterston’s, maybe a film or two, but nothing is that simple. We have to go eat, we have to tit about in a stationary shop, we have to go by a card for someone’s birthday, we have to do this, we have to do that. I’m really not complaining about getting food ( other than the fact I couldn’t have steak taco’s ) because I got a massive chilli dog with cheese, a plate of onion rings and a large root beer, champion.

The worst part of shopping at Bluewater is the douchbags. You know the type, that Geordie shore type. To much fake tan and hours in the gym. If they spent as much time reading or thinking as they do in the beauty salon, the world would be a better place, I‘m sure. You nearly go blind walking past these people with the amount of aftershave and perfume the drown themselves in. and their women, I don’t think you could come across a dumber bunch of people if you tried. There’s more common sense in a bus full of special needs kids. These tarts are constantly on their blackberry’s, never looking where they are going and then they look at me like I’m the arsehole when they barge into me. Fuck you, you fucking cum dumpster, I hope you get gang raped in the toilets and they flush your fucking chiwawa down the shitter.

I saw a girl in there today that was so unnaturally orange it defied the laws of science. She looked like a fucking Umpa Lumpa. No one should be that colour. I don’t think there is a single race of people on this rock that has that as a natural skin tone. It looked like it had been applied with a paint roller too and her makeup was fucking hideous. Up close it looked like orange bread with paint on it. What a monster! Some dudes like this kind of girl though, mind you, some guys like to eat their own shit.

I have also found that the middle aged, middle classes are probably the most rude people on the planet. A woman in WH Smiths just barged me out of the way as I was sorting out my bag, I said ‘ excuse me usually works’ and she threw me the most dirty look, like I was some kind of shit nugget on the bottom of her shoe. As I was queuing for my stuff she walked past and shot me the daggers again, I then said, ‘don’t give me evils bitch, you aint gonna say nothing, fuck off!’ She looked scared and shuffled off, her husband saying fuck all. If somebody said that to my misses I’d chin them, it would properly go off, security and everything. Proof that the better the job and financial situation, the less manners they have, and a serious lack of balls!

This brings me to going out on the town around here. If you seem even the slightest bit alternative around here you are looked at with suspicion. There aren’t many places you can go around these parts for a quiet pint on the weekend if you live an alternative lifestyle. Most of the people you’ll bump into are dicks or slags. I have been beaten up before just because of the music I listen to. How fucking shit is that. But that is the mentality of the place. Its got a little better in the past few years, but its still pretty bad.

It’s the boredom factor around here see, there is nothing to do but get pissed. There are no artistic outlets, no real music scene, no galleries or exhibitions to be had. Therefore, there is no alternative to the pissed up orange people we see filling our pubs.

There is my local, but even that’s getting poor now. One half of the pub is kids and the other, douchbags. My mates are there but they all seem to be splitting off and doing their own thing now, moving on and working out their lives. Maybe i’m just getting to that age where I don’t fit. To old for the youngsters and to young for the old boys. It begs the question, why the fuck am I still doing living down this way? I think its time for a change!




do one!

Fucked… that is all!

hay brother, pour the wine

So I’m in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, right, and I spy, with my little eye, the bottle of blue nun left over from the Christmas festivities. I take a moment… and consider opening it and having an afternoon drink. I stop. Think a bit more. And decide not to.

I’m not much of a drinker anymore, and the thought of being drunk, on my own before 3pm frightens the life out of me. Admittedly I would feel great for a bit (until the 8pm head ache kicks in and I have to go to sleep) but then I would have to venture out on to the cold streets to gain more alcohol, or go to the pub. I don’t know how people do it.

When I was in town this morning I saw loads of people in, and outside the local Witherspoon’s, all drinking and before midday. How have we come to this? A modern, multicultural society that is totally dominated by getting ‘on it’. A week of working for a pittance, then off to some boozer to piss the money away so you have to get up on a Monday to do it all again. End result… old, ill and broke!

And the pissheads, fuck. Unemployed heathens, they’re first waking act is to have a drink, whatever was left from the last nights coma inducing session. Living giro to giro, scratching around for the first can of super T to the last three litre bottle of white lightning super cider.

I used to live in a shitty bed sit when I came back to Gravesend, and the place was full of them. Most of them were okay, just old geezers that liked to drink all day, harmless. But a few of them were just mental. Coming home everyday with some kind of injury, another excuse to drink deep into the night and cause chaos within our normally quiet building.

One night there was a bit of an incident when a group of them went shoplifting in ASDA. The stole loads of bottles of drink, vodka, whisky and what turned out later to be a near fatal bottle of brandy. An argument erupted, probably over nothing and on of the drunks decided to cave in the head of another with the afore mentioned, unopened brandy bottle, putting the poor chap in hospital for a good long time. Somebody in the building called the authorities but, before the police and paramedics arrived the bloke that did the head smashing was knocking on my door begging for me to cover for him so he didn’t go back to prison. I kindly declined.

The next day, after several arrests, I was questioned by the fuzz, and I told them what I knew, leaving out the part whit the guy pleading for me to help clean up his shit. But I did get to see inside the room where it all kicked off. There was blood everywhere, up the walls, on the door, and there was a puddle on the floor the size and depth of a super size, stuffed crust pizza. A blood bath. I later found out that the argument was over a stolen TV.

I still haven’t got the point of that night.

‘They’ say it’s a slippery slope, one that is very hard to claw your way back from and I hope I never have anything happen to me in my life that puts me in their shoes. It makes me a little sad that these poor souls existed, yet it also fills me with a sense of well being that I haven’t got to that kind of state. I’ve had my brushed with addiction and violence, there aren’t many of us that can say we haven’t. Those that haven’t seen or experience this kind of lifestyle, I feel sorry for. Its like people that go through their whole life without braking a bone, they will never know the pain of it, and when, in later life they do, they find the pain catastrophic.

The average person in the street wont even see these kinds of people or have anything to do with them, blissfully unaware of the dangerous, drink and drug fuelled underbelly that is just around the corner from their safe little lives. 2.4 children and a company car, a decent bank balance and the worrying tales on the front pages of the daily mail. I have seen the vile dark, addictions within man and the damage it can do, and will not go there again, but yet I refuse to live within total safety and denial of the existence of scum in our society. I think this makes me a little more worldly than the average man, or does this just make me the average man? I hope the later is not the case.

Anyhow, I’m getting ready for a night at the pub, bottoms up and all that!

death of a legend!

So news has filtered down to me that Martin McWebb has died at the age of 67. For those that don’t know, Mr McWebb was the inventor of the internet.

He was first acclaimed for the global phenomenon several years after its launce back in the early eighties when the technology was in its infancy. But during its transition into the mainstream he was quickly written out of the digital history books, replaced by the likes of Steve Jobs and Bill Gates.

Other achievements include getting two calculators to communicate to each other between his native home of Scotland and the northern wastes of Sweden using hundreds of miles of cables. The supersonic carrier pigeon used only once after it took of and landed with no feathers and on fire. The digital ear trumpet, ditched after a woman’s head exploded in Essex and remote control chopsticks, apparently very popular for a time in the Philippines.

He was also know for making outrageous claims about time travel when drunk and could often be found wandering naked around the cemeteries in his local area. He would often use the alien abduction excuse.

He leaves behind two wives and 18 children by several women, but unlike so many of his modern counterparts will be lost within the annals of time, forgotten, lost forever in a sea of binary nonsense.

dont eat yellow…

And so… Another day of my life draws in, more monotonous than the last. But the routine is all I have now, its all we have isn’t it? Without the routines of day to day life where would we be? In the midst of chaos, anarchy, blood and fire in the streets. Well, maybe not that bad, but you get what I mean.

My routines outside of working are very OCD. I have many social ticks and routines that I just have to obey otherwise my whole day goes to pot. For example, the making of the tea. Sounds simple doesn’t it, but look at how you make a cuppa, I bet you’ve been doing it in exactly the same way for years without even realising it. I have to have everything ready before the kettle is even on. The bag in the mug first, then the sugar. I have to wait till the kettle is just boiling the lift it up so the thing boils in my hand. I have to squeeze the tea bag on the back of the spoon with my thumb, even though I know its going to burn me, I still do it!

Even the handle of the mug and positioning of the teaspoon on the side has to be right. that’s pretty bad isn’t it?

But I digress, back to the day to day. A standard day for me is as soon as i’m up the laptop is on, and a DVD, probably family guy or south park, something light. I then use the bathroom then head for the kitchen for tea and toast. I then spend a couple of hours either reading or writing ( not looking at porn, honest! ) I try and get to work early so I leave with plenty of time for the train. Get my ticket, and while waiting I smoke my first ciggie of the day and down a red bull. I do this every day. Like clockwork. I’ on that train at 13.18 every day.

But now something has come up that could put a spin on my routine. It happens every year, and don’t get me wrong I love it when it comes but it leaves me at a loose end. SNOW!

As soon as a snowflake the size of a 2p is seen in the sky everything stops. Trains, buses, even the tubes get massive delays. Pain in the arse. Now, I rely on public transport to get to work and generally move around socially, so the second there is a problem my OCD driven routine goes up in the air. I panic, how the fuck am I supposed to get to forbidden planet in the morning, how am I supposed to get to the giraffe café to meet such and such for lunch. I don’t look at it as an excuses to do nothing and put my feet up, I see it as a hindrance to my 1st world lifestyle. ‘Nature, you bastard! Why must you smite me so!?’

Last time it snowed was a blast though. We went snow boarding in an old quarry. We went to the pub and watched the football. Me and the misses did nothing but drink hot chocolate, eat cheese toasties and snuggle up with a few DVDs for a couple of days. And you should of seen the size of the snow penis we built outside the pub on one of the benches. It was huge. People were actually phoning others to walk down to take a look and take pictures, magical.

The best thing I saw last snow week was some kids had built a snowman in a phone box with the phone stuck in the side of its head. When you opened the door it was looking at you, all pissed of on the phone. Funny little fuckers around our way.

So in a way I’m looking forward to the white out that’s on its way with all the disruption it brings. I’m just going to have to deal with the onset of panic that will follow when I cant get my fill of cheap zombie one shots and eggs Benedict. At least I wont have to go to work for a couple of days.


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The Tale Of Bitter Truth

Everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent night’s sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. The best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too.

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