At the centre of the soul there is a deli

… and all they serve is human flesh.

Smoked, cured, dried and salted; all laid out under glass panelling for you to drool over as you walk the line of existentialism.  It’s a smorgasbord of sliced me and you.

There is a choice of bread to go with either cold cut or hot sandwiches, of course, nothing but the best for you.  A various array of kraut, slaws and pickles, and a massive range of sauces, dips and dressings.  There are trays of sliced thigh meat, pulled belly meat, a potage of human brain and liver, a soup with eyes floating about in it like in that Indian Jones movie.  Nothing is wasted.  No one makes it out without being stripped to the bone.

Woe betides the man that asks for a salad in the Deli of Damnation.

There is a large Mediterranean man with un-naturally hairy arms that works behind the counter; all day he dips great salt meat sandwiches in human dripping and gravy (on request) and slaps the subs on to plain white china.  He will never like you yet he makes your sandwich with grace and perfection.

Welcome to the wonderful biological mechanism that is my mind deconstructing my character.

Let’s face it, that’s all you do when you start questioning the meaning of existence isn’t it; you start devouring yourself.  You take gory lumps of your persona and ingest then, take them on-board to get a taste of what it is that makes you, you.

And you don’t just nibble, what would be the point in that?  Great big mouthfuls of your own shit, that’s what you must force down.

Then the desert.

After you have gorged yourself on your own ego comes that single dark moment that makes you shudder.  A feeling that you can’t explain, like you stood too close to the void of nothing and it started to suck at your guts.  A sinking feeling as you realise that at some point you won’t be here anymore.

So what would any normal person do when that moment hits?  Well, in most cases people turn or start religion.  An answer to what happens when you die.  A punch line to the joke if you will.

And it is funny, you live then you die and the funny bit is that you go to heaven and meet with all the people you loved and live forever in servitude in a dictated utopia.  Nah, that’s not for me. 

Nice idea but unfortunately a lot of you have taken that ‘tranquilizer’ and let it go to your head; and it is a tranquiliser.  Can you imagine what sort of chaos there would be if everyone realised that life had no point, that there isn’t an afterlife and everything you were taught by your elders was bullshit.  Oh, wait.

That’s when it starts to get weird.

When you start to question whether any of this has a point, whether any of this is actually real or just some illusion that you are having in some void of space somewhere.  Are you a part of someone else’s dream?  There is a good chance that you might be in a coma and wake to find a whole new reality waiting for you.  Is this just a hallucination caused by lack of oxygen to the brain during child birth explaining why a lot of cultures believe in reincarnation?

Because I have a conscience does that mean I am conscious or have I just been given this by some higher power to be part of their perverse game of Risk?

Do dogs go to heaven?

Will we find proof of the missing link?

What are the true properties of the Higgs Boson particle and will its existence become the new god?

If I kill someone, what are the real consequences, is it morally wrong or is it just brain washing?

Take all these questions and throw in large fistfuls of self-loathing and persecution paranoia then gently fold in some fat breaks and you have an average night for me.

So many things that keep me awake at night.  It’s enough to drive one insane.

Oh, wait.

But the question I guess is what does my existence mean for me?

Well, I guess just being awake is pretty good.  Feelings.  Thoughts.  Ideas.

That to me is the point of being alive.  Every night I wake up sharply and realise that at some point I won’t be able to feel air filling my lungs or go outside and smell the asphalt in the road heat up on a hot day.  I won’t be able to enjoy the quenching my thirst with a cold glass of water.  I won’t feel scared any more.  I won’t find anything funny anymore.  I won’t think that guy over there is a bit of a dick anymore.  I won’t hear music anymore.  Taste a slice of pickle when I bite into a burger anymore.

I really find life a bit of a sick joke.  We get this gift that we call consciousness by fluke, then it slowly drives us mad and evolves to the point that we are totally self-aware.  Meaning we know at some point that we die.  And for those of us that haven’t fallen into the religion ‘safety net’ it really takes the shine off of the later years.  Guess I just want to live forever, how greedy of me.

I can’t remember who said it but it has stayed with me for many years, “childhood is over the moment that you know you are going to die”.  It was probably in some shite 90’s movie.

Take time out to think about it for five minutes every day; get used to the idea that you are going to end at some point and all that will be left is a puddle of crap in a box somewhere.  Let it shock you; let it turn your blood to ice for a second and let the shudder of mortality hold you in its arms.  After about a year of this you will still become upset but you’ll stop crying every night, and the night terrors will get better.

Then go and enjoy the rest of the day, because tomorrow you might not be able to. 

Is there an unemployment problem in Tibet?

As I stare into the void; the abyss that is my own self-loathing, the sickest pit of my soul I see in the darkness a glimmer, a flicker of light.  The faintest of lights in the depths of such a pernicious nothingness; but what could it be? 

Could it be part of me that has hope; a mere glimpse of some kind of way out, a bolthole to hide away in for the rest of my days?

No… it turned out to be just a reflection of my eyes as I lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the nothing that was my own mind.  No way out, no hope, just a staggering sense of my own mortality. 

There is a place, deep within all of us that is only capable of hate.

And I don’t mean that flim-flam use of the word like ‘I hate sweet corn’ sort of hate, (and I do hate sweet corn by the way, easiest way to ruin a good pizza) I’m talking the ‘I’m going to eat your fucking family’ sort of hate.

But anyhow, at the moment I rush headlong into my third week of unemployment and have come to the conclusion that I do not want to be unemployed for too long.

It’s dull as fuck and without a steady income flowing into my account, it limits what I can get up too.  After my last pay, just in time to be spunked over the Christmas period, I really have next too fuck all in the way of monies.  It’s enough to drive a man to sell drugs.

No, really, I’m far too pretty for prison.

The first thing that you have to do when you are unemployed is make friends with day time television.  Not only is it designed to keep housewives company/distracted while they do the housework (that’s not really a job nowadays is it) but it is there to hypnotise the countries great unwashed.

hold up, when did this morning go all neo-Nazi on us?

They take the most basic of premises; stick some wooden middle aged man and some sort with large bangers (I mean tits for my American chums) get a few low rent guests on to chat about what’s in the papers.

I love it when z-list celebrities wax lyrical about current events, it really shows them up for what they are; a walking headshot that needs direction from other people to be able to function.

I don’t really give two flying fucks about what Lee Ryan from Blue thinks about what’s going on in the middle east but there he was, chatting about it with a woman that was all tits and teeth.  Just be Lee Ryan from Blue, don’t become a fucking news reader; but even they just read the events; they don’t really cast their own opinions on stuff.

And don’t you just love it when pop stars get political.  Whatever happened to Bob Geldof and Bono Vox anyway?  Oh yeah that’s right, no one actually gave a fuck about anything they had to say.  People just stopped listening, because they don’t want to hear your opinions, just your music.  Well, maybe not Geldof’s; his last album showed his true colours, a talentless fucktard that can’t pen a song if his house depended on it.

Pop stars are like fairies, if you stop believing in them they disappear and die.  And thank fuck.

the state of these two pricks

Just because some millionaire tramp-looking man swears on the television while trying to raise money (which he couldn’t have done by himself as his band was pretty shit back then) he gets a knighthood and free run to say whatever he wants.  Why doesn’t he just give all his money away and become a cleaner if he thinks we, the poorer people of the world should give up our cash.  why doesn’t he live like most of us do, on the breadline and save as many as he can with his millions rather than fund his leechlike, scientologist children.  What a fucking twat.

And the tune they wrote for the band aid thing, that ‘do they know it’s Christmas’ ditty.  Probably not chaps, as its Africa and a predominantly Muslim country that’s affected by the famine.

And if you’re going to bring god into the proceeding surely if the people in that region did believe in god, isn’t it his/her will that those people are dying?  In theory, if you bring religion into anything where people are dead or dying it’s all part of god’s plan for those people.  Their god wants those people dead.

I’m so glad that I am an atheist.

It means when I eventually get cancer or some other nasty thing due to my smoking I only have myself to blame.  And I don’t have to beg to some nonce bloke in a dress to ask his imaginary boss for forgiveness for being a cunt.  That’s right, go fuck yourself Christianity, I am a massive cunt and you and your god can do nothing about it.

BLOW ME!

I realise that the last statement will probably get some peoples backs up… so forgive me, turn the other cheek, love thy neighbour or as we say down my way ‘don’t get lemon’.  Just ask yourself, what would Jesus do?  Probably not start blasting me on the internet, sending me death threats or try to smash my head in with a rock.

But anyway, I digress; I have swerved a little off topic for a bit.  It’s just the mere mention of the fly-spectacled wearing fucktard Bono’s name or that hippy twat Geldof just, it just… fuck, I hate them two pricks.

stings bedroom looks well shit

That goes for that grain eating, cross-legged on a beanbag, nut-sack torturing twat Sting too.  Why can’t he fuck off up a mountain to have a tantric wank with a goat heard and fall down a ravine while he’s doing it.  If I was on that mountain assent, I would hope to see him fall, just as he whipped out a kazoo or what not to give us a tune a landslide sweeps him down the rock face.

I would literally shit my pants laughing… and probably get as much footage on camera as I could; especially when the rescue party drag his broken body from under the rubble like a ripped up sack of blood sausage.  Meditate on that you twat.

I kid; I wish him all the best and he was pretty good in Dune. (I don’t want to get sued, he looks like the sort that might sue.)  I still don’t like the other two though.  Maybe they would like to go trekking through Tibet with me later this year?  Just an open invite if you’re up for it gents; but their probably too busy polishing their awards.

just a quick flash of those ‘weapons’

So anyway, I’m unemployed now but I’m not in the least bit pissed off.  Admittedly I’m not looking forward to living giro to giro but I have to remain positive.  Besides a good long walk out into the sticks every day was free the last time I checked and I do love this time of year.  there is so much to see in this part of the world (if you like grave yards) and most of it is only a cheap train ride away.

I’m am however looking to get some part time work to pay a few bills and turn my mind on to writing on a more full time basis.  Just some cleaning or charity shop work, I might even aply for a job in a sex shop, just to keep thing nice and sleazy.  I do sleaze very comfortably.

No point wasting my time watching ‘This Morning’ everyday; though I might tug one out over that Holly Willoughby’s championship bangers.  Oh the humanity.

Good night ya’ll.  X

Musings from the day’s events from Mr Felonious Bar-Towel

I sat in that fucking restaurant booth for forty five minutes after I ordered before they brought the food over. 

It was really good, the best I have had in a long while in all fairness, but why the wait?  I sat and watched people that ordered after me get their food way before me.  I was more disappointed than angered as I had been recommended by a friend.

Without being rude I pulled the waitress over during my meal and asked why such a delay.

She explained that human flesh was one of the speciality dished and not on the menu.  They had to kill one of the crack-heads from out back just to meet the order.  Next time I was to book ahead, just in case.

I didn’t get a discount for my wait and the gratuity was included in the bill, a big fat 18%, but I did get the waitresses number.  I’m having her for diner Thursday.

By the power of Ra, some people need a bat around the back of their head.

Spent a grand total of thirty minutes in town yesterday morning and had to go home before I ended up getting arrested.

Saying that I did see some drunken Russian shoplifter put up a fight with security outside the supermarket.

So I decided to plot up for a bit and get some work done to try and relax.  Turns out, I had a rather productive day and smashed my personal best word count.  Amazing what a little anger can do for the focus of the mind.

I guess it’s just my Zen state.

Seriously I can’t function unless I’m pissed off or a little depressed.  It just doesn’t sit right if I’m happy.  I don’t wear it well, like a really itchy pair of pants, I fidget.

So at some point I’m bound to do or say something to piss myself off.  Like go into town with all the mongs!

But while I was doing the hermit thing, I rekindled my love for Russ Meyer by watching ‘Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill’ and ‘Up’.

What’s not to love with these movies?

Strippers and Nazis, flick knives and big tits, romps, rumbles and sinister plans all rolled into a frenzied ball of free love, cheap thrills and cigarette smoke.  Throw in the scent of expensive perfume and burning rubber and you are in my kind of Promised Land.

Beware; the cutest kittens have the sharpest claws.  Classic. 

If I could live my life in some dimension that was based on any directors films it would be the films of Russ Meyers.  (Possibly David Lynch, might have to toss a coin.)

Ladies and Gentleworms, put your hands together for the Pope of Trash!!!

This is the man that paved the way for the Pope of Trash himself, John Waters, and look at the films that man has produced over the years, everyone a master-class in sleaze.

I would love to have the shit beaten out of me and my car stolen by some motor cycle riding raven haired, big breasted Amazonian hell cat in an all in one leather jump suit with a zip up the front.  Dream come true time.  I wouldn’t even care if some beatnik dude that was her slave filmed it on his 16mm.

If you have never heard of either Russ Meyers or John Waters not only should you jump out of a high window, hopefully falling to your deaths, but you should also check the IMDB links below.

 Russ Meyer- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000540/

John Waters- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000691/?ref_=nv_sr_1

I have never wanted to take up Judo more in my entire life!

Sounds strange but I would love to get into a bar fight with a Meyer inspired style woman; I wouldn’t even get too pissed off if she smashed her 40oz over my head and took my wallet.

Imagine an old school style rumble with a female bike gang in tight cat suits, swinging chains about and throwing glasses like there was no tomorrow.  “The fight aint over until some gets thrown out a window!”  Just the idea of watching huge titted women snapping pool cues over cowboy’s heads and pulling guns in gas stations just gives me a semi.  Thank you Mr Meyer, thank you.

The only way I could submerge myself into this world is to start writing and making pulp trash books and films.  So I better get my thinking cap on.  If any buxom/feisty young lovely’s want to ‘get them out’ in the name of (sleaze) art then let me know.  Flick knives, knuckle dusters and leathers will be provided.  The looser the better… morally I mean.

I recon I could knock out a trash novel in a week with enough coffee and doughnuts to keep we awake.  And shit, if I can put together a cleaver script for a fifteen minute short film in a day then a pulp film should take me a brief afternoon.  I might have to invest in some cheap speed?!?

So it’s time for a shift in my life, onward and upward, bigger and better things and all that.

This is not to say that I will turn my back on the gory horror that I love, havens no, if anything it will be a huge part of the trash that I shall start creating.  The bloodshed will be the catalyst for the big knackered adventures that will spew forth onto the page through my fingertips.  And all you fucking twats that give me the hump will be slaughtered in a bloodbath of a bar fight that rumbles within the confines of my squalid little brain.

You are all fucked… but not as fucked as me.

 So as l prop up the sticky bar after several lines in the toilet of the Black Rose, I watch the scantily clad karaoke singer screech her way through Tina Turner’s ‘Private Dancer’. I can’t help but want to throw a glass.

She was attractive, but only in the way a middle aged dropout hooker can be.  Weathered but experienced, beaten but ballsy.  Something in her eyes that said she cries herself to sleep every night.

Then the air turned a different kind of blue as the girls from the roller derby slammed through the back door, spilling into the bar in a frenzy of giggling sexual aggression.

No one could help but stare as the busty tearaways stalked through the bar; all legs and tits spilling out of jump suits, high heels and tape wrapped fingers from back ally brawls.

The leader with the blond pig tails leaned over to some sap on his own; he tried to hide his erection but couldn’t his blushes as she held him by the throat and downed his pint of light and mild.

She unzipped her suit down to her naval, her large breasts just about holding the leather shut and scanned the bar.

I knew then that I would never love again.

See, how easy was that?  Not bad, eh? 

Indifferent boredom of the attention vampires that refuse to take up knitting

So I’m stuck indoors on a Friday night with fuck all to do.

I turn to the two reliable sources of entertainment that I have on offer to me; the television and the internet.

still want them last few crisps?

First up I don’t have to bitch and moan about the state of weekend television, especially at this time of year.  It just after Crimbo and all the descent telly specials have been and gone so you’re stuck with soaps and reality TV repeats.  That and the last of the festive Pringles.

We can take the piss out of these things until the cows come home but once again, far too easy.

It’s far too easy to slam Joey Essex for being orange and a bit thick.  It’s far too easy for me to rip into Danny Dyer for being in some of the worst films I have ever seen and trying to rekindle his career by staring in Eastenders.

Also, Eastenders producers, just a quick one… have things got that bad at the BBC that you have to draft in Mr Dyer to save your sinking flagship?  I get that he’s probably working on the show for next to fuck all so the economics of it I get, but really… Danny Dyer?

Is there a special needs policy within the executive positions pool at the Beeb now, have they employed someone with severer learning difficulties to find actors for their upcoming rolls?

What’s next, do we get Katie Price in for Sherlock Holmes’s next love interest?  Why?!

See what I mean, far too easy.

What I have got the gripe about tonight, all the people out there on social networks having a little moan about being stuck indoors on a Friday night with nothing to do.  Really, you have nothing to do?  That’s mad.

I have nothing to do but have entertained myself by rekindling my love for the comedy of Larry David by re-watching ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’.

The man is a legend and wrote/writes some of the funniest, sharpest stuff on the television and has done for several years.  The man is a walking razor blade of modern observational comedy.

this man drinks/eats for free!

Genius!

Also tonight I have managed to get down a shit ton of work on my newest writing project.  Let’s face it if you are going to sit there and be bored you might as well do stuff that doesn’t just involve eating junk and/or scratching your arse.

Knit, read, draw, write; go do something other than fucking vegetating in your sweaty old armchair.  And the last thing you should do is start to have a bitch about it online… we don’t fucking care, we are stuck indoors too.

It’s just after Christmas and we have no fucking money, stop reminding us, we’re living it too, we know it’s shit.  Yes, I’m talking to you!!!

If your that bored then go shove a hairbrush handle up your arse and have a wank.

You’re just fishing for others that have nothing to do to agree with you, spark some kind of deranged conversation about your fucking cats or whatever so you can detract away from the fact that you are the one that is boring.

You get bored so easily when you have nothing to do with your time, believe me.  There were times between wanks where I was just stuck with fuck all to do.  My computer was fucked and I had given it to a mate to sort out but he was hanging it out and I couldn’t complain about him taking his time because he was a mate.

I was between jobs at the time and stressed with looking for a job so I couldn’t concentrate on working on writing stuff.  It was a real dire situation.

It took me ages to come up with a hobby that I could get into with my free time but this country looks poorly towards the killing and dismemberment of prostitutes.  So I drew a blank.

When I did get my computer back I downloaded a few movies and a few albums so that I wouldn’t be bored.

And that’s what you do, isn’t it?

I can’t really complain about people having a moan on the net as I do it all the time, look at this blog for fuck sake.  But I try not to air my dirty laundry on Facebook.

I have a thing for the people that just shove everything in their boring lives on the interweb.  But worse than these people are the one that post vague status’s to attract the attention of other melts to make them feel better about themselves.  If you have a problem and need to talk to a friend why don’t you just call or visit them rather than beg like some sympathy vampire on Facebook.

Posts like, “well that’s complete shit 😦 !!!”  To fool some other twat into saying “What’s wrong?”

Unless you’re getting beaten by your partner in some circle of heavy domestic violence and this is the only way you can get out an SOS, don’t waste our fucking time.

You are the worst kind of people. 

And I can’t do anything about it, I can’t post a reply telling them to man the fuck up or fuck off because that makes me the fucking bad guy.  All their pathetic little friends start to jump all over me and then I end up getting hate mail because I didn’t fall into their little narcissistic ego trap.

But I digress.

There may be many levels of boredom and you may experience several of these levels from taking up yoga to stabbing up tramps in alleyways at night.  You might find yourself joining some sort of cult or far right group as a knee jerk reaction to the mundane down time that modern living brings.

But whatever you do, please, please, please don’t start watching Celebrity Big Brother.