He has risen

… To a light continental breakfast, coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice. There may be a selection of granola and muesli.

Oh how much I am looking forward to going into town tomorrow morning, in fact it’s my favourite time of year.

“And why’s that then?” I hear you ask in mildly sarcastic yet totally jaded tones. (To be honest you lot are getting harder to please.)

Well it’s Good Friday of course. In my book every Friday is a ‘good’ Friday because it’s Friday. But for the Christian community it’s the best Friday of all for this is the day in history (?) when their messiah had the shit kicked out of him. Then if a savage, humiliating public beating wasn’t enough the Romans and the Jews decided to nail him up on a hill for all to see. And what a sense of humour the Romans have, they actually made the condemned carry their own crosses to where they were to be executed. How they laughed.

But for me this is the best bit. Because of the nature of crucifixion you don’t die straight away, heavens no, you can hang there for days until you eventually die of dehydration or have bled out.

Charming stuff.

But to get round this a Roman called Long-anus or something stuck a spear into Jesus’s ribs causing him to pretty much bleed to death but not before he saved us all from sin.  What a nice chap.

I’d like to think that if this did happen he probably wouldn’t have been able to say much as the locals had a habit of throwing rocks at people’s heads around that time. All I’m saying is that it’s quite hard to give your own profound eulogy with a mouth full of busted teeth attained from a flying lump of sandstone. (John Cleese – “Right, who threw that?”)

But the story develops into some strange zombie tale as a few days later (after he dies) he is seen leaving his tomb and going on a final mission somewhere. I don’t know what happened in this part of the story as even when we were forced to go to Sunday school I thought the writing was poor. Coming from me, a hack horror writer and journalist that can’t get a job and I’m slagging off one of the world’s most popular books.

You guys are dicks.

Christians I mean, not all of you… some of you are okay… I guess.

But back to why I love going into town on good Friday before I go into why I think most if not all Christians are a bit strange and bewildered. Wait, isn’t that what I’m doing now anyway?

Anyhoo…

I love going into town on Good Friday morn because of the local Methodist churches enactment of the crucifixion. It’s funny as fuck and goes on for ages.

There’s this procession of dudes dressed as roman centurions with whips and they lash the shit out of some guy with long hair (probably the bass player from the church band) who’s dragging this cross with him. There’s a load of women pretending to cry covering their faces with head scarfs like some mental religious terrorist cult (oh, wait) that you see on TV after a bombing in some dust bowl country you never heard of until ‘Murica invades the place.

Seriously for most of you your geographical knowledge only stems from places the UK and US have gone to war with in the last few years. Well in you know about the Falkland’s, that must make you an officianardo of South America.  If it wasn’t for the maps they put up on the news you lot wouldn’t know shit.

But anyway… they tie the hippy bassist to the cross and hoist him up in the grounds of St George’s church. Simply magical.

What I don’t get about the whole thing is it’s supposed to be the start of the AD calendar the day he died so why is the New Year in January? And why can’t anyone pinpoint the day when he died and they move the bank holiday around to suit the business sector and not the religious, wasn’t it Jesus that was supposed to have thrown the money lenders out of the temple?

Some will argue that it’s just the start of the AD calendar and nothing more, a simple change of date because that’s the way time works. What about the Jewish calendar, what’s the date on that at the moment?

It’s a sudo-scientific rewrite to suit our version of some monotheistic cult that is a poor (stupid/easily led) man’s excuse for the law.

I’m getting off topic again, damn you caffeine.

You can hear them coming from a mile off due to one of the ‘Centurion’ shouting at ‘Jesus’ and a drummer hitting one beat per step.

The guy that does the shouting gets really into it calling the guy playing Jesus scum and worm and heretic looking well please with himself in his outfit. You just know that it has become a turn on for him, gets home all sweaty in his roman threads but doesn’t break character as he berates his downtrodden spouse and subjects her to all manner of Dark Age perversities.

I think the local Methodists are missing a trick here; they could make a bundle in historical murder re-enactments. They could do one a week; give the tourist trade here a real boost.

I’d like to see them do Hitler next, have some bloke dressed up losing his shit in a bunker down the prom; killing himself and his bird in said bunker then having their bodies in a bomb crater surrounded by Russians. They could charge a fiver like those Jack the ripper walks they do in Whitechapel, which if you’re new to the city I highly recommend going on. It’s an excuse to get drunk in the street and watch someone overact the death throes of Victorian prostitutes.

Next up Benito Mussolini.

Anyway, I’m off to the Spoons for a pint and to use the free Wi-Fi to post this tripe.

Happy Easter x

 

2 kool for Nu-skool

I have now hit an age where I am comfortable looking myself in the mirror each morning and saying “I am cool.”

I’m too old to care about youth culture or be taken seriously by it and have lived through two retro periods that I was actually around to see that being the 80’s and the 90’s.

I’m also at an age where I’m not taken seriously by people that are ten/fifteen+ years older than me because I have chosen to remain true to my generation-x roots and become a writer.

A career that is often looked down upon by those who choose to wear ties for a living; I say tie wearers as their jobs are pretty interchangeable. “I crunch numbers and sit in meetings babbling about bullshit that will be obsolete in two years and have a company car… it’s a Mondeo.” Well you can jam that right up your pipe.

I’m not really too bothered either that some people my age look down on me for having a bit of a Bohemian lifestyle. I don’t care that they make more money than me or are doing certain stuff within their job; the only people that cares about the Birmingham toilet paper account is people you work with, what have you actually achieved?

Older people look down on me because I haven’t got a company car, I don’t have my own house, I don’t have any kid’s. I didn’t know that that was a necessity in modern society, I apologise if I haven’t read the rulebook.

But you know what, fuck them, they are just jealous that they haven’t got the stones to do what they wanted to be when they were teenagers. All those people out there that wanted to be musicians or comedians or artists that just let it all go for the comfy option of a day job. In most cases it’s where the parents levered them in the direction of a career at an early age. Heaven forbid that their little one should grow up following some kind of dream.

Who actually wants to be a company director at the age of twelve? When I was twelve I wanted to be a marine biologist and I had a fascination with sharks and the Great Barrier Reef. That was slowly leeched out of me by parental apathy and forced inclusion into things like football and homework.

Shit, if only my folks had taken any interest in what I wanted to be rather than what they wanted me to be I might be sitting on a boat tagging stingrays in the Pacific and living off a fat grant by now.

Thanks parental unit for butt fucking me on that one.

My old man actually went out of his way to stash his books on sharks in the loft as he ‘didn’t want the kids to get their hands on them’. I’m pretty sure that withholding knowledge from children is some form of abuse. If only he had taken such care in hiding his vast porno stash.

The youth of today don’t take my age bracket seriously; they are only interested in other youths and youth culture. I guarantee that in a few years’ time they will look back at the shit they watched, did and listened too and say “shit, most of that was shockingly bad.”

My generation have it quite bad at the moment with a lot of our idols either dying off or being arrested for messing with the privet parts of children/female interns.

But do you know why being my age is completely awesome?

Well I’ll tell you.

For a start I don’t have these stupid problems that manifest themselves within teenagers and people in their early twenties. Stuff like girls or college or living with parents, it’s all bullshit. Just have a listen to the majority of the mainstream music that they listen too, it’s either sex orientated or based on fake angst and it’s mostly produced by people my age (or older) to make easy money.

FYI teenage people of the world… people my age control you, what you think, what you wear, what you consume; take a few minutes to digest that next time you listen to some band singing about how much they are unappreciated and need to break stuff.

You kids are dumb as fuck by the way. System of a Down is not old school, you don’t know what old school is as you’re not old enough to have left school yet. It’s not your fault, your nineteen; you don’t know what good music is. (Sorry, personal gripe with that band, they are so boring and haven’t really got that much talent. I like tunes with substance and not just one or two basic riffs. My opinion, don’t bust balls.)

Secondly I don’t have the problems of older people like with their kids or their kid’s schools or with banks and such. I mean I have my fair share of financial problems but it only affects me, if bailiffs come and take all my stuff it’s just stuff. I don’t have to stand there and watch my kid’s hearts break when a burly bloke takes their X-box away.

Lastly I’m in that age bracket where we are into really cool stuff because the stuff we are into is the new retro thing; it’s come full circle for us and it’s great. I have a functioning knowledge of stuff that some people are only just getting into which inadvertently makes me a fount of information on cool stuff.

Boo Yaa!

Also, when you get to my age and don’t have many problems and you aren’t tied by the bonds of regular society you are pretty much free to not give a fuck about anything. And we really don’t give a fuck and all you are jealous as hell and we know it.

We are kids in grown up bodies that some dumbass gave a massive overdraft and a series of credit cards to. Game fucking on!

Sure it makes us smug, arrogant even, but we don’t care, just watch next time you see someone like me in the supermarket checking out the cereal, you just know that that it’s our dinner for the night while we listen to really loud music that you can’t comprehend and write or paint or write music of our own.

Sure you can call us slackers, wasters, part of the counter culture problem but fuck you, without us you wouldn’t have anything cool.

You see half of you are just gearing up to be as cool as us and the other half have had your time and squandered it and missed the party boat. But never mind, I’m off out in a bit to get drunk and hang with a few other people my age that have a disposable income and a high tolerance for intoxicants… before we get too old, right?

And that’s what makes my age bracket cooler than yours.

I am cool.

Just got a letter in the mail

I heard some old bloke moaning about overpopulation the other day in the café.

He had a point, because folk just can’t stop having children. The way I figure it, it should be a maximum of two children per couple. Two people die and are replaced by two more people, makes sense.

I know quite a few people that have more than two children, some of them are single parents too and I wouldn’t want to offend them but I just don’t get it, I think it’s a bit of a strain on the world. Maybe I just don’t get it as I don’t have kids.

But I did come up with a killer idea that would cut the population in half in the space of a year.

One half of the population receive a letter with a name and address on it then the recipient has to kill the person whose details they have received. It would be a totally random choice; someone in Basildon could get an address in Calcutta for example or a sheep farmer in New Zealand has to kill some business type in Iceland. Obviously there will be funds in a special bank account set for that person; you can’t expect somebody to fly to Australia on Job Seekers.

It might get a little sick like some nurse from Baltimore has to fly to the UK to kill some sick school kid. You never know your luck you might get some woman beating arsehole or some right wing politician, something enjoyable. Maybe you’ll get double lucky and get that walking globule of fetid anal mucus, Katie Hopkins.

And the best thing is that you are exempt from prison and no one on the planet knows it’s happening due to a media blackout. Brilliant, half the population gone with no fuss or silly things like ‘laws’ getting in the way in under a year. Imagine the space everyone will have in shopping centre car parks.

No one is excused from the letter, from the poorest in the gutter to the richest in power, kings and queens, leaders and followers; if your name and picture is on a letter, you are going in the ground. And if you receive one, then you have to kill whoever is on it no matter who they are.

But if the recipient refuses to kill they are killed by some kind of hit squad or sent to some gulag to stitch football shirts for the rest of their lives in complete slavery. All you have to do is kill one complete stranger or spend the rest of your life as a slave, literally rotting with disease in some hell hole.

You’d only have to do it every fifty years or so, just to shake the population down a bit, it might even give the gene pool a bit of depth.

You are not allowed to tell anyone that you have been selected and the people that are to be killed will never know that they are up for the cull. You could tie it in with that idea I had about the IQ testing hot squad. Gripping stuff, right? At the very least it’s a great idea for a film.

Maybe I should pitch it?

Anyone who reads my blog want to go in on this one, let me know, we could have a new Hunger Games on our hands… it could be at the very least better that The Purge. Great idea, poorly executed, left me wanting just that little bit more… like a plot that went somewhere and a good ending.

But I can’t have a did at the writing or the idea, I think we all have a list of people that we would love to see at the business end of a claw hammer beating. My name is probably on a few people’s lists just as I’m sure there are a few people out there that would love to see you suffer and die. It’s just the way of things.

Take for example the guy that lives over the street, he has copped more beatings from passers-by than anyone that I know and why? Because he likes to beats his wife and kids in the street.

Seriously, a scumbag and I once saw him get decked by a couple of blokes because he gave his bird a backhander by the taxi rank. He’s constantly drunk and spends all day in the bookies playing the fruit-machines while his battered wife and bastard kids hang around begging for cigarettes outside. I think he’s on a town ban now as I haven’t seen him about in a few weeks but that is one guy that I would take great pleasure in killing. What a total waste of breathable air that man is.

Hopefully his wife eventually broke down enough to have plunged a knife into his heart. We live in hope!

There’s a few scumbags around here that I would gladly place a bullet into. For example the teenage kids that think it’s funny to stand out by the barbers and spit up peoples backs as they walk past. I saw them do it to an old man that didn’t notice but I noticed when they did it to me. You should have seen that kid’s face when my hand wrapped around his neck, I actually thought for a second that I was going to kill him; the other two were petrified.

I’m not joking, the kid went purple and I’m sure he pissed himself.

One day, a few years from now a car will pull up behind me and a pack of twenty something lads will jump out and strangle me in the street.

Just another beating that I’m in line for, I’m sure.

One thing a will suggest is that everyone should make their own shit list of who they would genuinely love to kill. Don’t hold back on yourself and don’t go for obvious people, go for people that have genuinely done you wrong or that you feel shouldn’t be allowed to walk around, let the hate flow. You might surprise yourself.

Vous être un douche m’angoisse

That moment when someone you sort of know comes into the supermarket and you think they are saying hello to you but one of their good friends is standing next to you at the checkout… yeah, that.

Nothing makes me more uncomfortable being around other people more than other people.

You really have no idea what sort of levels of anxiety I now suffer from on a day to day level due to my distrust for other people. I can’t even bring myself to work with other people anymore and I put this down two a variety of things.

First up, your all a pack of let downs. Seriously, I can’t count on a single one of you for anything and that includes my family. They all expect me to call and go see them but surly it’s a two way deal; you get out what you put in, right? I can’t remember the last time a friend or family member took a minute out of their day to call me, but I’m the arsehole because I never call.

Next we have the fact that the majority of you only really give a fuck about yourselves. Next time you have a trip into town just count how many people get in your way or pretend they don’t see you when they barge you out of the way. Count the amount of people that when you hold a door open for you or you make room for them to get by just blank you like it’s your job to do so and their right not to be cautious. If you don’t see this happening you are one of those fucking arseholes and you deserve to be shot in the back of the head with a large calibre pistol before you breed.

Then we have the fact that some of you are just too fucking loud. Really, there is no need to just stat shouting because you are a little drunk or because you are talking to someone on the phone while taking the bus to go shopping. We get it, you have unlimited minutes, it doesn’t mean you have to be on your phone nonstop, they are unlimited, they aren’t going anywhere. I don’t get all shouty when I’ve had a few beers, I guess it’s, one because I can handle my ale and two, I don’t feel the need to assert my male dominance over the rest of the group.

Ape-like chest beating just aint my bag.

Then you have all the self-obsessed poser types. These are some of the worst individuals you will meet due to failing at some of the other personality flaws I have listed and the fact they are totally narcissistic.

These are the people that have been told that they are handsome or pretty all their lives (usually by their parents) and have let it go to their heads causing major mental defects in the personality. They have to constantly be given recognition for the way they look and have to be looked at constantly. Just take a look at Instagram, every other picture you come across is a selfie.

Once again, if you don’t see that there is a problem with having people appreciate you only for the way you look and feel the need to present yourself in such a way then you too are part of the problem.

Miserable people are a bit of a bug bear for me also. I may come across in my posts as a bit dismal or down beat but if you actually meet me you will find that I’m quite a jolly chap. A bit of a big mouth, socially awkward, some would even say mildly sociopathic but I’m never a misery.

I hate it when people just aren’t happy. You say hello to someone and ask them how they are doing and they just lay the ‘doom and gloom’ on you. You don’t need that; you haven’t laid your problems out for them. Some people just are that way and I have mates that are a bit, let’s say cheerless, but what can you do, they’re mates right?

Then there’s the fact that everyone’s in a rush nowadays. It’s like the most important thing for some people to get past you so they can buy that plastic piece of crap that they never knew they wanted until they say that advert during their night’s televisual viewing. Just calm down, life is far too short to get het up over something like a potato peeler.

I don’t know I guess everything just stresses me out these days, I guess it’s because everything is out of my control. And here we have the problem with anxiety and the probable cause of mine and many other people’s symptoms. We just can’t control what goes on around us; we want to be able to do so but it’s just chaos and all we can do is let it go or it will drive us mad.

If you talk to anyone that suffers with anxiety you’ll find them (on the outside) more than confident people that are enthusiastic about everything that they do but if you could see them when they are alone.

If you know, then you know

Night times are the worst when it’s dark and quiet and your mind goes for a walk around all the dark little places where you hide secrets and fears and worries. Those bills that are piling up, that job interview that you have, that mole on your back that you need to get looked at, what if that person thinks I’m a prick, what if that person thinks I’m hot, will I ever get out of dept, can I really reach my goals, I didn’t mean to kill that priest.

You get the picture.  

And by morning you find that you are still wide awake with that thing you have to do only a matter of hours away and you’ve had no sleep and you’re going to be wired and anxious all fucking day now and your mind is going into meltdown and you can’t relax.

Before you know it you’re on the train almost in tears and you don’t even know why. Believe me when I say that it is fucking horrible.

The anxiety turns to stress, the stress turns to depression, the depression turns into blog posts, and the blog posts turn into the thought of murder/sexual torture/necrophilia.

But you guys are okay… I guess?

 

Hungry, Hungry Hipsters

This is a disclaimer!

Before we start, I might get a bit heated with this post so fair warning to any female readers in advance, I might get a bit… let’s say impassioned due to the subject matter at hand.

I am after all just a red bloodied male so please forgive me if I become a little over zealous. I don’t want to be crucified by the feminist community; I saw how those bitches turned after that guy got his dick out at that rally, like a pack of rabid fucking animals. I don’t want that on my door step so please take everything here with a tiny pinch of salt.

I suppose calling feminists bitches doesn’t help my cause any now does it, huh?

 

So hey… how super cool are hipster chicks?

Said no one ever!

I for one am quite sick of oversized t-shirts with slogans on them that even the wearer doesn’t know the meaning of. I’ve had my fill of being added to groups on social networks regarding some jewellery page where some tart has bought a load of stuff and strung them on chains to flog to other hipster chicks. Just because you bought a giant ribbon bow in a second hand shop and glued it to a hair clip does not make you a fucking designer.

And the new hipster/goth trend where loads of these girls piss their hippie parents off a little by getting loads of tattoos and wear dark clothing only to go to the same clubs as the average hipsters anyway. Wearing black lipstick doesn’t make you a goth; it makes you a fucking nightmare for the person loading the dishwasher in your local Weatherspoon’s.

Have you ever see a guy that’s got off with one of these so called gothic lovelies? They look like a five year old that has eaten a packet of Black Jacks.

You can’t go anywhere without spotting them in their massive parkas and equally big summer hats; usually wearing big glasses and headphones and an assortment of clothing that tells me that there was a power cut when they got dressed.

And they’ve always got a plastic carrier bag with them as well as their everyday bag. What’s the fucking deal with the carrier bag? Do these girls just want to advertise the fact that they are going to some green space to get pissed on cheap cider while some douche plays a poorly tuned acoustic? There’s always some twat with a guitar.

I think the carrier bag lets the average man know that they are down with working class guys but still have rather well off parents and can afford their own cans of Stella.

And these girls aren’t just stupid teenage girls, it’s not just a youth movement, most of these hipster chicks are well into their twenties and really should know better. If you’re going to ride a brakeless bike around London, sooner or later you’re going under some kind of vehicle.

Now it may sound like I’m having a dig here…

But holy shit, are these women fucking hot!

I mean have you been to the farmers market lately? There are so many scarf/t-shirt combo wearing girls scattered about filling their string bags with kale and home squashed chilli pickle, it’s unreal. And every single one of them is unutterably fuckable.

You can’t move for coloured hair, big hats, artisan salami and old-school tattoo work. Rejoice brothers, rejoice lovers of a quality sausage product, rejoice alternative types that have no real attractive attributes other than the fact they might be artists, musicians or writers and maybe can grow facial hair.

Pull on your favourite jumper, take off your socks and don your slip-ons, go unshaven for a few weeks, pump some air into the tires of your city bike and fill your boots because we, dear brothers, we are going shopping.

And I don’t just mean for a good selection of locally sourced cheese and meats, fuck no!

We have to get on twitter and organise. We have to hit Borough Market like it has never been hit before, in numbers and with objectives and forward thinking. If one of us knows about good quality wine then the rest of us know about good quality wine. If one of us has a working knowledge of jam preparation then we all have a working knowledge of jam preparation.

We have to hit the barbers and get cuts that haven’t seen the light of day since the 1900’s, we must form groups each with hipster pussy slaying ability’s to train lesser men in the group. It will be a hipster clunge terrorist training camp.

It may mean wearing a cardigan and sunglasses even if it’s not cold or sunny but trust me, it will be worth it. While their men are going through the bins looking for food or spending too much time trimming their beards we can close in for the kill.

Hot, wet hipster pussy for everyone!

But these are no ordinary girls, oh no; many will have an interest in obscure music, film, literature, art and can fan girl harder than your average male geek. You will have to do your homework if you are to plough one of these Bettys.

Seriously, most these girls have had the benefit of a university education so not only are they used to getting smashed by rugby lads they also have a high functioning brain. Your average Joe Blow doesn’t stand a chance… unless you have some blow… and maybe a bag of Mandy… hipsters love Mandy.

If you can get around the fact that the girl is probably going to be smarter than you, you might be okay. Just tell her that you like her jewellery or show some kind of interest in her t-shirt printing business.

It will be like shooting fish in a barrel and in some cases it might smell like that too due to feminine hygiene. This is often down to them making their own soaps that are only good for throwing out the window when their cat is humping your back wheel of your 10 speed when you are trying to get some in the middle of the night.

Start reading old literature in coffee houses; this is another of their mating grounds, nine times out of ten they just work there so get used to ordering twice in one visit.

Sci-Fi is always good, shows you have a spirit for the adventurous and a penchant for the fantastic yet still grounded by the concepts of reality. You’ll be elbow deep in no time wearing her scarf and throwing stuff at her cat, figuratively and literally.

If you don’t like coffee then you might as well get used to wanking a lot as it is a well-documented fact that you cannot be/do a hipster if you don’t drink coffee.

DEATH WANK DEATH WANK DEATH WANK DEATH WANK

Have you ever tried talking to someone you’ve never met before like they are one of your closest friends? Try it next time you’re in a restaurant and the waiter askes you if everything is okay with your meal. Throw in a bit of banter that is usually brushed off by one of your mates but I guarantee they will look at you like ‘who’s this psycho?’

Either that or you get a complete nutter that thinks his new best friend is on table three and ends up stalking you on social media. He will eventually find out where you live and come round. It will be little things at first like breaking in when you are out and sniffing your clothes or sleeping in your bed.

It will progress to sitting in his car outside your house taking photos and driving off quickly when a neighbour looks out of the curtains or maybe just raping a loved one to get ‘closer to you’. But make no mistake the guy will at some point be rooting your corpse in a ditch while crying.

You’re laughing about it now but when you find lout that it’s me that’s been doing this to you for the last year you might get a little worried. Now you’re looking towards the window to see if there’s a car outside; It’s okay I’ve just gone for a bite to eat.

I’ll be back later to watch you sleep.

Do you remember the good old days at the start of the century when celebrities were being stalked all the time?  I sure do, but the trend has died out a little. I’m guessing that it’s because of new rules and regulations, new kinds of restraining orders and what not.

I think I only have a couple of months left on the Eliza Dushku one that I racked up in 2010… I think?  Still not allowed near Emily Booth, that one’s hanging over me forever. 

It was a bit of a craze back in the day, there was even that show, Bo Selector with Avid Merion popping up in all sorts of celebrity spots. He even broke into Jade Goodies’ house and waited for her to get home. I think her mum beat her too it but this was way before she became a massive racist and Dr Evil look-a-like.

At least that’s how I remember it.

Dante Michael Soiu is by far my favourite celebrity stalker/pizza delivery dude. This guy spent most of 2000 sending letters, stacks porno and even a vibrator that had ‘Because I Love You’ written on it to Gwyneth Paltrow. And when I say letters I mean like 4 or 5 a day. He was declared insane at trial after saying (and I quote) that he wanted to be god’s scalpel so he could ‘cut the sin’ from the starlet.

What a guy.

John Hinckley, Jr was pretty funny (in the head). After seeing the classic breakdown movie ‘Taxi Driver’ Hinckley became obsessed with a young Jodie Foster. This nut even enrolled in Yale where Foster was studying so that he could stalk her at close quarters.

He also thought that the best way to show his undying love for her was to not only make giant collages of her face but also attempt to assassinate President Ronald Regan. He did not succeed, he merely winged him. Hinckley ended up in a nut hatch in DC while Regan went on to help end the cold war and Foster hasn’t made a good film since ‘Silence of the Lambs’ (personal opinion, and you can cram that ‘what about Panic Room’ shit.)

I want a Panic Room but it would have to be somewhere really fucked up like in the middle of the high street. just hit a button and a cylinder like those mechanical toilets that you get in the city rises up. I step in, hit a button and down we go to my own personal Bat-Cave.

I’d have one of those chairs that hang from the celling but big enough to sleep in like a giant spherical cat basket. There’d have to be a fuck off sized television, one of those 70inch curved bastards with full 3D and a bar, a well-stocked bar. A fridge full of microwaveable burritos and a stack of Dutch-strength pornography, maybe a few DVD box sets too. I might make my own collage after the alcohol kicks in.

It would be great; it gets to that point in the night when you just can’t stand to be around anybody but haven’t got the legs to get home. Just hit the button and you have your own little nest under the street.

There might be a market for this you know.

It’s kind of like when rich dude live in the country with their family but finance a secret little flat in the city for when they want to ‘work late’. And by ‘work late’ I mean take the secretary back to the flat with a big bag of coke and some industry quality lubricants.

No need for an entertainment system in that place unless it’s some kind of bondage swing.

You do hear of stuff like this happening, usually when the bloke is found trussed up like a turkey hanging from the celling with a rock hard cock and an orange laced with amyl nitrate in his gob. The secretary has done the off with the bastards wallet and the last of the coke. She found him dead after she went to flush out her butt before anything got stuffed up it. When she came back, there he was in ladies attire and his eyes bulging out of his head like bloodshot golf balls. They do say your tongue turns blue when you are hung.

I wonder how many cases of auto-erotic asphyxiation go unreported every year?

Time for a little research me thinks.

Writer’s block, fried slice and nazi’s fucking in the woods

What’s the best thing about a hangover?

Easy, going to the café to try and fool your body that you didn’t poison yourself the night before with beer and belly shots of fireball.

Yes, everyone loves going to the café on a Saturday morning for a plate of fried stuff, I know I do. Even though we are fully aware that this stuff is going to clog our arteries faster than swallowing a packet of test tube bungs, we love it.

So let’s have a look at what goes on my breakfast plate.

To start off we have a sausage (maybe two) but they have to be those horrid ones with bits in that they deep fry. I kid, there’s a little café that I know that use the local butchers sausages and they are divine. Do not accept a duff sausage.

Then some black pudding. For those that don’t know what that is it’s a sausage made from blood that is often sliced up and grilled/fried and it tastes magic.

Then some fried mushrooms, the more the merrier. Love a fistful of shrooms on my plate first thing in the morning. In fact I’ve eaten chestnut mushrooms with a slice of cheese and a little fresh garlic in a sandwich for breakfast on several occasions. I love mushrooms.

Then the holy hash brown. I don’t mind a potato rosti but I prefer the triangular goodness of the humble hash brown.

Beans next, but not too many, I don’t want the plate swimming in the bastards and I hate it when there’s more sauce than beans. I know a bloke that strains off the excess tomato sauce before he cooks them. He may have killed a prostitute.

Then we come to the staple of the honest fry up, the bread. I like toast or just bread and butter but only on the side. I don’t like the way it soaks up to much of the beans and oil and becomes all stodgy. So if it’s going on the plate it has to be fried slice, cut into triangles and a nice golden brown please.

And that’s me, six items and I’m done. Heaven.

But wait, “Where’s the bacon and eggs?” I hear you cry. Well I like bacon and eggs (mostly in an omelette) but I think that’s a breakfast on its own.

There have been many occasions where I’ve eaten just bacon and poached eggs for breakfast and found it more than substantial. I’m just very particular when it comes to what goes into ‘MY’ fry up.

And do you know what the point is?

You can literally write about anything. I just wrote over 400 words on what parts of a fry-up I like.

How do you get rid of writers block? Too easy; take a little time away from what you are stuck on and write about something you know, something different. Just a little tip.

Another good tip is do a bit of research on something for an upcoming project or something that you just don’t know about but might have an interest in. I find that if I’m researching stuff, little things in said research jump out and point me into new directions that I may not have thought of; especially if it’s something unrelated to what I was working on.

I love a bit of research; it can take you to so many new places and give you so many more new interests. For example I stated doing a bit of research in old adventure magazines ages ago when I was working on some ‘classic’ pulp stories. I now have a favourite cover artist, favourite adventure writer and favourite publications. The main thing is that I have a new love and hobby in vintage men’s adventure magazines.

That said research has led me down some very dark road, very dark indeed.

Recently (as some of you might know) I’ve been working on an occult horror short story collection and some of the stories have some, let’s say ‘adult’ themes.

Now, the research I started doing led me to some very strange sites indeed. I don’t want to say gay nazi porn but yeah, it was pretty much gay nazi porn. I didn’t think that the nazi’s could become more ridiculous until I saw bone heads trying to mash each-others butts into a pulp. And there was me thinking that nazi’s didn’t like the gay community? You live and learn.

Laughing at nazi’s is okay, right? 

Then I started to find sites dedicated to occult sects that use nudity and sex as part of their rituals. Fantastic. I have talked about my fascination with middle-aged folk going out to the woods to have sex on some rock in the name of some long forgotten god, I think probably because it’s funny.

But seriously folks, there are people out there that do this as a pastime.

We’re not going into the fact that no body, NO BODY has ever raised a demon or guaranteed a good corn harvest from having sex in a graveyard or killing a goat in a pub car-park.

Anyway, this is a brief one as I’m drinking my body weight in merlot and watching low quality television and have become too drunk to type.

Thank you and goodnight.

I would have liked to have been born a Bengal tiger

Seriously, how cool would that be?

Being a giant cat, imagine that. Spending all day wandering around the tropical jungles and tea fields of India; sleeping up in a tree with the scent of the fragrant Jasmin forests wafting in the breeze. Every now and then chewing on a monkey or water buffalo leg while you wait for a fat American tourist to come by on an elephant so you can pounce on them.

Have you seen that clip? Insane.

The only real thing you have to worry about is the gangs of cowardly poachers waiting for you to strut near them so they can shoot you and sell your bones to impotent Chinamen. I love the way tiger stripe looks but I’d rather see it on the back of a tiger than on the floor of some twat’s drawing room.

I don’t get why people still hunt and poach for things like ivory in this day and age. I get that people hunt for food, there’s nothing wrong with that if there’s a sustainable source of game; it’s living off of the land. For me it’s the same as growing your own crops, making your own beer, milking your own cow and churning your own butter. It’s hunter gatherer, it’s Robin Hood; very medieval. It’s a way of life that sadly we have left long in the past and is seen as barbarous for some reason.

The hunting part that is, not the growing of your own vegetables, that’s quite trendy now. What is it with hipsters and allotments covered in kale?

But killing for ornaments or hokum snake oil type remedies. Are you really trying to tell me that crushing rhino horn up and putting it in your tea is a valid replacement for Viagra in this day and age? Please feel free to kill yourselves China.

But any way, one of the main reasons I would have liked to have been born a Bengal tiger is hippies.

Yep you heard me right hippies, I would love to spend my entire life lying in wait for those work shy, weed smoking, patchouli stinking trustafarians to hit the hippie trail to Goa. That will bring them right my way and I will kill and eat as many of the fuckers as I can.

I can’t fucking stand hippies. Unfortunately I know quite a few and it’s only a handful that I can physically stand and that’s only because I’ve known them since I was a kid and they weren’t hippies then. But the majority from what I can make out are little rich kids that have an unending source of monies because their parents believe it’s important for them to ‘find themselves’.

Well listen up parents, they are not finding themselves; they are finding the bottom of a MDMA or ketamine bag. Your little darlings are putting away more drugs than are referenced in an Irvine Welsh novel.

And if you’re not giving them the money then guess what? You’re too fucking stupid/well off to notice that the little cunts are stealing from you. And they are stealing from you. And they are spending that money on more than just the weed that you’re ‘okay with’ because you smoked it at college back in the seventies.

The amount of parents last night that were told by their child when they bowled in at 3am that the child was ‘well tired’ and that they ‘smoked one joint down the park, that’s why my eyes are like this’. I’ve done it myself.

I once got caught by my mother sneaking in the house well into the early hours while I was on acid. She had stayed up to watch some Open University thing and had gotten drunk. I was tripping balls and she said “come and have a chat, I haven’t seen you in ages”. Thank fuck she was drunk because I was in trouble.  She knew, she fucking knew… bitch.

My hippie killing tiger name in the local villages would be the ‘tourist trap’ or ‘blood and sandalwood’, something like that. The story goes that he has eaten that many hippies that his fur is scented with the smell of incense and cheap weed. You’ll get a whiff of nag shamper, there’ll be a flash of claws… then you’ll be dead.

Like the glimmer man but without that whispering fat fuck Steven Seagal. There’ll be nothing but jungle. Then the sound of someone opening their twelfth giant bag of Dorito’s, then you’ll just walk away.

Seriously, can that dude even roll a fist anymore? He looks like he should be hosting one of those eating challenge shows on the Food Network with his slicked back pony nub and all black atire. Fat cunt. He looks like a rapist.

And he’s hanging out with that psycho Putin. I read somewhere that Seagal was thinking of moving (defecting) to Russia as he thought that they had the right idea when I came to terrorising smaller countries or something. Then I read that there is a petition in floating around (or there was) on the web to get him deported to Russia because he’s a bit of an arsehole. Do we want to say the new Chuck Norris?

Is Chuck Norris dead?

Fuck, I hope so. So what he was in a few Bruce Lee movies, so was Bolo Yung but there aren’t memes or shitty t-shirt slogans about him. And he was a better martial artist. And he isn’t a fucking religious zealot. And he isn’t ginger… or a twat.

But you have a good one out there people and I do mean that.  Thanks for the support and don’t forget you gotta love those internets!

Peace x 

Excuse me, is this the cue for the attention seeking hate speech?

Well young lovelies of the internet, it certainly has been far too long… so what’s been happening in your world?

Wait, this is a blog post, I forgot that blogs like this aren’t a two way conversation.

I’m getting rather forgetful of late, I forgot that it was a weekend and stayed in bed when I was supposed to meet someone. Needless to say the monies didn’t change hands and they killed the schoolboy.

I ran a bath the other day and forgot that it was there. I found it stone cold a few hours later when I went back to the bathroom to drop a deuce. I think it might be caffeine withdrawal.

I also forgot that you’re not allowed to get aggressive in the job centre. I am quite glad that I don’t have any outstanding warrants. Brains, who needs em, right?

It’s probably got something to do with the fact I have been sitting my flat just staring at a selection of LCD screens for the last three months. Although being unemployed has given me an excuse to catch up on several TV shows that were made decades ago.

Star Trek Next Generation, Tales from the Darkside, X-Files and Twilight Zone and all I can say is, I’ve had the time of my life.

Seriously, lying in bed writing bizarre horror stories and watching box-sets while dipping the occasional ginger nut into my coffee is my new career. Every now and then I am forced to bump shoulders with the populace of this fair town when I need supplies but fuck it, rough with the smooth.

I do need to get more exercise though, popping to the shop for almond milk and breakfast pastries every other day doesn’t quite cut it as cardio/vascular exercise. I’ve taken to lifting weights every other day just to get a sweat on but again, I have become quite forgetful especially when it comes to what day it is.

Another thing I have rekindled id my love for occult images of partially naked women. I don’t know what it is about a woman dressed as a witch at some kind of ritual covered with blood and dancing like she’s possessed with a sword or something. Sploosh! It’s always good if there’s some pretty good doom playing too, something properly slow and heavy with a hint of stoner chucked in for the groove.

I guess it’s just the way my brain has been working while I’ve been on this occult horror writing kick over the last few days. It’s always good that if you write something down that it kind of affects you, the writer. It’s a good thing if it scares you, turns you on, and makes you sad, because if it does that to you then it should do the same to the reader.

The thing is that when you do research into this sort of stuff you do find some rather dubious images and websites. From what I can make out there are a lot of people out there that use occult gathering as an excuse to fuck each other’s wives. Middle-aged men and woman get together try and call up a demon and fail then strip down with a head full of alcohol and no doubt magic mushrooms.

Sounds pretty good, but there is a lot of sagging flesh flapping about the place.

I wonder if these people’s bosses know what they get up to no a Wednesday night? Hard to explain that you’re in a satanic fuck cult that are off to the Grampian’s on the weekend for the Valpuganacht blood orgy. Doesn’t look too good on a CV, I don’t think you’ll get to interview stage with that on there.

I might have to put that on my CV for a laugh just to see what happens. ‘Interests include – Ritualistic sacrifice, Gregorian chanting, casual sex with other peoples wives under the watchful eye of the high priest from the black goat order and hiking.’ Then apply for a job that I know I’m not going to get just to see the feedback email.

You never know, I might actually get a job out of it.

But other than the witch fixation and re-runs of shows long forgotten I have got back in touch with my spirit crushing depression. It’s fucking horrible. I’m putting this down to caffeine withdrawal also.

Yep, I have a serious problem with coffee. I can’t do anything in the morning without a cup of the stuff. I’m fucking dependant on it, I’m a caffeine junkie. I’m waiting for the day they ban it and I end up killing someone in a supermarket. And don’t give me the ‘just have tea’ line unless you want to lose an ear.

Don’t get me wrong I love a cuppa, but coffee is the fuel, the medicine, the mother’s milk if you will. I can’t imagine a writing day without at least two hefty cups of the beautiful liquid. Give me a cup of coffee before I kill!

I don’t trust people that don’t drink tea or coffee, I can’t imagine what goes through their minds to be honest. You just can’t beat a good brew. “No, I don’t like hot drinks.” Why not? I demand an explanation. Your parents brought you up wrong is what it is.

So, as I trudge wearily back to my pit to submerge myself in my work and research and depression I look to the future. Projects and hard work await me and I for one can’t wait.

Now if I can just get some big titted cemetery witch slut to bring me a fresh pot, a box of doughnuts and the offer of a topless back rub while we watch Tales from the Crypt… That would just be great.

As long as she doesn’t plunge a sacrificial knife between my shoulder blades and have sex with my slowly cooling corpse in a graveyard that is.

But saying that…