Let’s Go Viral

So, if these people are working with ebola victims or disposing of the dead from the ebola virus why aren’t they being tested before they get on the planes.

If it was me I would want to take every precaution before I went anywhere especially home. And the people that are bringing it back ‘home’ are doctors and aid workers people that are meant to be reassuringly intelligent.

I smell a rat.

In my view it’s just another thing to keep dumb Americans scared and look at it this way more people will die from being shot by police today than from ebola in the western world.

I mean it would make sense.

You’ve just been exposed to loads of people carrying the virus; you’ve been up to your ankles in slurry and human waste that contains the virus and you’ve been burning/burying the dead from the virus so you’d want to be tested as soon as possible. You’re a doctor testing people for ebola, how hard would it be to test yourself before you went home to your friends and family?

I’m going to guarantee you that right now there are people in the US bulk buying bottles of hand sanitizer. To be fair these are probably the same people that buy sterilising wipes to clean their own office phone after every use.

I am also willing to bet there has been an influx of phone calls from concerned old aunties asking if their nieces and nephews living in New York are okay and getting enough vitamin-C or if they are keeping warm.

“Maybe you should go and see the doctor just to be sure, dear… and don’t forget to stock up on hand gel and chicken soup.”

The guy in question even went home to his fiancée and you know he threw his juice inside of her that night. He hasn’t seen her in months and she wasn’t waiting for him with a box of chocolates and a Renée Zellweger DVD now was she.  Anal, dude, anal!

What a fucking dick head.

YOU’RE A FUCKING DOCTOR FOR FUCK SAKE, BE A FUCKING DOCTOR… DON’T JUST BE ANOTHER STUPID FUCKING AMERICAN!!!

But if you thought you had it bad in the states I have just seen a woman on the morning news campaigning to the government to change the UK timeline so it’s the same as Spain so that children will be able to see when they are playing football.

This fucking tofu eating, hand sanitising hippy fuckwit is asking to change the base of the global standard of time so that children can benefit from an hour of extra daylight when playing 5-a-side.

One word here… floodlights… you stupid cunt.

What got me was that the interviewer didn’t ask is she had turned out all right growing up in the dark? She was banging on like every child that goes out to play at this time of year will grow up to be some form of mutated crippled troll.  We used to go out in the evening to play football all the time and it didn’t do us any harm.

Sure one of my mates got flashed by some fucking psycho while riding his bike home one night but other than that there were no long term detrimental effects. The funny part of the story was that because of the light on his bike all he could see was the perverts cock jiggling about.  How we laughed.

And don’t give me that shit about children getting snatched because the majority of children get taken in broad daylight. If anything there are probably less child abductions at this time of the year as parents don’t want their children going out in the dark.

So what this woman is proposing is that kid need more sunlight but at the cost of more of them being raped and killed by paedophiles.

But we in the collective western world have bigger things to worry about than some pesky virus that rots you from the inside out causing all the orifices of your body and pours of your skin to bleed out; or whether children need an extra hour of daylight so that they don’t turn into some kind of vampiric sociopath that is shit at football.

Low flying drones!

With camera drones becoming readily available for as cheap as £300 the government have been forced to leap into action to keep the people of London safe from the low flying remote controlled aircraft.

There are laws to stop people using them over or within 150 meters of a built up area which, I feel destroys the point of owning one. If you took your camera drone to some massive field all you will be able to film is the field.  That’s all it is, a fucking field. “Oh look there’s a cow”, how fucking exciting, that’s £300 I’m never getting back.

Saying that I would probably try and land it on the cows head just to see what sort of noise it would make.

I want to be able to spy on drug deals, police pushing prostitutes around and taking money of them.  I want to be able to catch people having sex in the park or annoy the hell out of old people.  I want to follow some old biddy with my drone.

I want to be able to fly my drone through the doors at ASDA and harass the security staff. And I reckon it’s big enough to set off the automatic doors too.

You can see it now, one of those ‘where there’s blame’ legal adverts with some dude in a suit asking you “have you been hit by a low flying drone, have you been followed by a quad-rotor?” Then you need to lighten up and fuck the fuck off.

But anyhow, that’s enough from me for one morning; I’m off to get tested for blood spunk disease and to order my attack drone from Argos.

And don’t forget that the clocks go back Sunday night.

Set your watch.

PEACE!!!

There’s literally nothing in the fridge.

I’ve always written stuff.

Even when I was a kid sat in English class and the teacher was droning on about his time as a child growing up in rural Wales and all his friends dying in a landslide. I was sat at the back with a few friends scribbling tales of sword and sorcery and maddening horror.

This later backfired as the teacher noticed it all and put me in the top stream English class the next year where I actually had to do some work.

Then as a teenager who was into Black/Death metal and Doom I penned verse after verse of dark, brooding poetry and lyrics to which never got put to music. I’m willing to bet that if I took a look back at that stuff that I wrote I would think I was a bit of a goth-douche-bag type. 

But none the less, I was still writing.

And later in life still when I was actually in death metal bands as a vocalist I penned all the lyrics myself so I guess it was natural progression that brings me to where I am today.

I can turn around and say that I am a writer… I guess.

At the beginning of the year I got laid off work (something that I have spoken about before) so I decided to take a little time away from working for other people that really couldn’t give a shit if you live or die and take up writing full time. The way I figured it was that if I didn’t just go balls deep into it I would never get around to doing it.  Getting made redundant from work was just the boot up the arse I needed to give it a shot.

So I dropped out.

I dropped out of everything, my life shifted dramatically. I had spent the last of my saved money, I had to start claiming benefits to pay the rent and keep me fed; something that I used to be totally against but I figured that over the last twelve years of paying tax it was my turn to get something back.

By this time I had already had some stuff published, a few website credits, and a couple of short story acceptances and a collection of flash stories published by Feverish Fiction. So I had the itch, I just had to scratch the fucker.

And to be fair the gamble of dropping out has really stated to pay off. I have many short stories published in several anthologies by several respected publishing houses, my first novella has been picked up and is in print and I’m working on many more shorts and novella length projects.

I have also started to write features and reviews for a horror website where I get published on a regular basis and have picked up quite the following.

So everything is starting to get where I want it to be. The dream I had at the start of this adventure is pretty much coming together.

But here are the pitfalls.

Over the last few months I have had to sell pretty much everything that I own.

Hundreds of my cherished DVD collection and I do mean hundreds for a huge cut in what I paid for them. All of my musical equipment went the way of Cash Converters including all of my home recording studio that I had spent a good two years putting together.  All my guitars went, three BC Rich’s, an SG, a Les Paul and my Flying V.  Three amp heads and two cabinets, I even sold all of my leads and stands.

And why? 

Because writing is a very secluded lifestyle, you are pretty much on your own for the majority of the time and when you immerse yourself in a lifestyle such as this it’s very easy to get caught up in it.

So I started to go a little bit mad, I guess you could call it cabin fever and every now and then I would feel the need to get out and about.

What’s wrong with that you may ask? Well here’s the snag.

I get my benefit money on a Monday and by the time the weekend comes around I have pretty much spent all of it on bills, food, tobacco, laundry, toiletries and the like leaving me pretty much penniless. So to keep up with a much needed social life because there have been times where I have gone a whole week without speaking to anyone I have had to cash in on some of my possessions to be able to get out of the house.

And you don’t get much bang for your buck at all. I can’t remember that last time I went to a gig that wasn’t local purely because I really can’t afford it.

It makes it really embarrassing when trying to date. Picture it, you meet a really cool girl at a party and you start chatting.  She’s nice, she thinks you’re nice and you think, “Way-hey, I’m in here.”  Then she invites you to a gig that her friend is putting on somewhere in the city and because you’ve had a few drinks you agree to meet up.

The next day you realise that you have no money that weekend because you spunked it all getting the pair of you pissed and can’t get there. So you gather up as many DVD’s as you can stuff into two carrier bags and flog them only to receive half the money you were expecting to get and can’t even afford the train to get to the fucking gig.

So you message her letting her know that you can’t make it, she says “it’s okay, maybe next time” knowing full well that there will be no next time.

Shame because she was fit. 

It really puts the block on one’s sex life living this way sometimes.

I was most embarrassed one afternoon when a mate of mine bumped into me in our local CEX where I was cashing in a shit load of DVD box sets so I could go to a friend’s birthday drinks that evening.

The guy whose birthday it was found out and said thanks for turning up and was really appreciative that I had made the effort. It meant a lot to the both of us I guess.

And that’s another thing; I don’t like being a let-down.

I need a social life to stop me from going stir crazy but on the other side of the coin I can’t get the funds together to be able to go out.

I have gone without food; I have gone without company, fucked up a long term relationship, gone weeks without going out and having a single beer. I’ve nearly lost my house, put myself into dept and had running battles with not only my landlord but the local council as well.

But you know what, when I saw that first copy of my book, something that I had sacrificed so much for I nearly cried (I didn’t coz you know, blokes), then I did a little dance and opened a bottle of scotch that I had been saving.

So maybe, just maybe it might be time to start considering getting a good job, not just the first thing that comes up. Get myself out there a bit, start reclaiming some of the stuff that I have flogged off over the last few months.  Claw back some of my social life.  Get amongst it so to speak (wink, wink, ladies!).

But I have made myself a little promise that if the royalties of my first book are okay then I’m going to spend a few days down in Hastings to get away for a while, just me and the sea. A few games of crazy golf and an afternoon in the arcades playing the 2p machines with a bag of chips.

You know, I might even take a bird to a gig or two.

Life is on the up and up and it has really been too long since I have been able to say that. 

Like a Clown’s Pocket!

I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned before that I don’t like living statues.

There’s something about a person that will literally stand in the street completely still until someone puts a coin in their pot before they move for a couple of seconds that I just can’t abide. And when some chump does part with their cash all they do is move slowly, blow a whistle, blow up a fucking balloon or wave to a slightly freaked out child.

Just fucking beg you talentless twat, sell the Big Issue or just mug people.

Even mimes (another of the street performers that I can’t stick) are higher up the ladder than the living statue.

One day I would like to set fire to one of these performers’ boxes, see how long the fucker can keep still then. Then when the blaze is sufficient I’ll drop in 50p so he can get his running and screaming because he’s on fire bit on the go then extinguish said blaze by beating him to death with a busker’s guitar.

And as for mimes, I sat and watched one once in Covent Garden and he was pretending to be stuck in some invisible box. You know the routine, hands up in the air padding at an imaginary wall then walking into it and bumping his nose then the box gets smaller and smaller, how we laughed… the fucking twat.

I found myself doing something that I have never done, or if I have I must have been very young but I was praying. I was praying for the invisible box to be real and that the oxygen supply in said box to just be running out so I could watch the fellow with the white face and stripy jumper suffocate.

I have said it many times, there is no god.

Not only had I wasted my breath but also a large amount of my time watching a dickhead in a beret pretend to pull on an invisible rope or lasso people.

Living statues are just another way to pointlessly congest our high streets with a clutter of thick people that can’t believe what they are seeing. It’s usually middle aged women with a few kids standing there in total awe that someone could paint themselves bronze and stand perfectly still.

Mind you these are the same middle aged women that think Susan Boyle was talented.

Don’t give these people money, wait until they stop with their leg up in the air or something then wait for the inevitable cramp to set in, then laugh at their antics as they roll around on the floor in pain.

Now I’m not totally anti-street performer, I have seen some absolutely great acts in the city that have not only been talented but entertaining as well. I just don’t see standing on a box dressed as a tramp that’s covered in metallic paint doing nothing is any kind of talent.

And they have that kazoo type thing in their mouths that makes a squeaking/whizzing noise like a duck getting fucked in the butthole. It’s not funny, it’s just annoying.

I have also mentioned that I am not a fan of hippies either so when there are groups of them juggling to some really bad I tend not to part with my cash. I hope they starve at their commune, or possibly freeze to death during a harsh winter.

The thing is I have developed a thing about some of these entertainers while doing research for a book that I’m writing.

Specifically clowns.

It was the case a while ago that I would have told you that I was petrified of clowns especially white faced clowns or Auguste clowns (you see, I have been doing research). This for the most part is still the case but I have developed a thing for clown porn.

Not only do I find the idea of a woman dressed as a clown alluring, just the idea of a girl in face paint gives me a bit of a stalk-on. I’m sure there was a quote about facing your fear then fucking it that I could use here.

But from doing research into the beauteous art form that is clown fucking I found a whole new world of depravity.

Some of it I had a vague idea about like Vore, the act of eating or being eaten, often whole people. I saw a video of Ludella Hahn (oh my god, the greatest ass in the world) eating some chicken off the bone then she gave birth to a skeleton.  She was also in a video where she was eaten by a demonic sleeping bag.

People masturbate to this.

Then I found a site that was dedicated to women drowning in quicksand, topless of course and often with a man/men standing over her as she gets sucked down into the mire. Nothing pornographic really other than the woman is usually topless and it is seen, from what I can gather as a kind of restraint.  The more you struggle the deeper and more restrained you become.

There was also some really fucked up plushie/furry porn that had a guy dressed as a giant teddy bear that came to life when the maid was doing some cleaning in little Jonny’s room. It was the first time I had witnessed a domestic servant get raped by a giant teddy bear if I’m honest but it wasn’t as (shocking might be a little strong) worrying as watching a man have sex with a modified stuffed panda.

This fat bloke had stitched a fleshlight into this big panda toy and was fucking it on web cam for the entire world to see. I’m guessing this is a predominantly homosexual form of erotica because it is in essence a man masturbating using a child’s stuffed animal.

It was when he was asking the toy if it wanted him to cum inside of it and insisted on calling the stuffed toy a slut all throughout the video.

But anyway, I have to get on with some work and I have quite a lot to do before I get to go out this evening. I’m paying a woman to dress as a clown, give me a blow job while I’m dresses as Paddington Bear. 

I’ve made marmalade sandwiches and everything.