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It's a veritable rainbow...

Of colour on here now as you've no doubt noticed.

No reason, I just felt like having a slightly different look for a change.


A Rant About Smoking...

In my home town of Edinburgh a smoker was fined £25 for throwing away a cigarette end.

What The Fuck is up with that?

Is my country so concerned about the heath of the nation that it’s now trying to stop us from smoking by making sure we can’t afford it? After all, taxing us up to the hilt hasn’t worked, neither has banning tobacco advertisements on the TV, so is this their new flanking manoeuvre in the war against smoking?

Maybe it’s just another way to prevent global pollution? Just think of all that nasty stuff that we smokers belch into the atmosphere, all those nasty chemicals that we spew forth whenever we light one up.

We are nasty, dangerous people to associate with; We cough all the time; We smell like ashtrays; We have bad breath; We are prone to cancer, TB and other nasty diseases; We are at greater risk of heart attacks, strokes, aneurysms and internal brain explosions; Our arterial passages are dangerously constricted; We can’t run worth shit; We wheeze like asthmatic warthogs when we sleep; We have brown stained fingers; Our homes have a permanent cloud base to rival Everest and we hack up disgusting balls of phlegm at the most inappropriate times.

Oh yeah... And we also pay more towards the health service than those health and fitness freaks that have somehow convinced themselves, that by eating well, not drinking alcohol and jogging regularly, that they’ll live forever.

What I’d like to know is why are we smokers being pursued and hunted down like a rabid dog when there are huge global conglomerates pumping more pollution into the atmosphere in a day than any of us smokers will manage in a lifetime?

Oh yeah, I remember now, it’s ’cos they make money for the government. (Who, by the way, are linked with those same companies and conglomerates.)

What exactly will the fines be used for? Bins or ashtrays to put our cigarette ends into?

Don't be fucking stupid.

The money will be spent in the same way as all the speeding fines that are generated by those lovely Gatso cameras... It will be used to hire ever more uniformed eunuchs whose soul pleasure is to make us feel like a second class citizen because we have exercised our right to freedom of choice.

Cough up in more ways than one friend...

*originally posted on my old site*

Ladies and gentlemen,

I've came to the conclusion that the reason the world is so fucked up is that there is not enough honesty in it. And it’s about time that changed.

So, in order to get the ball rolling I'm going to tell you my most shameful secret in order that we may be able to finally rid ourselves of the anchor that is preventing us all from taking our next evolutionary step.

Do you remember when you were younger and you had a crush on your teacher, your best friends’ mother or maybe even your Nanny? I'm sure you do.

I had a crush on my mates mother and I always dreamed of her introducing me to the (then) unknown world of sex. My fantasy was that one day I would pop around to my friends house and that his mum would answer the door in a dressing gown and tell me that he wasn’t in but would I like to come in for a cup of tea or something.

Due to my young age and utter lack of experience when it came to women the only benchmark I had was from porn movies and the line “Do you want a cup of tea or something?” was a line I had heard and I thought that was how women came onto you.

(The answer that followed in the porno was “I'd love something...” and within seconds the "actors" were naked and screwing each other like rabbits on Viagra.)

I went around to my friends’ house one day and low and behold who answers the door wearing a dressing gown? Yup, you guessed it, his mother. She informed me that my friend wasn’t in and that I could come in and wait if I wanted. Seeing this woman wearing a flimsy dressing gown was enough to convince me that waiting wasn't a very good idea. What if I lost control and made a lunge for her?

Needless to say, I accepted.

We walked into the lounge and I sat down on the couch. Being the houseproud type she began tidying. At one point she bent over to pick up a magazine that had dropped onto the floor at the side of a chair. As she bent over all kinds of thoughts were racing through my mind. (I'll spare you the details, I'm pretty sure you can guess what kind of thoughts they were.)

When she bent over to retrieve the wayward magazine I was astounded to glimpse her breasts swaying from side to side beneath the thinnest material I had ever seen anyone wearing.

My head nearly exploded with thoughts of what would happen if one of them accidentally rid itself of her dressing gown. Would she blush, apologise and pop it back in or would she let it hang out and ask me if I wanted to play with it?

As my mind whirled and spun with all kinds of porno fantasies, the kind that only a teenager with an overactive imagination and a possibly fatal amount of testosterone blasting around his system can produce, she turned and asked me if I would “Like a cup of tea or something?”

I felt like all my dreams were coming true. I wondered if I should try the line I had heard in that porn movie but I had temporarily lost the power of speech.

“Yes please” I eventually managed to croak.
“What would you like?” She asked.

My mind started threshing like a shark in a feeding frenzy. Was she hitting on me? Was I about to be seduced by my dream woman? Was I going to live out my fantasy of shooting my young, virile, splooge all over her face?

“Tea please.” I said as I tried my best not to have a Freudian slip and accidentally say something like; “Yes, I'd love to cum all over your tits while you massage my balls and call me your big studmuffin.”

“Are you feeling ok? You look flush” She said and placed her hand on my forehead.

I damn near passed out. I groaned at her touch. She went to the kitchen to get me a glass of water. She returned and offered me the glass. Once more I could see her breasts swinging and swaying like a hypnotists watch and I'm pretty sure I even seen her nipple. “I need to go to the bathroom.” I said and stood up so quickly that I nearly knocked her over.

And this, folks, is where my shameful secret comes in.

I ran to her bathroom, locked the door, dropped my trousers quicker than an explorer who can feel something climbing up his leg and wanked off like a monkey in a cage.

Before you start thinking; "That isn’t a very shameful thing, we've all jacked off at some point in our lives." I ask you to withhold your judgement for a moment or two.

As I said earlier I held a deep craving to shoot my wad all over her and out the corner of my eye I spotted a jar of Nivea face cream...

I know I shouldn't have but I did...

I shot my load, and quite a sufficient load it was, into the jar of face cream.

(For some reason that seemed the most prudent thing to do. It made sense to my twisted, perverted adolescent mind. A facialising by proxy as it were.)

And that is my shameful secret and if I can tell you that maybe you all can get over your hang ups about telling someone that the trousers they are wearing make them look fat or that you disagree with them on a touchy subject.

*Originally posted on my old site.*


School Daze...

I'm going to ask you to cast your minds back to the year 1984. A year that amongst other things saw the summer Olympics take place in the USA and you weren't cool unless you had a Frankie says relax t-shirt or a VW badge around your neck on an impossibly thick gold chain.

I was cool for a day in 1984 and I'll remember the looks on everyone's faces until the day I die.

The thing was I never had a Frankie t-shirt until my big brother had grown sick of his one and gave it to me (three years too late) so the only way I could have ever have become cool was to get the best VW badge possible. My mission was set.

The day I crossed the line from honesty to criminality was much like any other but the rush of living life on the edge was beyond my wildest dreams. At ten o'clock at night out my bedroom window I slunk trying desperately not to arouse the suspicions of my mum (who although being deaf in one ear could hear a gnat's fart in the next town) who was watching TV in the room next to mine.

As I climbed down the drainpipe with a screwdriver in my pocket I felt like I was about to commit the crime of the century even though I was only going to try to steal a VW badge.

I walked for at least 5 hours trying to find a VW that still had a badge on it, due to all the kids in my school having nicked them all.

I couldn't find one, so I started to make my way toward home taking a shortcut through the local industrial estate when I saw the holy grail not ten feet away from where I stood, parked at the side of the road was a delivery truck for a Dutch haulage company and there right at the front of it was a VW badge that must have been a foot and a half in size, my mouth ran dry and my pulse quickened at the thought of the biggest VW badge I had ever seen in my life.

I walked toward the truck with all the guile of a thirteen year old on a crime spree, trying to be nonchalant about it but looking like as suspicious as was humanly possible, I took the screwdriver from my pocket and slid it between the badge and the grille of the truck taking great care not to damage it (not the truck, fuck the truck I wanted the badge) and when it finally came loose I pried it from the grille like I was prying a jewel from a dead Pharaoh's hand.

The next day I walked to school having serious trouble trying to stay upright because of the weight what with it around my neck on a chain that my brother used to secure his pushbike.

In assembly that morning while all the kids were trying to out do each other I knew my moment had arrived, so I wandered over to the crowd of popular kids and said "Alright folks what's happening?"
"Fuck off Ross." Said John McDonald, one of the most feared kids in my class at school.
"Nah." I said with false bravado "Why don't you fuck off, piss head."
"Feeling brave are we?" He replied.
"Not particularly, but I thought you all might want to see my new VW badge that I got last night." I said to him, thinking that my new badge would somehow protect me from a savage beating from a thirteen year old who had stabbed his own father and was a sure fire prison inmate as soon as he left school. If not sooner.

"Let’s see it then tosser." Said Ian Hartley, another tough kid.
Having accumulated a crowd of thirty kids around me by this time I saw my moment of fame approaching rapidly, "CHECK OUT THIS BAD ASS MOTHERFUCKA!" I yelled and pulled the zipper down on my jacket revealing what to the normal adult eye was a quite blatantly stolen VW truck badge but to thirteen year old kids was a symbol of coolness that was unbeatable.

The next day I was given a lesson that I'll always remember... If you are going to steal then do not wander around at any social interaction with the pilfered goods wrapped around your neck.

I was sitting in my English class staring blankly into space when the dreaded Mr Mackenzie, Assistant Headmaster and known about the school as FILMSTAR, due to the fact he wore sunglasses everyday and was never seen without a clipboard in his hand.

He walked straight toward me with a look of Disdain on his bland and humourless excuse for a face and said (in a proud and happy voice) "Ross Douglas, come with me this instant the police are here to see you."

I nearly shit my pants, all the time looking like someone who does not care that the police have just arrived at school for them.

Mr Mackenzie escorted me to the headmaster's office prattling some shit about "Letting the school down" and "Setting an example" I felt like telling him I had set an example to all the other kids in school (i.e don't get caught) but kept quiet and readied myself for the forthcoming attraction of criminal investigation, my plan was simple DENY, DENY, DENY.

The headmaster was a kindly old guy who had went to school with my mother and liked to hear how she was keeping. This had in the past saved me from many forced visits to his office on the instructions of other teachers, going into his outer office and telling his secretary I was sent by Mr/Mrs/Miss whoever for whatever reason and going into his office and telling him my mum was asking how he and his wife were keeping, then returning to class and telling the teachers that I had seen him like they had told me and that if they didn't believe me then call his secretary.

But that day was not an alleged social visit, it was a police visit and one that if I wasn't careful my parents would be summoned and then I'd really be paddling down shit creek in an upturned boat, I knocked on the door of his office and was instructed to enter.

Right there in front of me was the police in all their uniformed glory waiting anxiously for what I thought was the bust to end all busts (I have always had delusions of grandeur). My headmaster explained that they were here to question me about the theft of a Volkswagen badge from a Dutch truck, and that someone in school had reported to a teacher that I was seen with it, he also went on to give me a glowing report to the policemen that I was a model pupil and that I had never been to his office for anything other than a visit to say hello (as far as he knew all my visits to him were social) I felt ashamed.

The policeman said something along the lines of "Having taken into account your exemplary record of behaviour we have decided to take no further action on this matter, but if we meet again under similar circumstances I shall be forced into taking steps."

The relief that washed over me and I told all present that I would be a good student and would never again walk that path, Which lasted about a day when I was sent to the headmaster's office for beating up a sixth former. I got away with that one by pulling my tried and tested "My mother is asking how you are..." Routine.

The Visitor...

I awoke this morning and put some music on while I pondered what to do with my day.

There was a knock at the door.

I opened it to find that it was Elvis, wearing a black jumpsuit almost identical to the one he wore at his comeback tour
"You're Elvis." I said.
"A huh huh." He replied.
"But your dead." I said, with amazement in my voice.
"A huh huh." He said again.
"Then what are you doing here?" I asked.
"I bring you a warning man, quick! Get a burger!" He said, pushing his way into the house.

I followed him as he headed for the small cupboard at the end of my hallway. "What do we need a burger for?" I asked.
"I've been dead a long time and there's no hamburger stands in heaven, something to do with cholesterol." he said, rooting around the cupboard."Where’s the Big Juggs special edition?" He asked lifting boxes and pulling them open.
"Pardon?" I asked.
"The ghost of the last person that lived here says you have the special anniversary edition of Big Juggs in this cupboard and I ain't seen a pair of big titties in a long time."
"It’s at the bottom of the pile, just after "butch lesbo's and the sunny-assed kid volume 3" help yourself" I said, leaving him to find it.

I walked through to the living room and sat down to roll a joint. I could hear Elvis rummaging in my cupboard of sin and shouted to him to get his ass into the living room so we could talk.

“So man,” I said, “What brings you round these parts, apart from my superior collection of top grade hardcore porno?”
“I told you already boy, I was sent with a warning for you.” he said, as he flicked through the pages of the anniversary edition of Big Juggs.
“A warning?” I asked.
“A huh huh.” He said in that deep southern accent of his. “It’s a warning that you have to make humanity listen to.”
“All of humanity?” I asked.
“A huh huh, all of them.” He said as he turned the porn magazine he was holding sideways “Damn man, I never thought I'd ever see a woman do that, and certainly not with a cucumber.”
“Look man can we please stick to the subject in hand, what’s this warning I have to get all of humanity to listen to?” I asked.

“You gotta tell them that god is getting a little ticked off at all the wars that are being fought in his name, he’s seriously considering giving the world another going over with the biblical flood thing.” Said Elvis as he took a seat on the couch. “He really is getting all cranked up on the vengeance and wrath. I don’t know how long St Peter can keep him in check, there’s only so many times that seeing the virgin Mary's face appear on a road sign in Mexico or a parsnip in the shape of Mother Theresa’s head can take the big guy’s mind off wiping out half the population”

“Why doesn’t he just give the religious nuts a Second Coming?” I asked.
“Jesus say’s he’s not coming back too earth until hell freezes over, the last time he came down they nailed him to a dead tree and left him for a week and a half.”
“I can imagine why that’d put him off of a second visit.” I said as I reached for my cigarettes. “And if you ask me the plague of locusts may be a good idea.”
“SHHH man, he’ll hear you!” Said Elvis with a look of horror on his face.
“How in the name of Christ will he hear me?” I asked.
“Shit man, he’s omnipotent!”
“How can he be Jesus' father if he’s omnipotent?”
“Omnipotent, not impotent.”
“Ok, lets pretend just for a second that you are talking to a complete moron who didn't pay much attention at school and that I don’t know the meaning of the word omnipotent.”
“It means that he sees all, knows all and hears all.”
“What? He sees everything, hears everything and knows everything?”
“That’s about right” Elvis said as he stood up and walked over to my record collection.
“Really? Everything?” I asked.
“A huh huh man, everything.”
“Even if I'm in the bath?”
“What is so hard for you to grasp about that premise man? He’s god. He sees everything that you do and hears everything that you say; He also knows all of your thoughts and deeds”
“Even if I'm in bed at night?” I asked.
“Yes you imbecile, even when you are in your bed at night.” said Elvis obviously getting a little ticked off at my lack of comprehension.

“But that means that when I'm in bed at night wan...umm, you know. He can see me umm, you know.” I stammered.
“You lost me there kid”
“What I'm trying to say is, well, when I'm, you know, umm, how can I put this... bashing the bishop. He can see me?”
“Bashing the bishop?” Elvis asked with a look of puzzlement on his face.
“Choking the snake, shaking hands with your best friend, spanking the monkey, opening the coke bottle, pulling one off, rubbing off some skin, having a quick one off the wrist, dousing the tallywacker.”
“I'm still not with you man.” Elvis said still looking puzzled.


“You better watch your god damned language now boy or I may have to open up a can of whoop ass on y’all, I got a black belt in karate and I ain't 'fraid to use it.” He said as he started to punch and kick at an invisible enemy.
He spun around on the ball of his foot and sent my TV crashing through the window. There was a sound of material ripping and Elvis looked down at his crotch “Got a needle and thread man? I ripped my jumpsuit.”

I went and got him a needle and thread and a pair of Bermuda shorts to wear while he stitched the crotch of his jumpsuit. “Wait a minute” I said “Jesus doesn’t have to come back man”
“Why not?” Elvis asked.
“If god is impotent.” I said.
“Omnipotent.” Interrupted Elvis.
“Yeah man whatever, if he is omnipotent as you say he is. Then surely he could just make someone his conduit here on earth.”
“He tried that already man, no one believed the guy.”
“Who was that?” I asked curiously.
“David Icke. He even went on national TV and told everyone that he was the Son of God and the press and media ripped the poor guy to shreds.” Explained Elvis.
“No wonder no one believed him man, he was a worse TV presenter than Janet Street Porter and a third rate goalkeeper for a shitty football team.” I said in amazement at being told that David Icke was the second coming. “I mean come on man, god has all the power in the universe and he gets a Coventry City goalkeeper to be his second coming. Sorry man but I find that a bit hard to believe.”

“What’s so hard about that to believe?”
“A bad goalkeeper man, come on.”
“His first conduit was a carpenter.”
“What?” I asked amazed “Karen Carpenter was one as well?”
Elvis shook his head and looked skywards with a look of desperation on his face.

“Jesus was a carpenter you idiot. Didn’t you read the bible?”

“Well I did try to but I couldn't get to grips with all that... “Adam lived an hundred and thirty years, and begat a son in his own likeness, after his image; and called his name Seth And Seth lived an hundred and five years, and begat Enos And Enos lived ninety years, and begat Cainan: And Cainan lived after he begat Mahalaleel eight hundred and forty years, and begat sons and daughters”... It bored the hell out of me. He could have got a better writer to write it for him, maybe he should have thrown in a car chase or something like that just to keep people interested.” I said, thinking that if god was listening then I was being scored from the good boy’s list and firmly carved onto the stone tablets of Satan's future torture victims.

“Jesus Christ almighty.” Said Elvis with a tone of dejection in his voice.
“Careful man.” I said “Remember what it say's about not taking the lords name in vain. You could go to hell for that man.”

Elvis looked at me with pity in his eyes “I was asking for his strength to keep my spirits up.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes man, really.”
“You’ve really fallen for that religious mumbo jumbo ain't you?”
“It’s not mumbo jumbo man; It’s the gospel truth.”
“Prove it.” I said.
“How?” Asked Elvis.
“Get him to make it snow outside.” I said, thinking that if ever I needed proof that god existed it beginning to snow on a day where the temperature was 60° in the shade was a pretty convincing argument.
“Were you dropped as a child?” Asked Elvis.
“Not that I know about. Why?”
“Don’t you know that tempting god is a dangerous thing to do?”
“Is it?” I asked.
“Of course it is you idiot!” Elvis said with his voice slightly raised.
“I guess that lesson was given in Sunday school after I got kicked out.”
“You got kicked out of Sunday school?” Elvis asked with a look of disbelief on his face “What for?”
“There was a small misunderstanding.”
“What kind of misunderstanding?”
“Ok I’ll admit it. I took a piss in the font. How was I supposed to know it wasn‘t the urinal? It was made of stone and had water in it!” I confessed.
Elvis’s mouth dropped open and he fixed me with a look like i’ve only ever seen on one person before and that was just after I told an ex-girlfriends dad that I thought he was a scum sucking piece of shit.

“I think I may have come to the wrong house.”
“What made god think this was the right house in the first place?” I asked out of sheer curiosity.
“Well like I said about god being impotent.”
“Omnipotent.” I interrupted.
“Yeah man, whatever. What he done was he looked into everyones heart and soul and picked the person who has the most compassion within them.”
“And he chose me?” I asked amazed.
“A huh, apparently you have compassion for all people regardless of their race, colour, creed and beliefs.” Elvis said.
“It’s a quality I have.”
“How do you manage that?”
“Weed man.” I said as I held up an ounce of the finest Nepalese hash that I'd ever managed to get my hands on.

“You smoke cannabis?” Asked Elvis.
“As god is my witness man. After all he made the stuff and he obviously likes a puff now and then”
“What makes you think that god smokes cannabis?” Elvis asked with a curious look on his face.
“He must do”
“Well, just look at all the diverse animals, plants and people we have on this planet, there are millions of different species but all fit into a group of some kind, primates, insects, rodents, mammals and then there’s lots of subgroups such as mammals that can fly, ones that live in the oceans, ones that live in tree’s so he’s got to have had at least a small toot on occasion. And if that’s not enough proof that god likes a toke then I have three words that’ll settle this argument once and for all.”

“What are the words?”
“Duck-billed-platypus” I said with a smile.
“Pardon?” Asked Elvis.
“You heard right man, duck-billed-platypus.”
“And how exactly does that explain that god smoked some weed in his days on earth as he was creating all the plants and animals on earth?” Elvis asked filled with intrigue.
“Just look at the damned thing. It has the tail of a beaver, but the beak of a duck. It’s a mammal but it lays eggs. It’s like god knew that one day a guy named Charles Darwin would come along and write the evolution of the species but that one animal throws his whole theory out of kilter. And lets face it, if you said to someone that you were going to create such an animal the first thing that they’d do would be too lock the medicine cabinet and hide all your Rizla papers” I said as I reached for the Rizla papers to roll another joint.

“You may have a point there man” said Elvis. “But as I was saying god say’s you need to get everyone to listen to his message and stop all the fighting.”
“It’s not possible man. Too many things would need to be changed.” I said. “I’m not about to walk around telling people not to fight about religion. And besides humans like to fight each other.”

“Why do you think that is?”
“Because for so long the general public has been kept arguing amongst themselves about trivial shit.” I commented. “That’s how the system works, it’s a good way of keeping people in check. If they are arguing amongst themselves about race, colour, sports, the health system, the state of the roads, the price of fuel, sexuality, the latest plot line in Eastenders, Coronation street, what’s happening in the big brother house or anything else, then they aren’t thinking about how it’s all so that the super-rich family’s of the world can keep going to the bank. The world is not controlled by the people. The government controls the people and the governments are controlled by big business.”

“You’re paranoid man” said Elvis “Maybe you should stop smoking that stuff.”
“You can talk you were on so many drugs in the latter stages of your life that you rattled like a pillbox when you came on stage”
“Hey man, they were all prescribed to me by a doctor.”
“Don’t be such a fucking hypocrite man, just ‘cos they are given to you by a doctor doesn’t distract from the fact that you were higher than the entire audience at Woodstock for the best part of your life. You paid the guy to give you those drugs man, he wasn’t a doctor he was a dealer.”

Elvis looked at me with loathing in his eyes but I ignored it.
“Why doesn’t god do a TV special?” I asked “After all the church has enough money to pay for a whole day live interview with him on every network in the world. The ratings for that would be huge. Then he would be able to straighten it all out in one fell swoop.”
“He’s paranoid about how he would look to everyone” said Elvis.
“What for?” I asked.
“Well man, everyone has this idea that he has the looks of a movie star, you know. Like Moses is expected to look like Charlton Heston and Jesus is supposed too look like Max Von Sydow. He feels he can’t compare to those guy's. He wouldn’t live up to everyone’s expectations.” Elvis said as I finished rolling my joint and lighting it.
“What does the big guy look like anyway?” I asked inhaling the smoke deeply.
“He looks like all of humanity.”
“Huh?” I said “what do you mean?”
“It’s like looking in a mirror man; to you he looks like you and to me he looks like me.”
“How can that be?” I asked.
“God made us all in the image of him. He is all of us.”

“Nope man, I still don’t get that” I said wondering if I was stoned enough to try to figure it out without having an aneurysm or spontaneously combusting and burning like a monk at a peace protest.

“All of humanity was created in his image so therefore he looks like all of us. He is us and we are him” Elvis explained.
“One entity you mean?” I said suddenly grasping onto what Elvis was trying to get at.
“That’s it. One entity, one mind. Every thought you have, every word you speak has all been thought or said before by someone else at some point.” Said Elvis.
“So, if nothing you can do, think or say hasn’t been done, said or thought before what’s the point of living?” I asked wanting to know what the meaning behind life was.

“How the hell should I know boy? I'm just a fat, dead rock star man”
“Why don't you do it then?” I asked.
“Been tried man, I've been seen by many thousands of people since I died. I've tried to spread the message that we are all in this together and that heaven on earth is achievable if we put all our differences aside and work as one people, but everyone I choose to tell just thinks I'm a sad lonely old rocker who works in a steel mill and dresses as Elvis at the weekends in a desperate attempt to recapture their happier youth.”

“That’s to be expected though, you do look a bit like a bad impersonator of yourself.” I commented.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Elvis asked with a look of hurt in his eyes.
“Well, I always imagined you’d be taller than you are.”
“Hey man, I'm tall enough to whip your ass man” he said as he stood and started to flay at another invisible enemy.

“TAKE IT EASY MAN!” I yelled “you already kicked my TV out the window and ripped your jumpsuit. I'd rather keep a hold of my electrical hardware and I'm sure that you don't want to rip your pants again.”
“It happens all the time man, I may not be alive anymore but my sewing skills have improved since my death. Just goes to show that there's a good side to everything.” Said Elvis as he calmed down and took his seat again.
“I think the problem lies in the fact that we are all driven by the need for money.” I said, trying to work out what is basically wrong about the world that we live in. “If we done away with money I think life in general would be of a better quality. After all what is money?”

“It’s for buying stuff man, I remember one time I bought fifteen Cadillac's in one day” Elvis said smiling.
“Who were they for?” i asked.
“The staff at a restaurant in Las Vegas, man did they do a good rack of ribs with Barbecue sauce. I used to have my private jet fly them to me wherever I was doing a show. Good ribs man, good ribs.” Elvis said, licking his lips and yearning for some ribs.

“As I was saying before your stomach jumped into the conversation, what is money?”
I could see that Elvis was about to say it was for buying things again so I kept talking.

“It’s just a token. It’s of no value whatsoever. All it is is a piece of paper. Why don't we become a cashless society? We’re almost there as it is now; Credit cards are the new currency and what’s a credit card? It’s a piece of plastic with no value whatsoever.”
“But” interrupted Elvis “How would we get thing’s that we need?”
“Think of it like this, I work in a garage and you work in a bowling alley.”

“Hey man, I'm a rock and roll legend, I aint workin’ in no bowling alley, I'm in show business.”
“Ok then Mr Ego, you work in a Vegas lounge doing your own inimitable style of showmanship and I work in a garage.” I said trying to put across how the idea could be worked, “I don’t mind working in the garage as long as if I feel like it I can walk into the Vegas hotel and catch your show at anytime I feel, and you are comfortable knowing that if your car breaks down and comes to my garage that it’ll be fixed for you.” I explained.

“So everyone just keeps doing the job that they are doing but with no money at the end of the week to buy what they want?” Asked Elvis.
“Why not?” I asked. “Working as one race is surely better than not working as individuals?”
“I suppose so.” Conceded Elvis. “But human greed is a hard thing to try to rid the world of. Everyone is busy trying to get enough for themselves and forgetting about the larger issues”
“All society‘s problems could be sorted out by ridding the world of greed” I stated.
“How?” Elvis asked.

“All people are in employment doing whatever job they are trained to do. Builders build farmers’ farm, brewers brew, and governments run the essentials of society. All the work goes on day to day just like it does now. We house anyone who needs a house and educate him or her to do whatever job they would like to do. After ten years working together we would have full employment and housing.” I said, sucking deep on my joint.

“But what if you want to change the job that you are in?” Asked Elvis.
“Then you go to your local office of employment and tell them you’d rather not be a lounge singer or a builder or a farmer and that you’d like to try your hand at being a fisherman or a judge or whatever else you fancy doing.”
“But who’s going to do the job that you aren't going to be doing anymore?”
“Well, I'm sure that there would be someone that would like to do the job that I was doing. You forget that even though I'm leaving a job, I'm also creating one.”
“You could be onto something there.” said Elvis.

“I think we should do away with calendars in the world as well.” I suggested.
“What will that cure?” Elvis asked.
I took a cigarette and lit it. “What century are we in?” I asked, straying slightly off the point to make the point.
“The twenty-first century.” Said Elvis.
“No we aren’t. The world is a whole lot older than that. It’s accepted by scientists to be between one billion years and five billion years. The oldest known hominid is thought to be 4 million years old. So why do we insist on measuring time by how long it’s been since some guy that you never met? Have you ever wondered why we measure time in seconds?” I said as the joint began to open my mind.
“I can’t say that I have man” said Elvis as he scratched at his thigh. “Loose thread” He said to explain the clawing he was doing in the general vicinity of his crotch.
“It’s another way for the people who run our world to keep you in control.” I said, taking a deep breath. “We are brought into the world and told from the start that everything is a competition and that second is as good as last. Then we get told to measure our lives in seconds. Doesn’t that strike you with the thought that you are set of into life with the suggestion that you will never succeed in life?”
“Put like that it does.” Said Elvis.

“We’d need to get rid of the hypocrisy that is so rife in society as well.” I said.
“Such as?” Posed Elvis.
“The belief that deviating from what is thought of as normal behaviour makes you somehow different from anyone else. If you want to go home at night and dress up like a wolf and have your wife chase you round the kitchen while she’s dressed as little red riding hood then that’s fine just so long as you both willingly consent.”
“Have you been talking to Pricilla?” Elvis asked in a defensive tone.
“Pardon?” I asked, not sure that I'd heard what I thought I had heard.
Elvis laughed nervously “Nothing man, I was just joking” he said as he squirmed in his chair nervously and tried not too look me in the eye.

“Yeah man, whatever.” I said shivering slightly at the thought of this fat, dead, rock and roll star crawling around the kitchen on his hands and knees singing hound dog. The shiver passed as I was warmed by imagining Pricilla dressed in a skimpy little red riding hood outfit.
“Hey man you still with me?” Said Elvis, wondering why I was staring into space like a human version of the Hubble telescope.
“What? Huh? Sorry man. I was miles away.” I said as Elvis derailed my train of thought. “So what can god do to get a little love into the world?”

“What I think we need is more random acts of kindness, good deeds, like buying ribs for hungry people.” said Elvis as he started to look through my collection of videos. “You still got that porno with the lesbian orgy in it?” He asked.
“What is it with you and porno man?” I asked.
“There aint no porn in heaven man.” He answered as he rooted around in my cabinet and selected a tape from my collection. “Is this the one with the two women with the double ended dildo and the giant sized tub of whipped cream?” He asked.
“Will you please stop making a mess of my tapes and sit down. We have issues to sort out.” I said.

“Aww man, come on. I’ve been in heaven for ten years. I need to see some chick licking another chicks pussy like a dog lapping water.” He said as he sat down and picked up the big juggs magazine again.

I suddenly realised that he had said he had been dead for ten years. “Wait a fucking minute man, you’ve been in heaven ten years?”
“Yeah man” he replied.
“But you died in 1977. August 16th. I remember ‘cos it was my birthday and you dying totally fucked my party.” I said, remembering how my mother had went to pieces at the news and had sent everyone at my party home so she could spend the rest of the day weeping and playing “Are you lonesome tonight” over and over again, thereby souring me of Elvis's brand of music for life.

“I didn't die in ‘77 man. I died in ‘93.” He said smiling. “My death in ‘77 was stage managed by the CIA so I could go into witness protection.”
“Witness protection?” I questioned.
“Yeah man, I got into a lot of trouble with the DEA when Dickey gave me a special agents badge and found that I had enough dope in my trailer to keep Woodstock going for a decade or two. Man was Nixon pissed at me for that one.” He said leering at me with his famous lip curl.

“Why are you looking at me like you’re a hungry coyote and I’m a prize hen?” I asked.

“You’re a real good looking guy. You know that?” Elvis answered causing me to worry.
“Look man, you may be the king of rock and roll but I’ll still kick you clean in the balls unless you get that idea out your head man.” I said with a little anger in my voice.
“Hey man I just thought you might wanna do a favour for big Elvis by giving little Elvis some attention.”
“Look man just ’cos I aint a homophobe don’t mean I wanna drop to my knees and give your pecker the kiss of life. Any more of that and you’ll be right back in the hit parade.” I said as I made a mental note not to turn my back on Elvis in his current state.

“Hey man.” Said Elvis “You got a telephone?”
“Yes. you wanna make a call or something?” I said.
“I wanna call for some ribs man. I’m hungry.”
“You can’t get ribs unless you get ones from the Chinese restaurant” I informed elvis.
“What? You mean to tell me there’s no southern take outs in this place?”
“Only KFC” I said.
“Kentucky fried chicken?”
“Damn man, that stuff’s just shit man.”
“Don’t I know it.”

*Originally posted on my old site.*

Reality TV...

The curse of modern TV.

From Big Brother, Pop Idol, Joe Millionaire, Fear Factor to I’m a celebrity! get me out of here, which personally I think should be renamed “I’m an attention seeking shitheel, Watch me dance like a monkey” Reality TV is setting new standards in the dumbing down of our world.

Maybe I’m just being a cynic but I really have no desire to sit on my couch for hours on end lowering my intelligence to the level of pond scum. And I don’t really understand how anyone could. What in Gods name was big brother all about? A houseful of halfwits being poked, prodded and goaded into playing up for an audience of unseen eyes.

Where is the attraction in sitting on your couch, for as many hours as you could without dropping into a mental coma if that was possible, and watching people sit on a couch? If that’s your idea of entertainment then buy a mirror, place it directly in front of your sofa and stare at yourself until your eyes glaze over and your brain grinds to a scrunching halt.

Now don’t get me wrong i’m not attacking your lifestyle choice. I’m merely expressing my opinion.

If your life is so unfulfilled that you feel you need to have some kind of connection to someone stupid enough to believe that their life will be better just because they have been “famous” for a few weeks then frankly I think I have a show for you to star in.

I know that may sound a bit harsh but look at it this way, The reason you watched Big Brother Etc Etc Etc... Was to see just how much the people in the house wound each other up, To maybe catch a glimpse of flesh or to see if there was going to be an argument that led to blows. I have merely taken your lust for entertainment and evolved the idea.

And if you are being honest with yourself I think you’d enjoy “Moron in a minefield.”

Imagine this...

The show starts with angst filled guitar music and wonderfully expensive computer graphics dancing teasingly across your screen. Two annoyingly upbeat twats called Pant and Dick bounce onto your screen and introduce themselves.

“Welcome to the show folks” Says Pant, smiling like he has a feline fetish and has just fucked his neighbours cat. Dick chimes in with his trademark cheeky grin “Last week you watched as Mandi from Stratford made it to the nine hundred meter mark before she put a foot wrong and was maimed by a half buried anti personnel mine, supplied by our sponsors royal ordinance ltd.”

In the corner of the screen a box shows a repeat of the naked Mandi running full pelt across the mind field. The look of exhilaration is clear on her face as she begins to realise that she is tantalisingly close to the finish line. Her breasts are bouncing and swaying and her supple looking ass shimmies as she sprints and leaps towards her goal. There is a flash of bright orange light and the action goes into slow-mo as Mandi is blown skywards and her legs are parted for the final time in her life.

The camera zooms in on Pant and he smiles his syrupy grin. “On this weeks show we have another 15 contestants vying for the chance to run across the minefield, we’ll be back after this short advertising break”...

After you have had corporate slogans pumped into your cerebrum, and you have been conned into thinking that you will not be socially acceptable unless you have the latest mobile phone or you will be shunned by your friends unless you are wearing the latest running shoes that some money grabbing sportsman sold his soul to hawk to you and a small child gave his lifeblood stitching.

...The show returns and Pant and Dick are stood next to fifteen barely human pieces of trash who are waiting anxiously for their fifteen minutes of fame. Pant smiles his perfectly aligned smile and informs you that this is where the contestants battle off against each other in order to decide who gets the chance to run the minefield.

There is a phone vote to see who gets to run.

Merits are given based upon looks rather than substance, as this seems to be the main way we are taught to judge each other thanks to years of polished and preened pop stars selling us material crap that they say will make us better people, and on knowledge of semi famous soap stars rather than actual intelligence, which, thanks to all those gossip rags that populate the shelves of superstores and newsagents all over the country most of the morons of this country eat up like dung beetles eat shit, and on something else equally insipid and tedious that the general populace can associate with.

The contestants are slowly whittled down to the last three who then fight each other with an assortment of axes, whips, chains, baseball bats and knives. The one who successfully fends off the other two is then taken aside by Pant and Dick and is introduced to the home audience.
They tell him/her that if they make it across the mine field they will be as close to royalty as is possible for a commoner to be.

Then they get naked and begin the run of their lives...

And for those of you lucky enough to have digital TV you can press the RED button to see the interactive screens. Complete detailed biographical, medical and personal history of the contestants. Access to several camera angles, slo-mo replay and Head-Cam. "See the run from first person view but without the danger"...

Now that’s entertainment folks. And it also has the added bonus of killing two birds with one stone, not only does it rid the world of another group of useless, half witted morons but it also keeps the idiots in their homes and lets the rational people of the world get on with living. Like me.

(This post was originally posted on my old website but I'm deleting that and moving the worthy rants to here.)


Oh Sweet Jesus...

Has it really been a month since I last posted anything on here for you all to salivate over?

It has? Well, all I can say is "I'm sorry" and hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. If not then we're gonna have to live with it forever 'cos I ain't gonna let a little thing like that get in the way of our friendship.

So, what's been happening in the life and times of your narrator? Well, pretty much fuck all. Unless you count...
  • Losing my Internet connection for two weeks.
  • Meeting a girl.
  • Having my Vespa stolen.
  • I lose my Internet connection.
I lost my Internet connection for two weeks due to "Technical Problems" with Virgin Media dial up service. This really makes me mad and even drives me to the point where I telephone them to give them a piece of my mind.

I pick up the phone and dial. An answering service picks up. The trials begin...
"Welcome to Virgin Media. We now have Three options for you.
If you have a problem with your TV press 1 now.
If you have a problem with your Internet press 2 now.
If you wish to pay a bill press 3 now."
I press 2.
"Welcome to Virgin Media. We now have two options for you.
If you have a problem with your broadband connection press 1 now.
If you have a problem with your dial up connection press 2 now."
I press 2.
"Thanks for calling Virgin Media. We hope that we have answered our question and that you continue to enjoy our services. Press the hash key to go back to the main menu."
I press the hash key to go back to the first multiple choice question and begin the cycle once more. After much pressing of buttons I get the same thing. No help, no luck and no joy. Two weeks pass and by the grace of God (I assume that He had something to do with it) I now have my Internet connection back.

  • I meet a girl...
Late one night (About 2 or 3 in the morning) I run out of cigarettes and take a slow walk to the 24 hour garage to buy more. My ipod is playing in my ears and my hands are in my pockets keeping the cool night air from getting to them.

I reach the garage and stand at the night counter waiting for the garagemonkey to come to the hatch. A taxi pulls up and a cute blonde girl gets out and goes over to the cash machine. Less than a minute later she is cursing like a trooper at the machine and hitting it with one of her high heels.

The cash machine gives her her money, she pulls her shoe back on, straightens her dress and composes herself before entering the garage. She doesn't realise that at this time of night the garage doesn't allow anyone inside the building and promptly walks into a locked door.

I stifle my giggles as she walks towards the night counter. I smell perfume, hairspray and booze on her breath.

"When did they start locking garages at night?" She said. Slurring slightly due to the fact that she is almost cross-eyed with drink.
"Right after everyone stopped trusting each other. So I'd guess it was about five minutes after man first walked upright." I answered.

She laughed.

"You're funny." She said.
"You're drunk." I reply.

She smiles the smile of a very drunk woman. (You know the one; Attractive and repulsive at the same time... "God she looks great with her hair all tousled. Those misty blue/green eyes. That sexy tone to her voice. Oh Sweet Jesus! Is that puke on her dress?") And instantly I'm hooked.

"I'm Duke." I say, offering my hand. (Yes, I'm still road testing my new name.)
"I'm Laura." She replies, shaking my hand.
"Nice to meet you." I say.

The garagemonkey has appeared at the hatch.

"Twenty Lambert and Butler please mate." I ask.
"No twenties, only tens." Comes the reply.
"Two tens is fine." I reply.
"£6.20" Says the garagemonkey.
I put a £10 note in the money tray and the cashier rings the sale through the till.

"Listen, I know we've only just met but how do you fancy going out sometime for a drink?" I say to Laura. She is now holding on to the side of the garage to aid her in standing up.

I begin pulling at the cash drawer of the night hatch to retrieve my change and my cigarettes.

Laura begins laughing.

"You could have just said no, there's no need to laugh in my face." I say, slightly annoyed at the rudeness.

Laura points to my hand.

I'm pulling at the drawer of the night hatch while the garagemonkeys hand is still holding onto my cigarettes. His fingers are bent backwards at a 90° angle. The garagemonkey is wide eyed in pain and is screaming silently. "Holy fuck!" I say, letting go of the drawer.

Laura is still laughing.

I apologise to the garagemonkey and retrieve my cigarettes and my change.

"Is next week OK?" Laura asks, as she regains some kind of control over her laughter.
"Sure. Give me your mobile number." I say, reaching into my pocket for my mobile.

Laura reaches into her handbag and gets her phone. She explains she doesn't know how to get her number from it. I see that it's the same model as mine and tell her I know how to do it. I push a couple of keys on her phone and her number appears. I put it in my phone and we part with a promise that I'll call her in about an hour.

An hour later I call her number. She has sobered up slightly and is managing to hold a conversation quite well. We chat for about an hour and agree to meet up a few days later.

A few days pass and the night of our pre-arranged meeting arrives.

I ready myself by showering, shaving and ironing my shirt. I meet Laura at a bar in town. She's with a group of girls. She's drunk. Very drunk.

"DUKE! GET OVER HERE! I WANT YOU TO MEET MY BITCHES!" She yells across the bar.

I wander over and sit down.

"Hello." I say.
She laughs drunkenly and sits on my knee.
"Howdy big boy, is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?" She asks, laughing and shoving her nearest friend in the group to see if they got the joke.
"It's a gun. I'm about to kill myself." I reply, hoping that she can detect the barely hidden sarcasm in my voice.

After about an hour or so I tell Laura that I'll meet her another time as she's obviously enjoying the company of her friends and I feel like a spare part. She drunkenly clings to me like a pissed up sloth, gives me the puppy dog eyes and coo's "Don't go."
"It's fine, I'll phone you tomorrow and we can arrange to meet up again." I say.
"Do you promise?" She says, as her friends all begin to make "Awwww" noises.
"Promise." I say as I pull away and head for the door.

As I pull the door open to get the hell out of there I hear Laura's voice in the pub. "Isn't he just fucking lush?" She says, as her friends all resume their chorus of Awwww's.

The next day I call Laura. We chat for a bit. She apologises for being drunk when I got there and explains that it was her friends leaving party and things got a little out of hand. We arrange to meet again a few days later.

A few days pass.

I iron my shirt, shower and shave in preparation. I go to where we arranged to meet. She's already there. She's alone. She's sitting at the bar talking to the barmaid. She spots me as I approach. "THERE'S MY MAN! COME HERE AND GIMME A BIG FUCKING KISS!" She bellows at the top of her lungs. She's pissed. Again.

I walk over to the bar and order her a drink.
"Make it a treble with no ice." I tell the barmaid.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Laura slurs.
"Nope, that's to keep you warm." I say.
"That's your job." She slurs, attempting to be slightly suggestive.
"I've just quit." I reply, paying for her drink and heading for the door.

  • My Vespa gets stolen.
On Friday night I pop up to my friends house and we spend the evening chatting, having a laugh and playing computer games. At the back of eleven there is a loud CRACK from outside. "What the fuck was that?" My friend asks as I head to the window to check on his car and my bike.

I look out the window.

"I think my bike is gone." I say, heading to the door to go downstairs to check.

I get downstairs to find that my bike is gone.

As I walk back into the stair my friend comes bounding down the last flight of stairs and yells "Come on, I know where they'll be!" as he passes me.
"Fuck that, the feds can deal with it." I say as I head upstairs to use the phone.

I call the cops and report my bike as being stolen. The Federale takes details and tells me that as it's late there might not be anyone able to attend and I may have to wait a few hours before a full report can be made. "It's just as well I'm not being murdered." I say, sarcastically. I tell the Federale I'll go to the nearest cop shop and do the report.

My friend arrives back with a look of rage in his eyes. He drives me to the cop shop and waits outside in the car with a joint while I go in and give the night duty Federale the details.

The night duty Fed informs me that due to a technical glitch they aren't able to update the PNC (Police National Computer) so the reported theft has only been distributed by the local police radio channel.

"You're not with Virgin are you?" I ask.

The next night at about 3am I get a phone call. It's the Feds. They've recovered my bike and want to know if I can pick it up.

"Where is it?" I ask.
"It's in Saughton Park, opposite Whitson Way. Is that far from you?" The Fed asks.
"It's about four hundred yards." I reply.

I pull on my clothes and walk the few hundred yards to where the Feds have my bike. From a distance I can see the broken wing mirrors, smashed front light and the twisted handlebars. My heart sinks. Thoughts of revenge pass through my mind and I consider offering a £100 reward for the name of the thief so I can go round to his house and break his hands with a hammer.

I push my bike back round to my house and lock it up. Where it still sits.