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The Man came to visit me last week...

That's right. The Man...

He who maketh our lives a misery by imposing rules we must adhere to and boundaries that we must not cross. He of absolutes and certainties. He who rules with dark and sinister forces. He who watches us via CCTV, records our communications and has us by the balls...

He came in the guise of an elderly gentleman in sensible shoes, corduroy trousers, shirt and tie. At once I saw through this cunning attempt to look human. No normal member of society wears shoes, socks and corduroy exactly the same shade of brown.

His face, slightly ruddy from a lifetime of tanking booze to kill the pain of being a Judas to The Grand Whazoo, was covered in a grey flecked beard. A sure sign of Evil.

"Mr Douglas?" The Beast spake, sulphurous fumes emitting from his cakehole.
"Who's asking?" I enquired.
"My name is Man, James Man, I'm here from (Company name removed on advise of lawyer) and I'm here to pole you." Baal replied, flashing an identity card.
"Pole me? What did I do? Don't I get to plead my case in court?" I enquired, panic taking over.
"I think you misunderstand me. Poll as in survey."
"Oh, right. Err, you better come in then..."

The Dark Lord sat on my leather recliner and made himself comfortable.

"So..." I thought, "That's his game is it? Sneak up on me while I am somewhat stoned, take the comfy chair and poll me when I least expect it... Well, I'm onto him."

Beelzebub took out a laptop and began punching keys (to no doubt summon his haxor hoards to begin their wireless take over of all my electronic equipment) so I bolted for the kitchen (under the pretense of making a cup of tea) and killed the power to the house by jamming a screwdriver into the toaster and pushing the lever down. Blammo! went the toaster as I jumped backwards in surprise.

I returned to the living room to find Moloch pretending to be making himself comfortable. I suspected that while I had been away he had been planting devices to enable remote viewing of my house but couldn't spot any visible signs of anything having been moved. "He's Good..." I thought as I sat on the sofa and made eye contact with him.

I was determined not to show any weakness, lest he pounce and suck my soul out through my eyeballs, so I stared into his ice pit eyes and told him (via telepathy) that I wasn't any ones bitch.

As the Demogorgon fired off questions I smoked a joint and answered as best as I could without revealing that I knew his plan. He didn't seem to notice so I began sliding in questions about him.
"Travelled far?" I enquired.
"Not really, I was in Fife earlier today." It answered.
"I'll bet you were... I always said that lot were closer to the devil than to god" I said.
Belphegor looked at me quizzically, obviously to hide the fact that he knew that I knew who he really was, and shifted slightly in his seat.

"How was the weather?" I asked, hoping he would make a mistake and say "Firey with a brimstone tinge to it..." instead of the standard answer of "Pissing down."
"A bit dreek." He replied, throwing in the Fifer word for wet to further his disguise.

"Are you from Fife yourself?" I questioned.
"Originally no, but I've lived there for almost 30 years now." The Vengeful One replied.
"Where are you from originally?" I posed.
"New Zealand."
"North or South Island?"
"North South Island or South South Island?"
"South South Island."
"South East South Island or South West South Island?"
"South West South Island."

"When you emigrated you didn't travel far."
"I beg your pardon." The Demon answered, attempting to look puzzled.
"Dunedin." I said.
"I'm not sure I follow."

I knew I had him.

"I take it you know of the town of Dunedin, after all you did grow up around there." I stated.
"Yes, I grew up just outside of Dunedin. But what's that got to do with anything?" It asked.
"And you moved to Fife which is just outside Edinburgh, or Dunedin as it was known centuries ago." I said.
"I had no idea Edinburgh was called Dunedin." It claimed.

My trap had sprung the demon.

"No-one from Fife doesn't know that Edinburgh was called Dunedin!" I shouted as I reached for the cricket bat I use as a doorstop.

The, supposedly, aged demon suddenly sprang from the seat and made a break for the front door as I scrambled for my kevlar helmet and loudhailer. The Demon struggled with the front door as I shook the cricket bat menacingly and bellowed through the loudhailer. "YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE DEMON! BACK TO YOUR PIT I SAY!" I yelled, protecting myself from surprise attack by jabbing towards the demon with the fat end of the cricket bat.

Suddenly the door to my flat relented and The Black Lord fled with the agility of a teenager. I gave chase along the landing as it leapt the first flight of stairs in a single bound. "BE OFF FOUL WRETCHED MONSTER!" I shouted, gesturing with the cricket bat. "COME BACK HERE AND I SHALL DANCE IN YOUR BLOOD!" I continued as the demon flew effortlessly down the flights of stairs and out of the stairway door.

I dived headlong back into my hallway and kicked the front door shut with a trailing leg. I sprung to my feet and made for the living room window. Outside the demon was looking up at me so I whipped open the window and let loose with as many curses as I could think of.

"A POX UPON YOU AND YOUR DEMONIC SPAWN!" I yelled through the loudhailer.

I don't think he'll be back.


To say she was Gorgeous...

Would be an understatement never equaled since Noah's wife said it looked like there may be a light shower on the way.

Six foot tall in her heels she wore a plain looking vertical striped top and jeans that looked to all intents and purposes like they had been painted onto her slim, lithe legs. Her top halted just below her waist line and her perfectly shaped backside peeked out like a denim covered peach.

She was the kind of woman that all other women on the planet hate, purely for the reason that she could make a C&A top and a pair of cheap jeans look better than a Stella McCartney designed outfit that cost thousands.

And she was looking directly at me.

I took a quick look backwards to see if she was looking at some adonis behind me but there wasn't. I turned back and our eyes locked. She smiled a broad smile and her svelte shoulders rose for a split second as though she was attempting to stifle a small laugh.

I did a double take and looked behind myself to be doubly sure that she wasn't looking at someone in my blind spot. Once again there was nothing behind me but the shop facing I was leaning against. I looked back and saw she was still staring right at me.

The thought, "Maybe she's blind" passed through my head. Rapidly accompanied by a second thought saying "Must be. She's stunning though. For a blind bird..."

I flicked my eyebrows and gave her a small smile.

(Which I was sure made me look like a not-quite-retarded-enough-to-qualify-for-the-special-olympics retard. I've harboured this thought since my early teens when I began to question my inability to talk to girls without talking utter bollocks and laughing nervously.

This delusion was fuellued by the fact I had a roundish face so recognisable in the mongolioid fraternity, being told I was unteachable at school by an overly cruel teacher as I had dyslexia and something known in my family as "The Douglas Lip" which manifests itself as an overly protruding bottom lip. Put the two images together and whoosh, insta-spaz.)

To my surprise she flicked her perfect eyebrows upwards and smiled. I laughed nervously and gave her a small wave. To my utter disbelief she waved back. "She can't be blind then..." My inner voice commented.


In the space of a second all the moisture in my mouth dissapeared and was replaced by the taste of a flip flop on the largest sandy beach in history. I tried to swallow and almost choked on my own tongue. "DO SOMETHING YOU FUCKING FOOL!" yelled the voice in my head.

With my heart beating a bassline detectable on seismographs I stepped away from the shopfront, adjusted my jacket slightly and crossed the road towards the bus-stop she was leaning against. As I began to cross the road I felt a hand grab my collar and pull me backwards.

I was about to spin around and aim a punch at the person who had grabbed me when a large articulated lorry flashed past and I realised that I'd almost stepped into its path. I had been saved from a splattery end by the hand that grabbed me and said a hurried Thank You instead.

I looked over the road and saw that the figure of perfection was still there, her hand over her mouth and a shocked look in her eyes. I looked carefully left and right to make sure I didn't get run over and crossed the road.

As I stepped up onto the pavement I spoke.

"Hi, I'm Duke." I said, struggling not to begin gibbering about how I had nearly died.
"Elouise." The woman said offering her hand.
"Nice to meet you." I said, taking her petite hand in mine and shaking it gently.
"Are you OK?" She asked. "You almost got ran over by that truck." She continued.
"Hmm?" I began; Attempting to play things cool. "Oh, that... I'm fine. Good old fashioned adrenaline... Keeps the heart rate up... Beats excersize..." I said.
"I'm glad you came over to speak to me" She said. My heart leaped.
"Really?" I said.
"Yes. In fact if you didn't come over I was going to come over to speak to you." She said, through perfectly formed lips.
"Mind if I ask why?" I asked, leaning on the bus-stop in an attempt to look as though I get offers of sexual congress from random, beautifully stunning women all the time.

She leaned close to me and I caught the scent of her perfume and her skin. My mind spun. She leaned in close to my ear and whispered softly...

"You're fly is undone and your penis seems to be trying to ecape." She said...


Go on, you know you want to...

You do, admit it.

You want to know why the blog ain't been updated as much as it usually is. Well, it's like this...

Last week I stumbled into one of my deeply introspective moods (More then likely brought on by a massive intake of little-brown-stick-icky) and began questioning my existence. Am I, as an anonymous swine who commented thinks, being a drain on the funds of this nation by not being gainfully employed?

Am I indeed a waste of precious bodily fluids and organs that someone else could put to better use; Am I the merely a grindstone for someones axe? Or am I doing what everyone should do and am living by my own set of rules with scant regard to fuckwits who have nothing better to do with their time than to rant anonymously at someone on t'internet.

Personally, and after much thought, I think I'm the latter. As far as I know this is the one and only life I shall ever have. Why on earth would I set my bar by the standards of others?

Wouldn't you feel aggrieved if you were told that you couldn't think bigger just because someone else is of the opinion that striving to be better than the rest of the herd is unsuitable? Fucking right you would. Don't even think about arguing the point; You'll only embarrass yourself.

While pondering the grand scheme of it all, I was absorbing all kinds of information, garnered from the usual sources, about the nature of life itself. What is this thing we call life? Is it nothing more than the outcome of an absurdly improbable evolutionary scale or is it a creation of some All-knowing and All-powerful GOD?

All I know is... It's a funny old thing.


The strange and terrible saga of the Pole in the nighttime.

It was late in the morning when I began making my way home. The night was cool and the air crisp as I popped my earphones in and hit the play button on my iPod. A soft tune began playing in my ears. Up ahead a figure lurched from left to right in the familiar way of one who is the worse for wear with drink or drugs, or both.

As I drew level with the wobbly wanderer I heard him speak. His accent was heavily tinged with the familiar tones of the Polish. Strangely the word he had uttered was “Asda.” When the figure motioned towards me I pulled one of my earphones out and spoke.

“Alright?” I asked.
He spoke in very broken English and I realised he wasn’t one of the more fluent members of the Polish community. “Asda… Dancing… You know?” He said.

I figured that he was attempting to get to the Corn Exchange, a concert venue adjacent to Asda.
“Asda… Dancing… Girls…” He said, his breath smelling of booze. “This way?” He continued pointing towards where he thought Asda was.
“No man…” I replied. “Asda, that way.” I said, pointing towards the dual carriageway which I new to be the safest way there for someone unfamiliar with the wrong end of the Edinburgh housing scheme known as Saughton.

“No… Asda this way.” He said once more in his drunken polish accent.
“No man, this is the local reservation and you better get the fuck out before the Indians get you. Go straight up this road and take a left at the dual carriageway.” I said, pointing the quickest way out of the middle of the housing scheme.
“Asda… Dancing… Girls… Drugs… Women… Vodka!” He said, staggering violently as the effects of the drink screwed with his sense of balance as he made his way along the road he thought led towards Asda.
“Fuck no man. This bad place, you no safe.” I said attempting to make him understand the gravity of the situation he had inadvertently stepped into.
“Asda!… Dancing!… Vodka!… Drugs!…” He yelled, with booze fuelling his spirit.
“Keep it down man, fuck me, are you trying to get us mugged? I may be local but the vultures around here don’t take kindly to people shouting about drink and drugs at two in the morning.” I said, grabbing his jacket in an attempt to shock him into silence.

He shoved me backwards and I was tempted for a second to whip out a fist and knock him on his ass but fought the urge and put my fingers to my lips to show him we needed to be silent. I pointed to my eyes and motioned towards the houses on our sides. He seemed to understand what I was implying and immediately quietened down. “We go… Shh… People watch…” He said, suddenly becoming as alert as a mongoose.
“Righty ho man, we go.” I said pointing in the direction of the local shops.

As we walked I attempted to converse with him but found it hard making myself understood so I gave up and listened to his, now more silent, ranting about drink, drugs, dancing and woman. A car pulled around a corner just ahead of us and I spotted the familiar lights and luminous paint of a cop car.

“Shit… Polizia… Drugs…” He whispered quickly.
I realised that the wandering drunk was not exactly in the best position if the occupants of the police car decided to stop and have a chat with us.
“Shh…” I hissed.
“Drugs… Polizia.” He whispered again.
“OK, OK. Everything cool.” I whispered to him.

The police car slowed as it drew level with us and I sensed that the Polish guy was coiled as tight as a spring and would flee if it stopped. “Everything OK.” I said, trying to prevent him from making an attempt to hightail it into the distance. If he were to take off I guessed he would make it about five yards before the drink in his system made him veer from his chosen course and smashed him face first into a hedge, a parked car or a lamppost.
The cop car slowly drove past and I heard the Polish guy heave a sigh of relief. “Fuck… Shit… Drugs…” He said, quickly checking behind us to see the cop car pulling into a side street.
“Everything cool.” I said, patting him on the back to indicate he had done well keeping his head.
“Drugs.” He said quietly as he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a large bag of pills and paper.
“Holy Fuck man!” I said, shocked at the large bag of obviously illegal narcotics in his hand.

We rounded the corner at the local shops and he spotted a taxi. “Taxi!” He yelled.
“Cool now… Taxi take me Asda… Drink… Dancing…” He said pushing something into my hand.
I looked down into my palm and saw a bundle of notes. There were fives, tens and a couple of twenties in amongst the bundle.

“No man…” I said pushing the notes back into his hand. “You keep.” I continued.
“You come Asda… Drinking… Dancing… Girls…” He said, causing me to figure out that he wished to return the favour of setting him in the right direction.
“No man. You go Asda, I go home.” I said.
“Take please…” He said, once more attempting to force a bundle into my hand.
“No man you keep money.” I said, shoving the money backwards.
“Not money…. Drugs…” He said.

I looked down into my hand and saw that he had pushed a fist full of drugs into my hand. “You keep. I have many…. I go Asda….” He said.
“Well man, I’m not about to let you sell these nasty narcotics to kids so I’ll take them but only as a service to the community.” I said, breaking into a smile.
The Polish guy seemed to know, on some kind of shared psychonaut level, what I had said and smiled back as he clambered into the taxi.

I tapped on the passenger side window of the taxi and told the driver to take the Polish guy to the Corn Exchange. The driver enquired if he was too far gone to speak for himself so I explained that he was polish and his English wasn’t too hot. “Fair enough” Said the driver.

As the taxi pulled away the polish guy leaned far out of the window and yelled what I took to be a thank you…


Light from the torch illuminates the keyboard in the early hours…

The despair has struck…
Quiet voices in the night…

There has been a constant banging headache all day. As there has been for the past three days. Whenever I move my head pounds. Blood surges striking up the pain when I cough and earlier on in the night I was as sick as an inexperienced sailor, adrift on a schooner in the southern seas where the BIG waves are. They roll in the night. Not silent, just deadly.

I am currently stuck in some kind of nightmarish loop… The Gods laugh at me daily as my situation stays the same despite the changes wrought upon me by a power crazed fool with one testicle, a love of whiskey and a deep hatred of women… I wrote to stay relatively sane and able to function in the everyday doom that God wreaks upon us lost souls. And what do I get? A one way ticket to the scrapheap.

I make resolutions to change but lose interest as the futility of any project becomes clearer.

“I shall write a story” I think. I begin to write. My imagination throws out an image and I focus on it intensely. The image becomes as solid and real to me as the keyboard in front of me. I attempt to describe it and am always disappointed. The words cannot project my imaginations and the question of “What do I write next?” is gradually replaced by the more pertinent question “Why bother?”

Whatever I write will not change the world. This is easy to see. My name will not go down in history and Dear Reader, chances are neither will yours. No matter who you are.

A day will come when you are nought but a memory in the minds of lovers and loved ones. This will soon pass though and you, along with the billions of others, will be forgotten. You will be no more remembered than a second cousin twice removed on your great great grandmothers side is remembered by you yourself.

So what are you? What am I? Am I the creation of a loving god as it says in the bible? I doubt it very much. To all intents and purposes and without any evidence to the contrary, life is a punishment wreaked by an uninterested God. Fuck him and all he stands for.

God is the pimp to the many whores of life who tell you it will work out in the end. “We’re all here for a reason.” They cry, with disbelief clear in their eyes and the tone of a beaten person evident in their voices. “God makes us do his bidding so that we may rise above the level of dumb beasts.” They wail, hoping that you will swallow their bullshit and be a good upstanding member of their society and not burn down their churches upon a whim. Despite the fact that their churches should be the first to go.

And now in the early hours of the morning, when the quiet voices take the chance to make themselves heard, the headache is still there beating upon my brow like a hammer of the gods. Have I angered them? Is it divine retribution that causes the pain? Or is it merely a fact of life…

Where is the power of information when the information is lost through a lust power?
Just like your Second cousin twice removed on your great great grandmothers side.
Just like you, dear reader.
Just like me.