What a Cnut.

Whenever I asked for something that was extravagant, or just plain ridiculous, my mother used to say to me "Where do you think you are? Daddy's yacht?" "Mum," I'd say, (Mostly because I didn't know my mother well enough to call her Phyllis) "Can we have ice cream and jelly for supper?" "Where do you think you are? Daddy's yacht?" She'd reply. For hours, and often days, after hearing my mother utter these words I would ponder why my dad hadn't told me that he had a yacht or where it was berthed. Another question I pondered on was, how did my dad pay for his yacht on only the salary of an electrician? The worst thing was that in his younger years my dad was in the navy and I gave serious consideration to the idea that when you left the navy they gave you a boat. The higher up the chain of command you were the bigger the boat you got. Admirals got large flagships, Captains got smaller destroyer type boats and electricians got...

The TV was broadcasting static and the only sound in the room was the hissing white noise issuing from the speakers. I couldn't be sure how long I had been asleep as the numbers on the readout of my digital alarm clock kept changing, one second it was showing the time as 01:06 and the next it was showing 19:68. I groped for the switch to the angle poise lamp at the side of my bed but found that it was missing. Not the lamp. Just the switch. “What the…” I thought, for a fraction of a second but it slid quickly from my mind. I was somewhat confused. The normal thought process was somehow liquid in its composition. My thoughts seemed to be like eels, hard to get a grip on. My attention was dragged back to the digital readout of the alarm clock. The numbers were still unsure of what time it was supposed to be. Had I been drinking? I thought, looking around for an empty bottle. No evidence was immediately visible. Drugs then? Once more nothing lead me to believe that I’d been on a chemi...

And all through the house; Nothing was stirring; Not even a mouse. ******************* What a crock of horse biscuits. Which when I was younger, ( When things were simpler , when summer days seemed to last a month, the sun always shone, the ice cream truck was never more than twenty yards away and kids from your neighbourhood were never in any danger of being snapped up by pedophile rings or eaten by insane Rottweilers lusting for human blood.) I ate up like a homeless person who is offered a half eaten McDonalds by a drunk who thinks that their generosity will far outweigh a life spent pissing into the wind when it comes to the day when they are balanced on the scales of life. Seriously... I bought into all that "Be-good-boy-and-Santa-will-bring-you-nice-things, Misbehave-and-Santa-will-bring-you-a-lump-of-coal " bullshit and acted accordingly. [1] I was so badly suckered into the whole Lies To Children thing I was even pulled into the Charles and Diana wedding affair . Hey...

Normally I don’t go into those coffeehouses that seem to be on the corner of every street these days, but as I couldn't find a greasy spoon within staggering distance of the cinema I gave into my desire for a cup of coffee and wandered into the nearest Starbucks.I made my way to the counter and was greeted in that wonderfully Americanised way by the uniformed gimp who stood with the most glaringly obvious smile that reeks of falsity. “Welcome to Starbucks, how can I be of assistance?” She asked. “Just a coffee please sweetheart.” I said affably. “Would you like Cappuccino, Double Cappuccino, Espresso, Double Espresso, Americano, Caffe latte, cafe au lait, Mochacchino, Macchiato, Espresso Macchiato, Café Crème, Espresso Con Panna, frapuchino. Or maybe you’d like to sample one of our famous iced coffees?” Said the gimp. “Just a coffee.” I said totally baffled at the list of things that she had just rattled off in one breath. There was an audible groan from behind me in the queue. I h...

Hello Fucko , How goes it? All well and good I hope. If not; It's probably your fault for being a fucking layabout for the majority of your life. Does that sound harsh? If so, fuck ya, it's supposed to. I'm hoping that by the time you re-read this you've put yourself to some kind of good use and achieved something in your life. If not then you should be fucking ashamed. Perhaps I should have taken a little time to refresh your memory of what is happening in your life at the time you are writing this... You're currently single, unemployed and in a deep funk with regards to the state of the world. You're spending way too much time locked in your own little insular world. Your bed has become a refuge to hide from the world and you've got less direction in your life than a Satellite Navigation System that was won at a Gypsy fairground. You've been unemployed for almost a year following all that hoo - hah with the bowling club and you're struggling to...

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 te...

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 ...

who shall be known during life cycle by the name Ross Douglas." Sssssccchhhheeed the disembodied voice from the speakerbox in the corner. (Until the voice crackled into existence the speakerbox had been playing standard elevator Muzak.) The room itself was like a padded cell minus the padding. A blank white floor (12' by 12') was framed by blank white walls and a blank white ceiling. The speakerbox in the top left hand corner of the room and the small raised platform that I was sitting on were the only things that prevented the room from being a perfect cube. I was naked, I was completely bald, I had neither nipples nor belly button and, most disturbing of all, I had no genitalia. "What the fu..." I began to say, but was interrupted by the voice from the speakerbox again. "Report for duty independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46." Repeated the speakerbox. I looked up at the speakerbox and wondered who independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46 was. Th...

I stumbled across a book I thought I'd lost. If my memory serves me correctly, which it usually does, I'm sure I was given it by a woman named Kari who drank in the same pub I did many years ago as she thought I should read it. The book is called The Mentor Book of Major British Poets and contains a veritable cornucopia of works by major British poets. (You probably guessed that from the title. You lot are clever like that.) Anyhoo... I stumbled across this book while looking for something to read in the bath last night and was absolutely over the moon when I saw it's tattered and frayed cover poking out from behind a copy of Ten Thousand Sorrows by Elizabeth Kim . Is it just me or does that last paragraph make me sound a bit gay? If it does please ignore it. Or I'll come round to your house and punch you in the head. (Unless you're a woman, in which case I'll use my amazing powers of seduction and have your pants off and be swinging from your light fixings in ...