America is an enormous frosted cupcake in the middle of millions of starving people. - Gloria Steinem

I have no idea who the hell Gloria Steinen is but as far as I'm concerned, she's right on the money.

**************************

Food isn't so much a passion here it's a pass time, and judging by the enormity of some of the larger people here, they take it very seriously. I fear for my life if should I lose concentration and stray into the no-mans land between a large two legged mammal and an all you can eat buffet. Shit, I'd rather get between a cow elephant and its young calf.

I'm not against fat people in general but there are people here who are pushing the limits. Not only of how big you can get but of physics in general. Some of these people have a mass so large they are in grave danger of collapsing in on themselves and becoming black holes.

The super massive can only survive for so long and whole swathes of Americans risk imploding violently. Which in itself may not be a bad thing. It's the innocent bystanders who happen to be within the area who will suffer the most. After all, they will be sucked off their feet and dragged inexorably towards their death.

A sudden rush of air whizzing past will be the first thing they feel. The next sign of impending doom will be animals flying past with confused looks on their faces. Cats and dogs are not designed for flight, nor are they equipped for it, and many an innocent will be killed by low flying Schnauzers and out of control Californian Spangles before things really get out of hand.

The wind speed will then increase and larger, more cumbersome, things will be hoovered towards the event horizon. Motorcycles and small Japanese cars will be quickly followed by the ramshackle homes that Bubba-Joe Inbred and his kind live in. Next will be town and country type vehicles filled with confused vacationers, then Range Rovers and within minutes school buses and Semi Trucks will follow.

After a few hours all that will remain of the once great country that was once known as the United States will be a series of massive holes. Which, ultimately, was the cause of it all.

As I'm from a place...

Where horizontal rain is the norm, I can't take this heat.

In fact if you show the average Scot a photograph of the sun they will ask what it is and immediately begin to burn like a pig on a spit roast. This is the reason that I am currently peeling as though I was a snake shedding its skin. And it's not just me either. My brother has been told by a doctor that he has developed sun poisoning and my dads stomach is redder than a baboons ass during mating season.

The air conditioning doesn't help either. Sure, it keeps you nice and cool when you are indoors but as soon as you step outside the heat hits you and you begin to think to yourself "I should have put deodorant on my scrotum."

just a few random pictures from Florida...

To keep y'all happy for the moment until I can find the time to write up some words for you.

It's saturday...

And it's the day I fly out to Florida.

In roughly five hours and forty five minutes there will be a phone call instructing me to get my arse out of bed and make my way downstairs to the car. Not that I'll be in my bed, oh no, I'll be wide awake and waiting expectantly like a kid at Christmas.

I've spent most of tonight whipping and ripping my favorite music onto my hard disk, finishing packing the necessities and pondering whether or not Florida, and the people of the state, will live up to my expectations. To put it more succinctly, all thoughts of Edinburgh could not be further from my mind.

My lucky t-shirt (I've never died while wearing it) sits on my armchair beside me in preparation for another test of its powers and my lucky mascot is safely stowed in my backpack.

That's him. His name is Jo Boo and he's the earth bound messenger of The Grand Whazoo, who as you all should know by now, is every God all rolled into one. And that's a damn good mascot to have on your side should the shit hit the fan.

I will, of course, be documenting my trip on this here blog and you can keep abreast of things by checking back over the next three weeks. Constant updates (courtesy of twitter) will be posted here on the main page, on my twitter page and via this rss feed.

Fab Five Freddy...

In the spirit of open communication without borders or boundaries I give to you a small sample of music that floats my boat, rocks my world and makes me shake my tailfeathers.

• The Stone Roses - Shoot You Down (Soul Hooligan remix)
  
• The Foo Fighters - Aurora.
• Groove Armada - At the River.
• Jeff Buckley - Mojo Pin. (Live at Sin-é)
• Jimi Hendrix - Little Miss Strange.
• The Pixies - Where is My Mind.
• Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds - Dig Lazarus Dig.
• REM - All the Right Friends.
  

*Disclaimer*
All music linked to from this site is provided for review purposes only.
Should you wish to own any of the tracks listed above please support the artist in question and buy a copy.

As much as it's wrong to make fun of those less fortunate...

It can be fucking hilarious.

Some songs are smooth and soulfull....

others are as dirty as a cut price crack whore in a Las Vegas alley.

This is one of the latter.



And this is one of the former.

College Guff Update...

Just to keep you happy here's the rewrites of my college work. The differences are subtle but I agree with my tutor that shortening some of the sentences adds to the quality of the writing.

The original passages can be found by clicking here.

****************************

Setting.

1.
The nursery was filled with toys of all shapes and sizes. A large rainbow mural was painted on the sky blue walls. A half finished puzzle lay on the floor. A shining metal robot was catching the rays of the morning sun that streamed through the bay windows. A child of unknown age was playing in the large walled garden. Screams and whoops of joy carried on the wind.

2.
The air in most of the rooms of the house was so cold anyone going in them would be able to see their breath. Not that anyone ever went in them. The heating worked but it cost too much so Margaret-Anne mostly lived in the heated room above the kitchens of the hotel below.
Her only company these days was the mouldy furred feline that was known as “Mrs Snookums” and the television presenters that she talked to occasionally. Long gone were the endless parties of her youth when she was the focal point of many village gatherings where her dance card was never empty.

3.
They called it The Bends. It was nothing more than an abandoned railway station to the local adults but to us kids it was the only place to hang out. There was an old bridge to shelter under when it rained and plenty of places to hide the cigarettes you couldn‘t take home because of nosey brothers, sisters or parents. At weekends there was cider and cheap vodka and anyone could get a hold of weed if they asked the right people.
Not everyone that went there went for the drinking and smoking; some simply went because there was nowhere else to go. The community centre had been closed by the council for health and safety reasons and the village hall was where pensioners played 10p bingo and chased the dream of winning the raffle.

4.
The slats of the blinds that hung over the windows created a disconcerting effect to anyone who entered. The large antique desk, with its heavily polished wood and well worn green leather inlay, was also a formidable barrier between the bank manager and anyone who was called into the office.
The surroundings were only softened by the bank manager himself. He was a portly man with a slightly receding hairline and a jolly demeanour that always shone through the well cut suits that he wore.

5.
The small villa, with its picturesque views over the bay, was the perfect place to forget. It immediately felt like the kind of place where she could empty her mind and not spend her time thinking of him. Within minutes of the taxi dropping her off her memory had stopped tormenting her and a sense of calm flowed through her.
The knowledge of his indiscretion was still in her mind but the sound of the waves lapping on the shore beat back the little voice with their gentle susurration. This was surely somewhere she could centre herself and think about her future.

Character.

Sophia sat on the balcony, drinking a cup of jasmine tea and watching the large rollers make their way towards the shore. It had been two months since she first arrived but the pain was still as fresh in her mind as it had been the moment she had found out about Simon and his secretary.
Sheltered from the baking sun beneath the overhang of the balcony roof she pondered how she had arrived at this point in her life.
After leaving high school with very few qualifications she realised that a good education was the key to a better life and had enrolled in college where she took a course in economics and accounting. Working two jobs to pay for her education had been difficult but nowhere near as difficult as putting up with the harassment from her manager.

****************************

POV 1. Mother.

The letter from the school was the standard kind, typed, but with names written in black biro. “Dear Miss Sommers,” It read. “Please can you attend school next Monday to discuss Your son.”
I spoke to Sean as soon as he came home that night but he claimed that he knew nothing about it. I didn’t believe him. Sean was a “troubled child” according to the school psychologist who spoke to Sean after my husband and I split up.
I was worried that maybe Sean had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd and had stumbled into drug use or had taken to drinking cheap cider down at the bends with the local teenage tearaways. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

POV 2. Son.

I hadn’t been in the house five seconds when The Gorgon balled up the stairs that she wanted to talk to me. I balled for her to go and fuck herself but she didn’t take the hint. It turned out she’d got a letter from my school asking her to come in to see the teacher about something.
I lay awake all night trying to figure out what the school wanted to see the Wicked Witch of the West for but I couldn’t think what it was about. Christ only knew what it was about, and he wasn’t talking.


POV 3. Teacher.

It was clear from early on that Sean hadn’t taken the divorce of his parents well. He retreated into his shell and became more introverted than he had been before the split of Judie and Brian.
Sean was a bright enough kid, he just needed a bit of guidance when it came to what he wanted to do when he left school. He and I had spoken and he voiced the fear that he had no idea what he wanted to do for a career.
I asked what he was interested in and found out that he’d always been interested in drama. I made a few enquiries, pulled a few strings, asked a favour of an old friend from teacher training college and managed to get him a place at a drama school in London. I wasn’t sure what Judie's reaction would be, given that I could be considered to be interfering. To my surprise she leapt out of her seat and hugged me. Sean was as delighted as she was.

****************************

[1]

The butterflies in his stomach had initially bearable but now, with less than ten until they were due to meet, they had joined the red arrows and were practising their loop the loops. His heart seemed like it was trying to make a break for freedom and his palms were damp and sticky.
He was puzzled as to why he felt so anxious about meeting her, they had known each other since they were children. Perhaps it was because this was the first time they were going out on “a date.” Sure, they met up for drinks on occasion and had a regular movie night where they stocked up on junk food and spent the night watching old classics but they had never been romantically inclined towards each other. Until now anyway.
His mother had been ecstatic when he let it slip that they were going out on a date. She had always harboured a not-so-secret desire that they would one day marry and provide her with grandchildren to dote over. His father hadn’t been quite so pleased.
When his father was younger he had dated her mother. He never got much further than hurried kisses in the chummy seats of the old picture house, itself derelict and crumbling like his fathers hopes and dreams.
He could see the heartache hidden in his fathers eyes whenever her mother came over to visit and was determined that this would never be a look he would adopt. So he took the chance and asked her to meet him here.

[2]

She felt old. Her baby boy was a man now with children of his own and a new job far away. It seemed like only yesterday that she was bathing him, changing his nappy and kissing his scuffed knees better. Now though, sitting with a cold coffee in her hand she tried to think of something to say to let him know she was never more than a phone call away.
Deep in her heart though she knew he was too stubborn to accept advice of any kind and if things did go wrong with his new job he would quickly and quietly deal with it without her help. He was his fathers son in that respect.
Her husband John had died many years ago in an accident at the factory where he worked as a sheet metal worker. Whenever she looked at her son she was reminded of him. Right now in this moment she felt as though she was saying goodbye to him all over again. The only difference as she saw it was that this time the container taking her loved one away wasn’t a coffin but an aircraft.
A static laden voice announced over the tannoy that his flight was delayed. For the first time in her life she was grateful to the French.

Ye Cannae Change the Laws of Physics...

A body that is in motion will keep moving in a straight line
unless some outside force causes it to change direction.
Sir Isaac Newton.

I'm all out of kilter this morning.
My head is fuggy.
Clear thoughts are hard to get a hold of.

What has caused this?

Dreams of loves long lost.
Dreams where one can touch but not feel.
The slightest touch threw me off course.

I awake and connect to the machine.
Searching.
Nothing found.

Why now?

Some unconcious need?
A subliminal desire?
A trick of the mind.

Things I want to do on my holibobs.

This is a growing list of things I associate with the USA and would like to do while in Florida.

Whether I manage them or not is another thing.

• Wrestle a Gator.
• Go to the ghetto.
• Attend a baseball game.
• Watch CNN for 12 hours straight.
• Attend a Gospel Church.
• Visit a mall.
• Do a drive by.*
  
• Sample Moonshine.
• See a Tornado.
• Visit a trailer park.
• Watch the Shuttle Launch.
  

Should any of you lot out there have any suggestions please feel free to leave a comment.

* Just kidding.

Attention Florida!

Lock up your livestock, the Douglas Clan is coming...

That's right kids, in less than three weeks time I shall be winging my way to Florida for three weeks of sun and fun with my family.

Should any of you feel like giving up some of your time to show me around, please drop me a line.

Short Story...

I wrote this short story over the last day or so and decided I'd pop it up here for you to have a butchers at. Enjoy.

**********************************

The death of Fuse-Wire Maguire.
A Short Story.

He was a plain old-fashioned, old-time, one hundred and fifty percent, bastard of the highest order. That’s the reason I have no regrets about killing him.

His name was Mr Maguire and he was the head of the P.E department at the school. Fuse-Wire Maguire was his nickname amongst the pupils. Not without reason either. His temper was legend amongst pupils and teachers alike. Anyone who was witness to one of his rants knew without a shadow of a doubt never to cross him.

I was one of his most frequent targets for his rage. I wasn’t able to participate in most of the games on the curriculum as I suffered from chronic asthma during my early teenage years. He considered this a sign of weakness. Weakness was not to be tolerated in his class.

Whenever Mr Maguire spoke it was at a volume that shook the backboards of the basketball nets at either end of the gym hall. Outdoors he could make himself heard at a distance equal to two football pitches. Over the screams and yells of four football teams.

Not only was Mr Maguire loud enough to rival thunder but his speech was filled with foul language that would make a squad of the most hardened of army troops steady themselves on the furniture. The headmaster of the school once attempted to tell Mr Maguire to mind his P’s and Q’s and was told to “Fuck off, sissy boy.” in front of a canteen full of baying children.

He had a habit of calling the less hardy boys in the class by girls names. My nickname was “Gladys Goeslightly.” How much I hated him for this he never knew. During his class I would plot and plan the many varied ways I would like him to die.

The opportunity to watch him die however didn’t come for two years.

I had stayed on at school in order to sit my exams and Mr Maguire was assigned to be my guidance teacher. Less guidance I could not have had. The traditional role of guidance teacher was to spend time with the pupil in question and suggest possible career paths and generally assist in the formation of a useful member of society. Mr Maguire was never one for tradition. The only tradition Mr Maguire ever acknowledged was the ancient human tradition of making war.

During my short time in his class the government decided it needed to cull off some people in a place that we pupils couldn’t find on a map. Mr Maguire voiced his opinions on this. Often.

It was during one of his tirades that I finally snapped and told him he was a Neanderthal. The initial look of shock on his face was rapidly replaced by one of rage.
“How dare you question my intelligence you snot nosed little shite!” He bellowed. Flecks of saliva shot from his mouth and flew across the classroom.

Mr Maguire may have been a teacher, and therefore one of the people my mother had taught me to respect, but his opinions on this subject made my blood boil.
“What intelligence?” I challenged. “You’re a P.E teacher for gods sake. You’ve got the intelligence of a biscuit. The only reason you’re a P.E teacher is that the army wouldn’t take you because you’re a borderline psychopath with latent homosexual tendencies.” I continued, enraged.

Like a bolt of lightning Mr Maguire shot out of his chair and charged across the classroom. As he plunged through the desks and chairs of my fellow students, who were witnessing this spectacle with open mouths and looks of shock on their faces, he knocked people aside like they were made of paper.

When he was within ten or so feet of me I realised I had gone too far and had popped something in his head. I quickly shoved my desk forwards and rapidly stood up, knocking my seat backwards with the back of my knees. I quickly reached behind myself and grabbed the back of my chair before it scooted too far to reach and brought it around in front of me to use as a primitive barrier between him and I.

When Mr Maguire saw the chair come up he stopped his charge and skidded to a halt a foot or so away.
“Put the chair down.” He demanded.
“No way.” I said, my hands shaking as the adrenalin rush kicked in.
“Put the chair down. Please.” He asked, attempting to look calm.
“Why?” I asked. “So you can pull me out the class by my ear and make an example of me? No chance.” I continued.

“If you put the chair down now I won’t tell the headmaster you threatened me with it.” He said. His tone suggested some kind of trickery so I dismissed the suggestion.
“Get the hell away from me.” I said, poking the chair legs at him like a lion tamer facing the fiercest animal in the circus.

My actions pushed him further into a rage.
“If you don’t put that chair down now I’m going to take it off you and shove it up your arsehole!” Fuse-Wire bellowed like an enraged animal.

Suddenly the door of the classroom flew open and Mr Frasier burst in. “Filmstar” Frasier was the assistant headmaster of the school. His habit of walking around with a clipboard and shaded glasses on had earned him his nickname. He was the stern but unfair type of teacher who took time to listen to both sides of any argument before deciding whom to toady up to and agree with. He was despised by most of the staff and all of the pupils.

Mr Frasier immediately went into hostage negotiation mode. His arms were held outstretched and his hands were positioned in a way to denote a soothing atmosphere. His face remained open and he attempted to radiate a serenity normally reserved for Buddhist monks.

“Ok, Ok, everyone stay calm, it’s all going to be fine. Everyone is going to get out of here safe and well.” He said. A couple of the pupils in the class sniggered at his remarks but silence quickly returned when he continued his approach unabated. The tension he had injected with his dramatics had seeped into the collective consciousness of the classroom. I was in deep. This episode would go down in school history thanks to the rumour mill.

“No one needs to do anything rash here. Duke, why don’t you put the chair down and we can discuss all this nonsense.” He said to me in what he thought was a calming tone. Personally I thought it made him sound like a bigger dickhead than he already was. I didn’t let him know this as my focus was still on Mr Maguire in case he decided to use the distraction of Mr Frasier as an opportunity to wrestle the chair from my hands.

“If I put this chair down that swine will have my balls on a plate.” I said.
“Duke, Mr Maguire will do nothing. You have my word. We’ll go and see the headmaster and get all this foolishness sorted out. I’m sure it was all just a misunderstanding.” Mr Frasier opined without the knowledge of actually knowing what had caused this so called foolishness.

“Stick it up your arse Frasier.” I spat, lost in my anger. “You must think everyone is stupid around here. You waltz around stabbing people in the back left right and centre and think no one notices it. There’s not a pupil in this room that hasn’t seen it first hand and we’ve all seen the looks you get from the other teachers in the canteen. I’d stick my head in a crocodiles mouth before I trusted you.”

“Ok, Ok, there’s no need to bring personal opinions into this Duke. How about we bring someone in that you trust and we’ll all go to the headmasters office?” Mr Frasier suggested. I quickly took my eyes from the threatening spectre of Mr Maguire and glanced at Mr Frasier to see if he looked serious. I couldn’t tell.

“Ok. Get Mrs Black. I’ll go with her and no one else.” I said.
A pointed finger was all it took from Mr Frasier to get half a dozen pupils fleeing for the door. The opportunity to spread the news of a “hostage situation” was apparently too much for some of the pupils to handle. Perhaps one of them would actually make an effort to get Mrs Black.

The silence in the room was deafening for the next ten minutes as we waited for the arrival of Mrs Black with the exception of one of the stranger kids in the class who was attempting to stifle sobs and failing badly. Maybe memories of trouble like this at home had stirred deeply emotional memories within them and it had all got to be too much to handle. Or maybe they were just plain crazy. Chances were it was the second option.

The school itself was located in a lower class suburb of the city and subsequently contained a cross section of the housing schemes contained within the catchment area of the school. Some kids were always dirty, some always smelled, some always wore less than fashionable trainers and some were extremely vicious and prone to violence. It was little wonder the teachers were as screwed up as the pupils.

What category I fell into I’m not sure. I’m pretty certain I was never less than clean thanks to my mother being the proud type when it came to our personal hygiene. I only smelled when I had been smoking behind the school buildings. And I refused point blank to follow any kind of fashion other than my own and skirted along the edge of the school of faceless fish in the school system.

I wasn’t a hugely popular person but I had friends whom I trusted and classmates and acquaintances who would have my back if I got in trouble. Some of the teachers saw huge potential in me, others saw nothing but huge disappointment. Mrs Black was one of the ones who saw potential.

When Mrs Black arrived the look of disappointment on her face made me feel awful. I looked upon Mrs Black as a kind of mother figure and respected her for her attitude towards me. I realise now that I may have had something of a crush on her.

I think she saw me as some kind of son to her. She was as close to me as any of my friends or family. If ever I felt down or pissed off I could drop by the staffroom and she’d cheer me up in seconds. If she felt down I would do the same for her. We got along and enjoyed each others company.

These days our relationship would be seen as something sinister but back then was a more innocent time and a teacher showing any kind of emotional caring towards a child was nothing out of the ordinary. To all intents and purposes these people are our extended family. We spend as much time in our teachers company as we do our parents and their personalities shape who we become just as much.

“Put the chair down and stop being silly Duke.” Mrs Black said looking at me with a calm look on her face. There was no doubt in my mind that I was safe from Fuse-wire.

Upon seeing the look in her eyes and hearing the tone of her voice I immediately relaxed and put the chair down. Mr Maguire, who had been stood perfectly still the whole time like some kind of foul mouthed mantis, relaxed and Mr Frasier took a deep breath and began talking to the rest of the class about how his office was open if any of the pupils wanted to discuss this traumatic experience.

Mrs Black escorted me to the headmasters office and I sat outside waiting as Fuse-Wire Maguire and Filmstar Frasier told the head their versions of what had occurred. Because of the barrier of a door I couldn’t tell what was being said but my feeling was that they would spin the story to make it look like I was a danger to teachers, fellow pupils and myself.

When the secretaries intercom buzzed it sounded to me like the tolling of a bell calling me to my execution. I entered the office and took a seat opposite the headmaster and attempted to explain my actions. Fuse-Wire and Filmstar sat on either side of him and said nothing.

Having heard my side of the story the headmaster dismissed us all and told me to wait outside until he decided what action was to be taken. I wasn’t waiting long until I was called back into the office and was told that due to my violent action towards a teacher I was to be expelled with immediate effect.

Fuse-Wire sat grinning as the headmaster told me that due to my expulsion I would not be allowed to sit my exams and Filmstar began a speech about how disappointed he was. As the realisation of what had happened sank in I decided that if I was expelled I was no longer required to treat these people with anything amounting to respect.

I let loose and told Filmstar that I thought he was lower than a snakes anus and then turned on Fuse-Wire. “You haven’t got the intelligence to teach shit to smell. If I ever see you in the street I’m going to beat the living piss out of you.” I said, making sure that he saw the rage in my eyes.

“I’ll look forward to that.” Fuse-Wire replied.

The headmaster made a comment suggesting that everyone calm down and offered to give me a lift me home. I declined his offer and thanked him for his time. The headmaster may have been the one to take the final decision on my expulsion but I knew that the main responsibility fell squarely on the shoulders of Mr Maguire and Mr Frasier.

When I got home my mother had already received a phone call from the school informing her of my expulsion. To say she was angry was an understatement. Over the next hour she shouted herself hoarse. I was under no delusions that I had fucked up.

The following day I was dragged to the job centre and humiliated in public by my dad. His annoyance was plain for all to hear and his constant threats to knock some sense into me made it obvious that if I even considered not getting a job I would rue the day I was born.

After speaking to one of the people at the job centre my dad managed to get me a place on a youth training scheme. I was to appear there at 8am the following Monday. I was officially one of the gainfully employed. School was no more and I had put my foot on the first rung of the ladder to becoming a working man.

Despite the fact I was now to all intents a working man I was banished to my room for the rest of the week as a punishment for my actions and my friends were told in no uncertain terms that I was not allowed visitors. Judging by my mothers attitude towards me chances were I wouldn’t be allowed out of the house even if it was on fire.

My dad drove me to the training scheme on Monday morning in silence. His anger had subdued but his disappointment was still palpable. As I got out of the car I said I’d see him later. Despite the fact that he hadn‘t said a word to me all weekend he wished me good luck as I exited the car. I figured he knew how nervous I was at the prospect of my first day in a job and had decided to cut me some slack.

The training scheme was nothing more than a giant waste of time. Because I had been expelled from school I had no qualifications to my name. I was therefore seen as being one of the multitude of morons that my former school spat out. No qualifications equalled no prospects.

The advisor at the training centre took a long look at my school record, a short look at me and said one word. Janitor. I was told to report immediately to the school I had left only days before and become a janitor.

I walked the four miles to the school. Taking my time to delay the inevitable and ruminated on how Mr Maguire and Mr Frasier had sent me careening on this path. If Maguire hadn’t been such a jarhead and Frasier hadn’t been a toadying little fart I would be sitting my exams and would have better prospects than I was facing.

My arrival at the school gates coincided with the appearance of the majority of pupils. I was welcomed as something of a celebrity. It seemed that my outburst at Mr Maguire had already become part of the school lore. Friends patted me on the back and people whom I had previously only had nodding acquaintance shook my hand and spoke to me as though I was a hero.

The hero worship lasted until the bell rang to call the students to class. As rapidly as my fan base disappeared the prospect of reporting for work rushed back. Suddenly I felt like a stranger in a strange land despite the fact that I was in familiar surroundings.

I reported to the head janitors office and knocked on the door. The head janitor was a man named Mr Hastings. He was a warm and friendly guy whose son was in my year. His son and I shared a few classes and for a while had been a close friend of mine.

I knocked on the door of the office and heard Mr Hastings’ voice tell me to come in.
“Hello son. How are you?” He said.
“I’m fine Mr H. How’s you?” I asked.
“I’m fine. I heard you were expelled last week, change their mind did they?”
“No. I’ve got a start as a janitor today Mr H. I was told to report here by the job centre.”
“Well in that case you can call me Alex. Grab yourself a seat and we’ll get started.”

After answering the questions on the form to the best of my knowledge Alex took me to the staff room and introduced me to the rest of the janitorial staff. As the majority of the staff had had dealings with me during my schooling the introductions were short.

I was given a khaki coloured work overall, keys to a locker and a set of keys for the storage cupboards. I put my coat into the locker and pulled on the first ever work clothes I had ever owned.

For the rest of the day I was paired with a janitor named Buddy Brown who taught me the ropes of the job. Mostly the job involved cleaning toilets or doing minor repairs. Buddy and I got on well and the day passed with little drama.

The following day I had my first run in with Fuse-Wire Maguire. I was in the canteen having lunch when I noticed him striding across the room like he was the lord of all he surveyed. Smugness radiated from him and a feeling of anger flooded over me. Buddy sat opposite me reading his newspaper and drinking a cup of tea.

When Maguire saw me sitting eating my lunch he couldn’t resist making a comment about how he knew I would always end up in a menial job. I bit my tongue and let it go. If I got the sack my life would be cut short when I got home.
“Get lost prick.” Buddy said between mouthfuls of tea.
Fuse-Wire said nothing and walked away.
“What the fuck?” I said.
“Hmmm?” Said Buddy, his mouth full of tea.
“Fuse-Wire didn’t let loose at you and start bawling you out.”
“That’s because I’m not a little kid.” Buddy replied, returning to his tea.
While I thought about this Buddy spoke up again.
“He’s a bully of the worst kind. He picks on kids who don’t stand up for themselves. But you know that already. I heard you were expelled for sticking up for something. Hope it was worth it.” Buddy said, confirming my thoughts about Fuse-wire.

“Look kid, that prick isn’t your boss. The only teacher you need to answer to here is the headmaster. The janitors are your workmates. Remember that and you’ll do fine.” Buddy said, folding his paper. “Now finish your brew. We’ve got work to do. The toilet in the science block is blocked again. Probably kids stuffing loo roll down it again.”
I laughed as I recalled doing the very same thing not that long ago.
“Bring back memories?” Buddy asked.

The rest of the afternoon was spent knee deep in sewage. I found myself cursing whatever pupil it was that had the idea of wedging toilet rolls down the toilet pans in the science block. As Buddy and I waded through the river of foul smelling water I apologised to him for the hassle I had caused him and the rest of the janitors during my schooling.

“Forget about it. If it wasn’t you it would have been someone else.” Buddy said as he fished in the first pan and withdrew a sodden loo roll. “One down, five to go. Roll up your sleeves and get stuck in. Where there’s muck there’s brass as they say.”

After unblocking the rest of the toilets and mopping the flood water from the toilets down the wall length urinal Buddy and I went to the staff room, got changed and made our ways home. On the way out of the school I bumped into Mrs Black and we chatted for a while.

As I walked home, having turned down the invitation of a lift from Mrs Black, I considered my lot so far. All in all I hadn’t done too badly. The janitorial staff were friendly, I knew most of the teachers and my friends were not all that far away if I felt like having a cigarette with them behind the drama department.

The next few weeks passed without incident and I settled into the routine of work easily. Exam time came and went and gradually my former classmates left for jobs of their own. I wished them all well and said I’d keep in touch. A few remained to carry on their education and sit higher exams and we would sit together in the canteen during lunch.

Summer holidays came along. My friends that had stayed on at school got summer jobs and the janitors and I got down to the serious work of repairing as much of the school as possible while the students were gone. I was almost surprised when I found out how much damage the school suffered at the hands of pupils but soon realised that I wasn’t the only one who occasionally found random acts of destruction amusing.

When the summer holidays finished I discovered that most of my former classmates had found their summer jobs so enjoyable that they started working them full time.

Only one of my former classmates had decided to continue education. Her name was Susan and she was one of the few people in my class that I didn’t know much about. We’d known of each other for almost six years but hadn’t really spoken. I made an effort to get to know her better after seeing her sitting alone in the canteen.

Over the next few months Susan and I began seeing more of each other out of school. We ended up dating each other, one thing led to another and I proposed to her after a particularly drunken night at the local pub. She accepted and we moved in together.

Then came the day Fuse-Wire Maguire came back into my life.

It was a cold day late in the year. A boiler had packed in and I was sent to the boiler rooms to see what the problem was. I checked things over and discovered that the pressure gauge was acting up. A spare was available in the stores so I decided to replace it despite the fact that I would have to knock the heating off in the science and P.E departments. Technically this was against the rules as there were pupils in those departments but I figured that the science block Bunsen burners would keep everyone warm enough and anyone doing P.E would be sweating anyway.

About an hour after I shut the heating off I heard the squeak of rubber soled shoes on concrete and turned around to see Fuse-Wire Maguire approaching with an angry look on his face. As soon as he saw it was me he let loose.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’ve got pupils in my class practically freezing to death.” He bayed. The veins on his neck were bulging and his face was as red as a baboons backside.

“Calm down monkey man.” I said. “The heating will be back on in half an hour.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re calling monkey man?” Maguire said, sizing me up.
“I called you monkey man, now why don’t you piss off and let me get finished. The quicker I get this done the quicker the heating goes back on.” I said, ignoring Maguire’s threatening posture.

Maguire didn’t relent. As he stood shouting at me I continued working on the pressure gauge. The more attention I paid to the gauge the more Maguire’s pressure gauge rose. His anger level grew and so did his voice.
“I’ll have your fucking job for this!” He bellowed.
“Yeah yeah, whatever.” I said, continuing to work.
“Just you wait until I see the headmaster about this! I’ll make sure you never work here again.” He spat.

His fury pushed me beyond my limits. I spun around and faced him. Fuse-Wire Maguire took a step towards me in what I considered to be a test of my nerve. I stood still, remembering what Buddy had said about Maguire being nothing more than a bully of defenceless kids.

When I didn’t move Maguire decided that I wasn’t yet intimidated enough and spoke again. “You were a waster when you went to school here and now you’re wasting your life working as a janitor. How fitting.” He said, leaning towards me in an attempt to unsettle me.

His words hit a nerve somewhere inside of me. I thought of how my life had turned around in the past few months. I had been expelled from school and had landed a menial job in a meaningless school where mealy mouthed pricks like him lorded over scared kids.

I had had enough. “Either you fuck off right now or I’ll split your skull open.” I snapped, brandishing the large wrench I had been using to tighten a valve. Seeing this happen made Maguire swing a punch at my head.

The punch glanced off my cheek and before I knew it I had smashed the wrench into the side of his head. A sickening crack accompanied the wrench hitting him and he dropped to the floor. I looked down and saw thick looking red blood seeping from a large gash in his head.

Panic swept over me as the reality of the situation sank in. I dropped to my knees and checked if Fuse-Wire Maguire was breathing. I couldn’t tell so I took his wrist in my hand and checked for a pulse. I couldn’t feel one. The shock of not feeling a pulse made me drop his arm like it was a rattle snake.

“Oh fuck. I’ve killed him.” I said.

I immediately realised that if anyone walked in I would be facing a murder charge. I had a history of violence towards Fuse-Wire. He was lying dead at my feet with his skull smashed in and I was holding a wrench covered in his blood.

Disposing of the body was easier than I could have hoped for. The main body of the school was heated by a coal fired furnace. With a little effort, and the handle of a broom, I managed to heave him in. The flames flicked and licked at him and his skin began sizzling.

The smell reminded me of the meatballs served in the canteen.

The wanderer returns...

To let you all know how things are going in the life of me.

I have a £30 phone bill that needs paying asap. (Christ only knows how it's as much as that, I never phone anyone. Line rental? Don't get me started.)

Scottish power have begun threatening me with a visit to discuss payment of their outstanding bill. (And we all know that Scottish Power is facing financial ruin if I don't pay my bill as soon as it lands on my doorstep. They only made roughly £600 million in profit in 2006 so I imagine 2007 was a lean year for them.)

The council are chasing me for £50 in unpaid rent. Another one that puzzles me. My rent is paid BY the government TO the government and yet they still screw it up. (Must be short a few million due to the overspending on the Scottish parliament building and the tram system that is being put into place as I type. Which, by the way is massively overpriced, useless as far as travel anywhere outside the city centre is concerned and extremely unnecessary. Oh yeah and it's going to turn out to be another cock up as it'll spiral out of control and end up costing three times as much as we were initially told it would.)

But on the sunnier side of things I'm not too far from finishing my college course (I have one more section to finish and possibly a rewrite or two and that's that done.) I'm off to Florida on a family holiday next month and I'm a ball hair off of being back in full time employment.

Apart from that it's all pretty much same shit different day.

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?"
"South."
"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.
"MAY YOUR SEED FALL ON BARREN GROUND AND YOUR BALLS ROT LIKE PEACHES IN THE SUN!" I continued.
"FUCK OFF OUT OF HERE OR I'LL FORCE-FEED YOU THE BLACKENED RAISINS YOU HAVE THE CHEEK TO CALL TESTES!" I yaulped.
"BE GONE FROM THESE GROUNDS FOR THESE ARE THE HOLY LANDS OF THE GRAND WHAZOO! I shouted as the demon ran for his car.

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.

A second, more pronounced voice, suddenly yelled out in my mind. "HOLY FUCKING CHRIST! SHE'S WAVING AT YOU! DO SOMETHING QUICK! RUN AND BUY FLOWERS... PERFUME... CHOCOLATES... ANYTHING... GIVE THEM TO HER BEFORE HER EYESIGHT ADJUSTS TO THE DARK AND SHE REALISES YOU HAVE THE LOOKS OF A TROLL DOLL AND THE GRACE OF AN ELEPHANT TRYING TO ICESKATE WHILE HIGH ON CRACK!" It announced.

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…

“ASDA… DANCING… GIRLS… WOMEN!”

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?
Forgotten.
Just like your Second cousin twice removed on your great great grandmothers side.
Just like you, dear reader.
And…
Just like me.

I feel...

I have slightly neglected my fourteen (14) faithful readers by not posting anything for the last twelve (12) days and have therefore decided to take a little time tonight to let you all know what's going on in the life of me. (Yeah, I know... Boring.)

I have taken the bold decision never to return to the foul piss smelling hellhole that is A4E, as it depresses the shit out of me, despite the fact I may get into all kinds of trouble from The Man for refusing to go. Fuck Da Man... Da Man can kiss my scrotal sack and call me Sven for all I care.

It's not the fact that the A4E room stinks of piss, or the fact that the troglodytes spend most of their time there pissing around on Google earth, facebook or myspace, or the fact that there is a very perceptible evolutionary ladder on show, or the fact that the tutors seem more interested in getting copies of the latest DVD's from certain people* that has convinced me never again to darken their doors again...

It's the fact that I've come to the conclusion I would be better off taking a freshly sharpened pencil out my bag and jamming it into my eye than be there. One thing is for sure, I'd be far less likely to catch a terminal dose of some horrible disease sitting in Accident and Emergency holding the pencil steady than I would in A4E. And that's taking the nationwide outbreaks of MRSA into account.

*Who will remain anonymous as I wasn't about to get chatty with someone who has fuck you tattooed on their forehead.

Daddy don't do pop music...

Or so I thought until the other day when I got in his car and found, for once, he wasn't listening to some blowhard on Talksport witter on about a game where eleven grown men chase an inflated pigbladder around a field, instead a tune I recognised as being modern was bouncing out the speakers and he was tapping his fingers along to the tune.

My first reaction was that I was hearing The Voices again but no, my old man was listening to pop music. Amy MacDonald to be more precise. Which kinda stunned me more as she's exactly the type that I expect my old man to call Teenyboppy Shite.

I remarked that it wasn't like him to listen to music made after the death of Elvis in 1977 and I hadn't ever expected him to listen to pop music unless he was at a party and had no other choice. He said, and I quote... "It's not pop music. It's Amy MacDonald."

"It fuckin' is pop. It's in the charts now." I replied, knowing this to be true as I had read about it the day before in the music section of The Guardian. "It's blatantly pop. It couldn't get more poppy if it tried." I continued.

"It's Scottish music." The bearded one retorted.
"Balls man..." I said.

"Scottish music is some choocter bampot droning on about the Misty Blue Hills of Tyree while more choocter bampots shag the haggis behind him... It's Highland weirdies singing about their long lost love o'er the sea and the boat that they fucked off in... It's small poofy looking Frenchmen on Shortbread tins, See You Jimmy hats and cacky tacky Kiltie dolls in plastic tubes... In short, it's everything Scotland should be stamping out as it perpetuates the worldwide view that all Scots are Ginger haired, wear kilts and fuck sheep when in actual fact we were the nation that gave the world such wonders as anesthetics, Brownian motion, pneumatic tyres, the decimal point, the Kelvin scale, Logarithms, Paraffin, TV and the ability to communicate globally using the telephone." I spat, getting quite riled at the thought of foreigners perceptions of the Scottish race in this day and age.

The very same night I downloaded a copy of Miss MacDonald's album* and must say it was surprisingly good. The girl can sing that's for sure.

* Amy, should you read this and think me evil for not purchasing a copy of your album rest assured that if you want payment for it whip me off an email and I'll arrange to meet up with you to give you the cash.