How Long I Have Waited.

I open the door.
There you are.
At last.
My heart misses a beat.
You are everything I hoped for.
And more...

I've waited for this moment for so long.
All those electrically charged emails, text messages and finally that one conversation on the phone.
That conversation when, at last, you said you were coming to me...

I take your hand.
No words are exchanged.
I lead you in the door.
Towards me.

I take a long slow blink and allow my heightened senses to take you in.
The feel of your big hand in mine.
The smell of your warm body.
You are so close I can hear your breathing and I...almost...can hear your heart beating as loudly as mine.
I open my eyes and take you in again.
You are taller than me and my eyes burn into yours.
I can see the fire in yours as I can feel in mine.

I push the door shut behind you and turn gripping your hand tighter.
I lead you up stairs.

Gently you pull my dress from my shoulders and allow it to slide down my body.
I gasp at the feel of the material slipping down my skin.
You smile as you take in me standing naked in front of you.
You allow the backs of your hands to gently trace down my arms.
Though it is warm outside, the feel of your gentle feather touch sends a luxurious cool tingle all over me.
I am so desperate to kiss you.

I look at your lips as your tongue gently slides across them making them moist.
I have been telling you I want to kiss you for months now, so it can wait...for now...

You remove the clip from my hair and it tumbles around my shoulders.
Slowly you move me down to the bed so I am laying before you.
You scan me and my breathing quickens.

Still we have exchanged no words.
Our hearts beating, our eyes yearning are all we need...

You take off your clothes just leaving your pants and I can see your hardness.
I bite my lip in anticipation.

You kneel at the end of the bed before me.
I can feel your lips on my toes.
Gently...oh so gently...you place kisses on my feet...
Slowly on my ankles..
To my calves..
My whole body is tingling...

I can feel the warmth of the sun through the window on my body.
The sun is on your back now as you place kisses on my knees.
You continue your lingering journey up my thighs.
I need to remind myself to breath as time has stopped.
My throat is dry as I swallow and take in the feeling of you working your way further.
My fingers grip the covers beside me and my toes curl.
Gently you part my thighs.

I hear a moan, and realise it is me as dart your tongue inside me.
I feel I am about to explode.
As this feeling builds you move your lips away.
Now you are kissing and licking and nibbling me along my tummy and hips.
I try to control my breathing as I can smell you, feel you and hear you.

You reach my breasts...
You take my one of my nipples in your mouth, teasing, licking and nibbling.
I feel a rush through my body.
A rush of euphoria, of disbelief that at last you are here.
You sweep your lips slowly across my chest from one shoulder to the other.
You bury yourself into my neck.
Your breath is so hot and heavy...

I feel you gently lean into me.
I part my legs so you can lay into me and I feel you so hard, push against me.

Your head lifts and our eyes meet.

The need to kiss you can no longer wait...
you move towards me...
eye contact all the time...
my lips part...
our lips are barely away from each other...

Suddenly there is a heavy weight on my chest!
My eyes open quickly!
I see my daughter's face as I am dragged from my slumber!
'Morning Mama, did you sleep well?'

Invincibility.

Our lips touch and his tongue pushes the rock inside my parted mouth lingering longer than I feel comfortable with. I slip the notes into his palm. His breath is foul, like rotting eggs and I feel my stomach lurch. I don't make eye contact with him as I pull away, but I can feel his eyes burning into my cleavage. I mumble 'thanks' and pull my cardigan tighter around my chest, fold my arms and turn my back to him as I walk away at a speedy pace.

I run my tongue along my gum and tuck my little parcel away. The sooner I get home the better. I have just done something I have done a hundred times before, but it never gets any easier. I still get paranoid that someone will catch me out.

It's not like I am a homeless, scummy addict or anything. I mean...I'm too intelligent for all that. Nothing will grip hold of me. I'm highly qualified. I used to hold down a 200k a year job in advertising. Well ,that was before it was 'suggested' that I leave after that small fuck up. My God how they exaggerated that one. I still think I was a scapegoat. Still, that's all in the past now. Onwards and upwards as they say. But for now I need some 'me' time and this is one of those days. And I do only have these days once in a while...maybe once...sometimes twice a week...sometimes three. Oh whatever, anyway, I have my baby to look after. My pride and joy, so I can't do this too often. I have no one else. Anyone else involves emotions I dare not contemplate so I don't 'do' relationships.
My baby is all I need.

I absolutely don't do it when she is in the flat. I make sure she has a full day at nursery. It's only a white lie that I tell them when I go in suited and booted in the morning pretending that I am rushing off to the office. Who would know? As long as they get their money who is going to question me? At least I know she's safe there.

I enter my flat and lock the door behind me. I take out my parcel from my mouth and place it on the kitchen work surface before methodically going around shutting all of my blinds. I slip off my heals and suit and let them drop to the floor. I pick them up and fold them onto the end of my bed ready to put back on later to go and pick my baby up. I then put on my comfy pyjamas. I giggle to myself. I always use these pyjamas for my 'me' day. My silk pyjamas bought from Hong Kong when I was over on one of my many business trips.

I go into the kitchen to get my 'kit' together. I pull out a plastic bottle from the fridge and pour the rest of it's contents down the sink rinsing it and drying it. I slide a carving knife out of the drawer and cut it in half. I put the roll of foil under my arm and grab some string and my rock from the side.

I walk into the lounge and crease my face in disdain at the mess. I really must get my shit together and sort this place out. Next week I will...I have a whole list of things I need to do next week. Things that I have been putting off.

I walk over to the sofa and with my bare foot I slide off the papers and clothes that have collected on it onto the floor. I spot a used nappy amongst the clothes. Disgusting! I push it under the coffee table. Out of sight out of mind and all that. I slump down onto the sofa and drop my bits and pieces into my lap. I lean forward to get the remote control and switch on my TV and sky box. The screen is blank and a band tells me my subscription is due. Bollocks! I'll add that to my list of things to do 'next week'...

The next 5 minutes is spent wrapping my bottle with foil to cook my rock. I break it up and drop some into my bottle. I sit back and flick my lighter, the sound alone of it making my heart race a bit faster. It takes seconds for my rock to start to melt and I place my mouth around the top of the bottle breathing in deeply...

I close my eyes and can almost visualise the blood rushing through my veins. My pulse starts in my toes booming and swooshing through every millimetre of my limbs, at the speed of light it rushes up my body to my head. The whoosh reaches my head and I can hear loud pulsating in my ears. My eyes open fast at this feeling. My limbs feel heavy, but I haven't a care in the world...no one can touch me. My heart beating hard in my chest comforts me and gently my eyes close again.

30 minutes later the feeling has dampened...I need it again. This is the trouble with crack...knowing when to stop. But I have all day, and like I said before...I'm not an addict! So I do it again...and again...and again...repeating that beautiful rush, that wonderful feeling of euphoria...that sense of self worth that no words or physical comfort could ever match.

I am invincible!

The pitiful sight that Detective Sara Wilkinson surveys makes her stomach churn. The call came through at 9.30pm when one of the mothers hadn't turned up to pick her daughter up from Heathfield Nursery. Hushed words from the Nursery Supervisor about the mother being a 'strange one' were followed by a rush of 'gossip' about how she was trying to fool everyone into thinking she was still working. She'd turn up in dirty suits and scuffed healed shoes, hair unkempt and lank, face scabbed and dull. The baby often had to be washed and changed when she was dropped off for the day, but no one actually bothered to ask the mother why? No one bothered to ask if she was OK...she paid her money and that was good enough. There were no other contacts for the baby either. No father, no grandparents and no friends.

And here she was...still sitting upright, her head slumped back, dried vomit down her front, crusted around her mouth. Her eyes were open staring up at the ceiling, dry and empty. Her, once expensive, pyjamas were stained and frayed and she was sitting in a pool of urine... The flat was full of clutter and filth. The stench was suffocating.This beautiful flat in the heart of Canary Wharf where all the 'beautiful' rich people lived.

Detective Sara Wilkinson's heart ached...ached for the past, the present and the future...

Meh.

Meh.

Three little letters formed into one word that speaks volumes.

Meh. Finishes conversations, there is nothing further to say.

Paris Hilton has a new perfume out ... Meh.

Brad and Angelina are on the cover of hello … Meh.

Hilary Clinton …Meh.

X Factor … Meh.

Jamie fucking Oliver … Meh.

It just cuts the shit, you know?

For a while now I have wanted to start a movement, a group, a gang, a gaggle, a posse ... whatever you want to call it. I know I get ideas above my station, delusions of grandeur but I want the power and anonymity of Chanology and the mindset of the Juggalos.

I think Meh, could be the way forward, The battle cry for the indifferent.

Join me, arm yourself with a marker pen and write Meh. Everywhere

On your next ballot card, money, charity envelopes, billboards, cash machines, anywhere that your indifference, our indifference will get someone’s, anyone’s attention.

And of course there is the internet …

Join the mindless gossiping pages and reply, have your say with those three little letters , use this email addy if you have to, sign them all anon and let them know that we just don’t care anymore.

If enough of us do it they make take notice, if they don’t well, Meh, we will have tried.

My Job

You want to know about my job?

Well, despite appearances, it’s actually pretty run of the mill. I mean, there aren’t many people who would want to do it, but it helps pay the bills, and allows me to take the Mrs on holiday every year- Bournemouth is our favourite. Every year we stay in the same hotel, just up from the beach. 20 years now we’ve been going there. Lovely veal of a Wednesday night.

Anyway, I’m digressing. Where was I? Oh yes, the job. Well, usually I need to be at work for half six in the morning, which can be quite a task during the winter, I tell you. The mornings are damned cold (excuse my French) riding to the office. Never bothered getting my drivers license you see, I never go very far, and there’s a train to Bournemouth, so I jump on the trusty old pushbike.

So yes, I get to work for about half six (I like to be prompt. A prompt man is a proud man you see), that gives me time to make a brew and see what the score is for that day’s work. The gaffer gives me the file, which I look through for the relevant information- height, weight, occupation- that kind of thing, you know. It’s all very important to understand how the client is going to act in order to perform the best possible service.

At around seven, my assistant Ted normally comes in, so we have another brew and a spot of breakfast knocked up by the kitchen. They do a wonderful fry up- the bacon is just right, and the sausages are never too greasy.

Well, after we’ve finished our breakfast, we need to check the equipment. A good craftsman takes pride in his tools doesn’t he? Granted, I don’t really create anything, but pride is paramount in my line of work. If the equipment isn’t in working order, the end result could be sloppy, and that’s the last thing we want. We check that everything is done up tight, and oiled where it needs oiling, then we test that it’s in working order with a couple of sandbags. To be honest, I believe in the idea of proper maintenance negating a fix, and so in the 20 years I’ve been doing this, it’s never needed more than a few spare parts. You see, it’s all about pride- something that some of the youngsters coming into it could do well to consider.

While we’re doing that the client is taken to a room just down the hallway so he (and sometimes she) can be prepared- if you know what I mean- something to eat, a chat, that kind of thing. Well, me and Ted have usually finished our checks by now, so we go down there to receive him. None of the clients know what to expect, so they always have a frightful look in their eyes. I have to say, despite everything, I do feel sorry for some of them, but it was their choice to be here, so I put that to one side and get on with the task at hand.

I show them down the hall to where the procedure is going to take place, and lead them into the room. It’s pretty sparsely decorated in there- well, some would call it functional, I suppose, and tends to be a little chilly. Of course, that’s not the only reason that the client is shivering, but like I said, it was their choice, and no business of mine, so it never goes mentioned.

So far, so good. It’s surprising how many clients make it to this point without saying anything. I suppose they’ve accepted the situation by this point. Maybe they know that it’s all for the best, you know, something they need to do. Anyway, this is Ted’s bit, he’s gets the cloth bag and puts it over their face- got to protect them, you see- and then it’s back to me. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do this bit- it all goes back to the pride you see- not that Ted isn’t a good lad, but I think I’m probably just a bit of a controlling type. I’ll be retiring soon enough, so I suppose Ted will be taking on the job anyway. Maybe I’ll let him do the next one? He’s a good kid, is Ted. Just turned 21, and engaged to be married to Alice- lovely girl, is Alice. Her and my Mary get on like mother and daughter.

Anyway, I’m going off the topic again, aren’t I? Where was I? Oh yes, Ted has just done his bit, so I’m back up there. This is the most important bit, if I’ve miscalculated, then it could all be very messy indeed, and that’s the last thing I want. I put the rope around the client’s neck, pull up the slack, step back and pull the lever. He (and sometimes she) drops through the trapdoor, and that’s that.

People ask how I sleep, doing what I do. The way I see it, it’s not for me to pass judgement, and I’m not murdering them. I’m just doing my job. Someone needs to do it, you see. The government wants these people hanged, and they pay me to do it. I take no particular pleasure from taking their lives, but they understand why they’re there, and respect that I have a job to do. One or two have begged me for mercy, and that’s where it gets a little bit harder. I can’t offer them mercy, only their God can do that now, so I have to shut myself off.

Respect is one of the key points of my job. After the client is dead (which, I’m proud to say is instant with my hangings), they’ve paid for their sins. What we have is an empty vessel, while their soul is up there discussing terms of entry to heaven, as it were, so we treat it with respect. We wash them down (you wouldn’t believe what happens to a human body as it’s hanged- well, I suppose you would, and trust me, it’s not very pleasant), and dress them in their funeral clothes, before placing them in a coffin, and taking them to the chapel for a rudimentary service. I never attend the services- I didn’t know them, and it would be a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?

Then it’s back home, where hopefully Mary has started to cook tea. I must say, she bakes a very good steak and mushroom pie indeed. We have that of a Thursday, so I always look forward to that.

Of course, the hangings aren’t every day, and the ones I do don’t pay enough to live on, so for the rest of the week, I’m a drayman for a local brewery. Those barrels are playing havoc with my old back though.

Scared

I'm scared.

Not 'girl' scared. Not spiders, or wasps. Not weight gain, or aging.

Not 'boy' scared. Not commitment, or losing face. Not hair loss, or impotence.

Not 'kid' scared. Not the dark, or bullies. Not maths tests, or detention.

Not 'phobia' scared. Not heights, or open spaces. Not snakes, or the number thirteen.

And not death. Certainly not death. Quite the opposite.

I'm scared of life.

Scared of the future, what it will bring and what I will become.

Scared of the past, and what it has made me.

And scared of the now, each day, each hour, each waking second. The inevitable ticking towards the fate that awaits us all in the end. The inescapable finality.

Each time I step outside the door, wondering if the cars speeding past me on the street are going fast enough. How much damage they would cause.

Each time I drive the car, knuckles tight to white on the wheel, resisting what is becoming an overwhelming urge to career into the next motorway bridge, the next 40-footer coming the other way.

I've caused pain to people, emotional pain that I never thought possible, never thought myself capable of. And what's worse is that it's been caused not through any malice but by being who I am.

I've caused pain to myself, physical pain that at times seems the only way to express the feelings inside that I can't understand and never have. Knuckles left bruised and bleeding, swollen to the point of not being able to even bend the fingers, let alone make the fist that enabled the release, smashed the wall, smeared the blood and flooded my mind with welcome pain.

Life inside the bubble of my mind is the only way. Cut off and detached from the reality of what's going on. So I seem distant, that's just me. So I seem cold, that's just me. That way I don't expose myself or anyone else to the hurt I inevitably cause.
And my brain feels numb, to the point of being an automaton.

And underlying it all, the mind-crippling but ever more certain belief that a world without me in it would somehow be a better place for everyone that my life has touched.

So I'm scared.......scared of what I'll do next.

Short story number 1. 200 word limit.

“was denken das Bumsen Sie Sie tun?“

The startled desk clerk shouts as a man, naked from the waist down sprints past, his shirt tails flapping as he runs.

“Ich bin traurig, aber ich spreche nicht Deutsches“
He screams as he heads for the door.

On the other side of the foyer another door crashes opens and a semi naked woman appears, she is wearing a lacey red Basque, stockings and a large, greasy, black rubber penis juts from her crotch with black elastic straps stretched across her ample buttocks.

She stops for a split second looking around desperately for her prey, spies it and bellows

“zurückgekommen, ist das nicht das sichere Wort“

And starts to run after the man, breasts and dildo bouncing in a strange unison.

I turn back to my drink and look at the barman who simply shrugs his shoulders and says

“uno sirve la leche es otro sirve el queso”

I have no idea what he means, I have no idea what is going on but I am beginning to suspect the glass coffee table that was delivered to my room this morning maybe isn’t the nice addition I first thought it was.

Escapism is Real

Is there such a thing as a Perfect Life? I often speak to people who say they have it. Personally, I do not think it exists. What is perfect to you? It’s probably different than my own ideas. Perfect to me is having a partner who loves and respects me, a healthy sex life, no financial worries, no health issues, healthy, well behaved and good mannered children, a nice home, regular holidays and a good social life. Well, they are the main points of my ‘perfect’ life. In reality, the list is endless, which leads me back to my original question.

My perfect life idea is based around feelings and emotions, rather than material possessions. I guess I am lucky. I have a partner who loves and respects me. I have children who love me and I think, together, we all have a lovely life together. But, things are missing. I want other things, and to achieve this I have my escapism.

We are friends, we are lovers. We have fun, we laugh, we make love, we have sex, we dine, we drink, we talk on the phone, we chat on the internet. We respect each other. We love each other. We have respect for one another and we respect each other’s ‘real’ life. Nothing we do on the surface raises suspicion or question. We do not hurt anyone. We make our own lives more fulfilled.

Escapism – for real.

You Just Think It Looks Cool

Sporting a hangover this morning that felt like I had been kicked in the face by Jackie fuckin’ Chan I began to ponder, as I do, Just why do we drink?

Don’t get me wrong being drunk is great, I get that, I really do.

But take a step back and it’s not really all that great.

Ever been out and been the designated driver or like been on medication or some shit? Going out with a bunch of people and being the only sober person is hellish and why?

Drunk people, even if they are the love of your life, best friends or what ever, are just really fucking annoying.

They are loud, incoherent, uncoordinated, and a lot dumber than they normally are, with some people this is a hard job anyway but somehow they manage it. Most of them are obnoxious, rude, and arrogant to boot.

They think they are the funniest mother fuckers alive and that the shit that is tumbling from their lips is in depth and profound, yet normally its just utter fucking drivel or sometimes if you are lucky, or unlucky depending on the content, a little too candid and honest.

And that’s just for starters.

Some drunks want to fight everyone, some want to hug and kiss them, some declare their love for everyone, and others just sit and cry.

This last one is normally reserved for fat girls at parties.

Ever notice that?

There is always one fat girls sat on the steps outside crying. If there isn’t one by the time I get there, I like to find one and make her cry, you know call her a cunt, kick her in the twat that type of thing.


The best ones are the ones who are crying because they are being sick …

That mix of boo hoo baby sobs and retching always makes me giggle.


Then they have their best mate, equally as drunk, holding their hair out of the way, rubbing their back and saying “There there”.

That’s a level of friendship I just can’t get my head around, if any of my friends are chucking their ring I’m the motherfucker laughing his ass off and filming it on the mobile. No matter how many times I send in videos like that, Harry Hill never sends me my two hundred and fifty quid.

What can I say I’m a people person.

If it helps any ,I am normally the person who throws up into the fish tank.

On purpose I would like to add, even if I’m not all that drunk, I’ll you know, give it the bulimic tonsil tickle.

You wouldn’t think Guppies liked carrots that much would you?

Anyway I love a good party me.

Another thing about alcohol is it doesn’t even taste all that nice.

And I know some of you are thinking “I like the taste”

No you don’t, you may think you do, but it really tastes like shit.

You may have gotten used to the taste but it doesn’t taste nice in the traditional meaning of the word.

You ever given a beer to a kid? They never say

“Ooh that’s nice Dad can I have some more?”

It’s always

“I’m telling Mum when I get home”


And don’t give me any of that refreshing, crisp taste crap, if you want refreshing drink some juice, if they made a lager flavoured cordial nobody would buy it and that’s why non-alcoholic lagers and beers are just plain shit, you get none of the pleasure.

Now yes some beers do taste nicer than others but on a same sort of plane, rape is better than anal rape, do you get what I’m trying to say here?


We don’t drink for the taste, we drink to get drunk and it really is as simple as that.


And this is why cocktails and alcopops are so great; they taste nice and get you really fucked up really fast.

The main aim of alcopops and cocktails, in my book anyway, is to totally mask that nasty tang of alcohol and the best ones colour your sick nicely as well.

You just can’t beat barking pints of Blue vomit at the kerb, it really is one of life’s simplest joys.

Right up there with getting home and hammering out shit on the internet while wasted, we have all done that right?

Sat there giggling at yourself, going back to the earlier point of thinking you are the funniest person ever, click clacking away on the keyboard like a demented fucking secretary and all of it nonsense or offensive or if you're me, both.

My uncle once, while drunk, maxed out his credit card buying tickets for gigs, it was fucking great we saw everybody and anybody who was touring.

Quite we he chose to buy six tickets at a time is beyond me but hey ho, the touts made a killing off him and I got to see Blood Has Been Shed, never heard of them before but to quote my uncle “they just sounded like they would rock”

And they did.

And unlike drunk forum posting when you see what you have done the next day he only found out when the tickets started coming in the mail.


I guess really what I am trying to get at is forget all the bullshit reasons people give for drinking and forget all the health aspects and the damage drinking does that I haven’t even started to cover just grow some balls and be honest enough to say. . .

I like to get fucked up.

Question Everything

Jim Morrison famously sang people are strange. I disagree with Mr Mojo, I say people, mostly are just stupid.

People by and large are little more than cattle, kept as docile as possible and encouraged to do little more than feed, breed, consume and most importantly conform.

In an age where free will and altruism are stifled we (the human race) are devolving. In an age where we have the greatest tool of communication and shared knowledge (the internet) The divide between nations are becoming wider and we (the human race) are becoming dumber.

The one key element to this is fear.

We are told to fear the internet because of peadophiles, hackers, identity theft and the frankly bizarre and idiotic notion that convicted rapists and murders have unchecked and unlimited internet access and may be stalking our children.

We fear the outside world due to such heinous acts such as the new found knife crime; as far as I am aware mankind has been stabbing each other ever since we had flint spears, lived in caves and it was still acceptable to wear fur.
It is only in this the age of stupidity, that taking the point off knives is seen as a viable and logical answer. We obviously can’t be trusted with sharp items anymore.

In fact we can’t be trusted do anything for ourselves anymore; warnings are printed on everything warning us of the potential dangers.

It isn’t simply enough anymore to warn us that smoking is bad for our health, it has to be banned and the age limit raised, warnings of impending death slapped on the front just to further hammer the (obvious) point home.

Going out and getting drunk is now binge drinking and dangerous when it used to be simply known as “the weekend”

The sixties gift to the world of free love is now riddled with a whole new universe of unpleasant sexual diseases.

We can’t even be trusted to decide what to eat, we need to be told that eating fruit and vegetables is good for us and that eating processed cheap meat full of additives and artificial flavourings is bad for us.

That being obese is unhealthy.

That free range and organic is better

After years of budget cuts and funnelling crap down out children’s necks it takes a “celebrity chef” to figure out and point out that this shit really isn’t cool?


We fear each other because of the constant threat of terrorism and while this may sound silly at the moment, there are little seeds starting to grow in the mindset of “you are either with us or against us” This is mainly kept to the uneducated masses of America where Muslims are the new Commies, and to even think about being against the war is unpatriotic.

Propaganda is a very powerful tool and one the governments of the world wield amazingly well.

So what is the answer?

People need to think for themselves, but you can’t simply tell people to think or more importantly you can’t tell people what to think because that would just lead us back to where we are now.

So we have to try and let them see things for themselves, a little nudge here and there, a few seeds of doubt sown here and there will give fruit one day.

We need to stop simply listening and start thinking.

Start a movement

Start a fire

Change the government

No vote no voice

Do something

anything

Question everything.

EVERYTHING.

Yes even everything I have just written.

Take a step back and think about it, don't just jump onboard

Because to except things blindly is plain stupid.

Anon No More

I have had an idea, a wonderful, glorious idea.

Are you ready?

Let’s burn Fleet Street.

Seriously let’s rid the world of the pompous, hypocritical, fear mongering idiots who claim to bring us the news.

Well their version of news

Poor tragic Britney

Poor tragic Gazza

Poor tragic Amy

I am pretty sure that if you stopped following them around capturing every “tragic” of moment of their life they would be able to sort themselves out a bit.

They mock the overweight and fear for the skinny

They build people up and take great pleasure in knocking them back down

They perpetuate the myth that football is important and feed the egos of the same players that they will later describe as disgusting animals once they believe that they are untouchable.

They feel that some mildly famous person sun bathing topless is newsworthy

They abuse the English language on a daily basis writing in a fashion that treats the readers like illiterates. Some of the words they use defy logic and reason and are more at home in a playground in 1983.
Bonk is one that always comes to mind straight away, Brangelina is another.

The continued existence of Page 3 girls is further evidence of stupidity and hypocrisy, you can’t claim to be the voice of moral outrage and deliver the news with tits splashed on the inside.

They are unbelievably biased about crucial world matters such as the “war against terrorism” desperately trying to rally support for what essentially is an illegal invasion. Only ever reporting on who many of “our boys” Have “tragically” lost their lives. Never a mention of the hundreds of thousands of people who have lost theirs trying to defend their homeland.


But that is a battle for a different time

What has riled me today is the suns idiotic, yet somewhat triumphant campaign to name Burial the artist who released his work somewhat anonymously. His name, Like Banksy’ is unimportant what is the next step?
A front page declaration that Father Christmas isn’t real?
What business is it of The Suns to unmask people like this? How is it in the public’s interest?
Do people suddenly like his music anymore or less now they know his real name?
And the joy they take in it is sickening and this in itself only further demonstrates the blatant idiocy of the “reporters” who fail to grasp the concept of something being just about the art.

I know I have said this before but nothing gets attributed to “anon” anymore and if rags like the sun have its way nothing will be anymore, they will name us all.

So lets kill them before they ruin everything, the world will be a better place.

The Big Mans Blog

Hi I’m GOD.
I live in a kingdom in the clouds and sit on a throne, you can’t see me but you must fear me for I am love.

I look down at you all and see everything that everyone is doing at anytime all at once, I also hear what you are all saying and know what you are thinking.
Basically I rock.

I don’t do anything about the stuff you do in your life until you are dead and then I just get another fellow called Peter to stop you coming into my Kingdom. He is like immigration control.

I used to get nasty on peoples ass for not living like I say they should, this one time back in the day I drowned every one in this huge flood except this bloke called Noah, who I told to make a boat big enough to fit two of each animal in the world on, his wife Joan and their family. Thou shall not kill doesn’t count for me.

I also made everything in the world; actually I made the entire world in a week with my bare hands then had a day off.

Let me just emphasise that, I made everything, every intricate flower that spreads its seed in the wind, all of your nerves and complex organs, Wasps, Cancer, Aids, even Pandas who are so stupid they only eat one thing, and that isn’t even very good for them.

All me.

All on my own, don’t ask who made me either because the idea of someone, something making me makes about as much sense as there being nothing and then that nothing exploding.

I even made the dinosaurs, but nobody mentioned them in the book they wrote about me, don’t know how they missed them out really, I mean huge lizards! Some of them could even fly! And not one single word?

After I crafted the world I made a garden, all that space and I make a garden, wicked eh?
Then I made man, just made him, none of that gradual curve crap working with monkeys, there was nobody then man, one step - nothing then man-

He was in my image of course, and I let him live in the garden.
But he got bored so I took one of his ribs out and made him a woman.
Didn’t give them any clothes mind, just a few leaves to cover the rude bits up.

And so they lived in my garden free to do as they wished, well anything apart from eating my apples. That was the one thing I didn’t want them to do.
Scrump my Apples.

Of course the woman only goes and dares to eat an Apple. She says a snake told her to do it, have you ever seen a talking snake?
I haven’t and I made everything.

So I kicked them out of my garden and then these two people populated the world.
They did some serious fucking and a fair bit of incest, let me tell you Eve was a proper dirty bitch and couldn’t stop a pig in an alley by the end of it all.

I made Pigs as well by the way.

So I left it for a bit but after a while people needed some guidance so here’s what I did.

I saw this couple who hadn’t yet consummated their marriage and knocked her up on the sly. I let my mate Gabriel break the news to her. Her husband must have got off on stuff like that as he seemed pretty chuffed with it all and excepted her explanation of a miracle birth rather than jumping to the conclusion that his wife had been putting it about.
The bloke was so far under the thumb you could see the print on his head, I made finger prints as well, all of the unique but I made them all.

So my bastard son was born in a barn on Christmas day, poor sod was always going to get combined presents and he did, Three wise men followed a star and gave him some gold, frankincense and Myrrh. They can’t have been very wise as they aren’t exactly baby friendly gifts. Some babygrows would have been better or a blanket, the poor tyke was in a manger in the middle of December after all.

But anyway my son led a good life and spread messages of peace and hope and do you know what happened?

He went for a walk in the desert for a month or so, didn’t eat or drink the entire time he was away. And when he came back, the bloody Romans only went and nailed him to some lower case “t”, stabbed him with a great big spear and then put his body in a cave.
Only he wasn’t really dead and he came back to life at Easter time as a Rabbit and gave children eggs. Rabbit eggs?

There is more to my story of course, Old men parting oceans, colourful jackets inspiring crap tv shows, child murder, to name a few.

Just don’t forget science is totally wrong, It was all me.

All wars in my name are for the best cause, even when both sides believe in different versions of me.

All I ask for is blind faith, it’s that or I’ll let you burn forever.

For I am forgiveness.