Narrator: Today is a very special day in the Forest as some new residents move in and start to make friends with the other creatures that put the Happy into Happy Green Forest.
A woodpecker, wearing a climbing helmet and safety harness is cautiously tapping at a tree. Suddenly it starts to fall.
Pippa Beaver (wearing dungarees and looking skyward) : Tiiiiiiiiiiiimber!
The tree crashes down leaving the woodpecker dangling precariously by its harness.
Wallace Woodpecker (upside down and most upset) : What in the blazes do you think you are playing at?
PB: Fellin’ this here tree, like what I’m meant to … I shouted Timber
WW: Like you are meant to? Who are you and just what do you think you are doing?
PB: Well sir, I’m Pippa Beaver (offering paw to shake) , most folks call me Pip an’ I jus’ moved into this here wood of yours an’ I’m making me a home
WW (setting himself free of his harness, ignoring the extended paw) : It’s a Forest
PB (Putting her paws in her pockets) : Pardon?
WW: It’s not a Wood it’s a forest and we have proper houses with doors and windows and suchlike, we don’t make them we are not animals.
PB: Well I don’t know about any of that sir, I jus’ got here
WW: Jus’ I mean Just got here? And from where did you just get here from?
PB: Captivity sir, I was born and raised in captivity and now I done got reintroduced
WW: Captivity eh? I think I have a cousin down that way.. anyway what do you mean reintroduced?
PB: Well sir me an’ my fambly have been let out into this here woo.. I mean forest to live in. Not just us ... either there’s a big ole fambly of Bears, some wolves and I think some boars as well, but that might just be a rumour.
WW: What in heavens are you blathering about?
PB: Seems y’all critters been having a nice easy quiet life and the powers that be thinks its ‘bout time things livened up a bit round here
WW. Well we will see about that, Here in Happy Green Forest we live in a civilised society, a democratic society we have laws and we have order.
PB: Sure sounds mighty boring, what y’all do for fun round here?
WW: Well I am the scout leader and a climbing instructor in my spare time. I also host the book club and I am on the board for the May barn dance.
PB: Bet you play bridge don’t ya’
WW (smugly) well I have been known to play a bit in my time
PB: How ‘bout poker? I got myself a bit of a stash to play with
WW: Oh we don’t gamble here, this is a happy place full of joy and free from the dangers and corruption of gambling.
PB: Oh I see, anyway it’s sure been nice talking to you sir (extends paw to shake again) . Jus’ it’s getting late and I needs to get my place sorted before the bears come out.
WW (ignores the paw again) : Well like I said we live in houses here, but if you go and see the Mayor I’m sure he will arrange something, maybe one of the log cabins up by the lake I know one of those is empty, has been ever since poor Otto had his accident.
PB: Sure sounds swell, where will I find this mayor of yours?
WW: If you would like to follow me I’ll take you there myself, its not far
Pippa and Wallace walk into the distance towards the Mayors house, their conversation tapering off as they walk away
Narrator: You know what children? I think Pippa is going to fit in nicely here in Happy Green Forest, until next time, take care you.
PB: Who said that?
WW: Oh him, you’ll get used to that
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
More Happy Green Forest
Narrrator: With Autumns fingers gripping Happy Green Forest and winters breathe blowing down its neck. Some of the Animals have a long sleep ahead…
Harold Hedgehog is out scavenging for food before his hibernation
Harold (muttering to himself) : Bread and milk? Bread and milk I ask you, what good is bread and milk to anyone?
Harold stops muttering and creeps towards a fallen tree where a bright Orange Caterpillar, wearing spectacles, is sat reading.
Harold : AHAA! Lunch!
Colin (looking up at Harold, over his glasses) : Oh. Sorry, what?
Harold: I said Lunch
Colin: Oh. No thank you, I haven’t long eaten
Harold (confused) : No I more meant you are my lunch
Colin: Oh. No, sorry
Harold: What do you mean sorry?
Colin: Oh. I mean, I don’t want to be your lunch
Harold: Well I wasn’t really asking
Colin: Oh. I see well, the answer is still no
Harold: Like I said I wasn’t asking so ... I’m just going to eat you now
Colin: Oh. You can’t do that
Harold: And why not?
Colin: Oh. I won’t let you
Harold: And just how are you going to stop me?
Colin: Oh. Well I believe in non violence you see, so my first course of action would be to educate you on why you can’t eat me
Harold: And why is that?
Colin: Oh. Well for starters I am a sentient being, I have feelings, I think therefore I am! To eat me would be the act of a simple minded barbarian
Harold: Well that doesn’t really cut it pal
Colin: Oh. Secondly you sir are an omnivore, the eating of me is little more than opportunistic greed. We live in a bountiful forest full of rich goodness for you to feast on and yet you chose me simply because you have found me.
Harold (muttering) : Found a bowl of bread and milk
Colin (mockingly) : Oh! I see and that didn’t sate your appetite?
Harold (sullen) : Didn’t eat it … makes me doings hard
Colin: Oh. how pleasant
Harold: Anyway I has found you, now I’m going to eat you
Colin: Oh. I haven’t finished yet, You can’t eat me. I have yet to reach my full potential, for soon I shall cocoon myself in a chrysalis and emerge later as a beautiful butterfly spreading the joys of spring and helping to pollinate the forest, Selflessly helping a whole manner of life to continue.
Or maybe I’ll be a Moth don’t know yet … need to speak to my careers officer about that one I mean Butterflies are a bit … um well gay aren’t they?
Harold: Still don’t care
Colin (dejected) : Oh, Umm I haven’t finished my book? Ooh I know!
Look I am Orange and that means I could be poisonous! You eat me and I’ll make you ill!
Harold snatches Colin and rams him into his mouth, swallowing him whole.
Narrator: And so children the circle of life continues in Happy Green Forest, Harold will later be eaten by an Owl called Darren. Take care you!
Harold:Wait, what? Will I? That sucks.
Harold Hedgehog is out scavenging for food before his hibernation
Harold (muttering to himself) : Bread and milk? Bread and milk I ask you, what good is bread and milk to anyone?
Harold stops muttering and creeps towards a fallen tree where a bright Orange Caterpillar, wearing spectacles, is sat reading.
Harold : AHAA! Lunch!
Colin (looking up at Harold, over his glasses) : Oh. Sorry, what?
Harold: I said Lunch
Colin: Oh. No thank you, I haven’t long eaten
Harold (confused) : No I more meant you are my lunch
Colin: Oh. No, sorry
Harold: What do you mean sorry?
Colin: Oh. I mean, I don’t want to be your lunch
Harold: Well I wasn’t really asking
Colin: Oh. I see well, the answer is still no
Harold: Like I said I wasn’t asking so ... I’m just going to eat you now
Colin: Oh. You can’t do that
Harold: And why not?
Colin: Oh. I won’t let you
Harold: And just how are you going to stop me?
Colin: Oh. Well I believe in non violence you see, so my first course of action would be to educate you on why you can’t eat me
Harold: And why is that?
Colin: Oh. Well for starters I am a sentient being, I have feelings, I think therefore I am! To eat me would be the act of a simple minded barbarian
Harold: Well that doesn’t really cut it pal
Colin: Oh. Secondly you sir are an omnivore, the eating of me is little more than opportunistic greed. We live in a bountiful forest full of rich goodness for you to feast on and yet you chose me simply because you have found me.
Harold (muttering) : Found a bowl of bread and milk
Colin (mockingly) : Oh! I see and that didn’t sate your appetite?
Harold (sullen) : Didn’t eat it … makes me doings hard
Colin: Oh. how pleasant
Harold: Anyway I has found you, now I’m going to eat you
Colin: Oh. I haven’t finished yet, You can’t eat me. I have yet to reach my full potential, for soon I shall cocoon myself in a chrysalis and emerge later as a beautiful butterfly spreading the joys of spring and helping to pollinate the forest, Selflessly helping a whole manner of life to continue.
Or maybe I’ll be a Moth don’t know yet … need to speak to my careers officer about that one I mean Butterflies are a bit … um well gay aren’t they?
Harold: Still don’t care
Colin (dejected) : Oh, Umm I haven’t finished my book? Ooh I know!
Look I am Orange and that means I could be poisonous! You eat me and I’ll make you ill!
Harold snatches Colin and rams him into his mouth, swallowing him whole.
Narrator: And so children the circle of life continues in Happy Green Forest, Harold will later be eaten by an Owl called Darren. Take care you!
Harold:Wait, what? Will I? That sucks.
Monday, 29 September 2008
Another Day in Happy Green Forest
Narrator: It’s another sunny day in Happy Green Forest and Snappy Turtle the postman is out on his rounds.
Snappy is stood next to a large tree with a door in its trunk. There is a red mail box, with Sally Squirrel painted on it in Yellow childish letters, nailed to the tree.
A face appears in the doors glass and looks out inquisitively.
The door opens slowly, and Sally Squirrel wearing a white dressing gown and a towel ontop of her head like a turban peers round it at the Turtle in the post office uniform.
Sally (in a naturally squeaky happy voice) : Whatcha doin’?
Snappy (in a low, dull, slow voice) : Got some mail for ya’
Sally opens the door fully.
Sally(excited) : Yay! I love getting mail! Is it a postcard from my great uncle Vern?
Snappy: I don’t know I’m not allowed to read the mail, s’more than my jobs worth luv
Sally: Is it a letter from my Aunt Marge?
Snappy: S’in a brown envelope … s’probably a bill
Sally (dejected) : Oh can I have it then?
Snappy: Sure can, S’in the bag
Snappy gestures with his head to the heavy bags loaded onto his shell
Sally: I have to get my own mail out of the sack?
Snappy: Yup
Sally: ok … aaaand can I ask why?
Snappy: Sure can
Sally and Snappy stand looking at each other for a long drawn out moment
Sally (annoyed and through gritted teeth) : Why do I have to get my own mail out of your sacks? The mail you are meant to deliver
Snappy: I aint got no hands.
Sally: What?
Snappy: I aint got any hands, can’t pick things up when you aint got no hands.
Snappy waves his flippers at the clearly confused Squirrel.
Sally (slowly): I see so, why didn’t you ring the bell instead of just standing outside until I saw you?
Snappy: Can’t ring the bell
Sally: Because you haven’t got any hands?
Snappy: Nope, I aint got no legs either, can’t stand up to reach it
Snappy turns to waggle his even smaller flippers at her
Sally: So you just walk house to house and wait for the folks of Happy Green Forest to come and get their own mail?
Snappy: S’more of a crawl or maybe a shuffle, but yeah that’s pretty much the long and short of it. I go into the depot, they load me up and off I plod.
Sally: This is ridiculous, Just how did you get this job?
Snappy: I’m on a scheme
Sally: A scheme?
Snappy: Yup I aint allowed to claim jobseekers no more, on account of me being able to work its just peoples discrimination that stops me. It was this or the milk round but ... (sadly and with a loud sigh) I aint no milkman material.
Sally: But with the milk round you get the float!
Snappy: Can’t drive me no float
Sally: No licence?
Snappy: Aint got no hands can’t steer the wheel, aint got no legs can reach the pedals.
Sally stands blinking slowly with a dumfounded look on her face unable to say anything
Narrator: And so another day ends in Happy Green Forest, take care you.
Sally: This is so stupid …
Snappy is stood next to a large tree with a door in its trunk. There is a red mail box, with Sally Squirrel painted on it in Yellow childish letters, nailed to the tree.
A face appears in the doors glass and looks out inquisitively.
The door opens slowly, and Sally Squirrel wearing a white dressing gown and a towel ontop of her head like a turban peers round it at the Turtle in the post office uniform.
Sally (in a naturally squeaky happy voice) : Whatcha doin’?
Snappy (in a low, dull, slow voice) : Got some mail for ya’
Sally opens the door fully.
Sally(excited) : Yay! I love getting mail! Is it a postcard from my great uncle Vern?
Snappy: I don’t know I’m not allowed to read the mail, s’more than my jobs worth luv
Sally: Is it a letter from my Aunt Marge?
Snappy: S’in a brown envelope … s’probably a bill
Sally (dejected) : Oh can I have it then?
Snappy: Sure can, S’in the bag
Snappy gestures with his head to the heavy bags loaded onto his shell
Sally: I have to get my own mail out of the sack?
Snappy: Yup
Sally: ok … aaaand can I ask why?
Snappy: Sure can
Sally and Snappy stand looking at each other for a long drawn out moment
Sally (annoyed and through gritted teeth) : Why do I have to get my own mail out of your sacks? The mail you are meant to deliver
Snappy: I aint got no hands.
Sally: What?
Snappy: I aint got any hands, can’t pick things up when you aint got no hands.
Snappy waves his flippers at the clearly confused Squirrel.
Sally (slowly): I see so, why didn’t you ring the bell instead of just standing outside until I saw you?
Snappy: Can’t ring the bell
Sally: Because you haven’t got any hands?
Snappy: Nope, I aint got no legs either, can’t stand up to reach it
Snappy turns to waggle his even smaller flippers at her
Sally: So you just walk house to house and wait for the folks of Happy Green Forest to come and get their own mail?
Snappy: S’more of a crawl or maybe a shuffle, but yeah that’s pretty much the long and short of it. I go into the depot, they load me up and off I plod.
Sally: This is ridiculous, Just how did you get this job?
Snappy: I’m on a scheme
Sally: A scheme?
Snappy: Yup I aint allowed to claim jobseekers no more, on account of me being able to work its just peoples discrimination that stops me. It was this or the milk round but ... (sadly and with a loud sigh) I aint no milkman material.
Sally: But with the milk round you get the float!
Snappy: Can’t drive me no float
Sally: No licence?
Snappy: Aint got no hands can’t steer the wheel, aint got no legs can reach the pedals.
Sally stands blinking slowly with a dumfounded look on her face unable to say anything
Narrator: And so another day ends in Happy Green Forest, take care you.
Sally: This is so stupid …
Sunday, 28 September 2008
Searching
Search high, search low
Searching won’t find it
Some things you seek, but you can’t find
It comes out of nowhere, it finds you
It has a strength; a strength that is hard to describe
Don’t look for one of the things you can’t find
As two stars collide they form a bond
A bond that is stronger than anyone can imagine
That bond is ours, that bond came without searching
Friendship is the one thing you can’t seek
The feeling of joy I get when I hear your voice
The knowing that I have a confidante
Someone with whom I can share my joy
With whom I can share my sadness
Someone that can’t be replaced
Someone that I would never have found
.
I never looked, but I found
The stars were on my side
Now you are by my side and in my heart
I no longer search and I am happy because found.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
Pitch for a childrens tv show
Happy Green Forest is a magical place , where all the animals live in harmony every day is special and everybody has a song in their heart.
Narrator: Today is a special day in Happy Green Forest and look! Here come our two favourite bunnies to tell us why ….
Two rabbits, one white and wearing a purple dress the other Grey and wearing a tweed suit come bounding over the hills. These are Carla Hopkins and Beuford Bunny the stars of the happy green forest show.
Carla: “The sky is green, and the grass is grey
Look out world its opposite day!”
Beuford: “I loooove opposite day!”
C: “Do you? Or are you being funny?”
B: “I’m not being funny, I love opposite day, it’s not boring or tedious or annoying or anything!”
C: “Really?”
B: “Yes honestly, its fun, fun, fun, fun, fun”
C: “I’m confused; you normally don’t like things like this”
B: “Well I love opposite day, I love telling all the animals in happy green forest how much I like them, Take Postman Snappy, I think it’s a brilliant idea having the slowest animal in the Forest deliver the mail ”
C: “I think you are being mean, opposite day is meant to be fun”
B: “Ah thank you, that’s the nastiest thing anyone has ever said to me”
C: “you’re welcome … wait, I mean it, you are being mean! … Opposite day is a fun day, Look I am wearing socks on my hands” (waves hands at Beuford)
B: “So hands are the opposite of feet? That makes perfect sense”
C: (fighting back tears) “Beuford Bunny you are a mean hearted old thing”
B: ”Carla Hopkins please don’t cry I love you bouncy happiness it always makes my day”
C: “Why do you have to spoil everything? Remember Pirate day?”
B: “Yarr”
C: “You made Mrs Hoot walk the plank, you know Owls can’t swim”
B: “She was a scurvy wench”
C: (sobbing) “You always take things too far!”
B: (mocking) “You always take things too far”
C: (serious) “It’s not copying day, you even spoil that, I hate you Beuford Bunny I HATE YOU”
Narrator: And so the sun sets on another day in Happy Green Forest, see you soon children and take care you.
Beuford: (mocking) Take care you!
Narrator: Today is a special day in Happy Green Forest and look! Here come our two favourite bunnies to tell us why ….
Two rabbits, one white and wearing a purple dress the other Grey and wearing a tweed suit come bounding over the hills. These are Carla Hopkins and Beuford Bunny the stars of the happy green forest show.
Carla: “The sky is green, and the grass is grey
Look out world its opposite day!”
Beuford: “I loooove opposite day!”
C: “Do you? Or are you being funny?”
B: “I’m not being funny, I love opposite day, it’s not boring or tedious or annoying or anything!”
C: “Really?”
B: “Yes honestly, its fun, fun, fun, fun, fun”
C: “I’m confused; you normally don’t like things like this”
B: “Well I love opposite day, I love telling all the animals in happy green forest how much I like them, Take Postman Snappy, I think it’s a brilliant idea having the slowest animal in the Forest deliver the mail ”
C: “I think you are being mean, opposite day is meant to be fun”
B: “Ah thank you, that’s the nastiest thing anyone has ever said to me”
C: “you’re welcome … wait, I mean it, you are being mean! … Opposite day is a fun day, Look I am wearing socks on my hands” (waves hands at Beuford)
B: “So hands are the opposite of feet? That makes perfect sense”
C: (fighting back tears) “Beuford Bunny you are a mean hearted old thing”
B: ”Carla Hopkins please don’t cry I love you bouncy happiness it always makes my day”
C: “Why do you have to spoil everything? Remember Pirate day?”
B: “Yarr”
C: “You made Mrs Hoot walk the plank, you know Owls can’t swim”
B: “She was a scurvy wench”
C: (sobbing) “You always take things too far!”
B: (mocking) “You always take things too far”
C: (serious) “It’s not copying day, you even spoil that, I hate you Beuford Bunny I HATE YOU”
Narrator: And so the sun sets on another day in Happy Green Forest, see you soon children and take care you.
Beuford: (mocking) Take care you!
Friday, 19 September 2008
Insomnia
I just can't sleep again.
The mush in my head is unforgiving.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
Why is everything magnified in the night?
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
All those words we said replay over.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
I roll over and look at him.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
Visions of him committing the ultimate betrayal.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
Far too many tears I have cried.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
He opens his eyes and smiles lovingly.
I am thinking too much.
I vow to sleep again.
My heart melts, I know he's mine.
I close my eyes tight.
The mush in my head is unforgiving.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
Why is everything magnified in the night?
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
All those words we said replay over.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
I roll over and look at him.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
Visions of him committing the ultimate betrayal.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
Far too many tears I have cried.
I am thinking too much.
I just can't sleep again.
He opens his eyes and smiles lovingly.
I am thinking too much.
I vow to sleep again.
My heart melts, I know he's mine.
I close my eyes tight.
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Short story 50 word limit
Haven’t slept in days
Haven’t shaved in weeks
Lips are dry and cracked through lack of fluid
Stomach aches from its need for food
Fingernails are bitten down to the quick
Can’t rest, they’re coming
I see them in the shadows
They're everywhere
When you see them you’ll know too
Haven’t shaved in weeks
Lips are dry and cracked through lack of fluid
Stomach aches from its need for food
Fingernails are bitten down to the quick
Can’t rest, they’re coming
I see them in the shadows
They're everywhere
When you see them you’ll know too
Thursday, 4 September 2008
The Worst/Best Super Hero EVER.
Behold! For it is I Antics Man!
With my faithful sidekick Vaguely Surreal Lad!
Together we fight crime and hunt evil, armed with my razor sharp wit and seemingly unending collection of non sequiturs and Vaguely Surreal Lads total lack of logic and reason.
We are almost unstoppable!
I say almost unstoppable, I have the attention span of a Gnat; do Gnats know they have short attention spans?
Or are they just content buzzing about all
“oooh look a field”
“ooooh look a field”
“ooooh look a field”
What is it about a Cows arse that is so attractive?
Goldfish are meant to have short memories as well but I think that’s a blessing really when you live in a tiny bowl and the only form of company is a plastic skull that blows bubbles, still at least you could do Hamlet.
Don’t be stupid it would never work, fish haven’t got hands they couldn’t hold the skull for the “Alas poor Yorick …” Bit.
So yeah anyway what was I saying?
Ummm as you can see Vaguely Surreal Lad doesn’t wear a mask to hide his identity he says its important people know who he is now, so he wears a disguise when he is going about his everyday business so as to not detract from his well known crime fighting alter ego.
Last week we caught the notorious crime baron Kevin “The Little Chef” Phillips, who had the disgusting plan of poisoning our great nations drivers with tiny portions of overpriced, over cooked foods.
On the way to his lair, why do villains always have lairs? And they are always mad, why just for once can’t we have a perfectly sane criminal who lives in a flat in central London, he wants to move out of the city but he feels the commute would be too much for him.
So yes fear us, for we will catch you eventually!
With my faithful sidekick Vaguely Surreal Lad!
Together we fight crime and hunt evil, armed with my razor sharp wit and seemingly unending collection of non sequiturs and Vaguely Surreal Lads total lack of logic and reason.
We are almost unstoppable!
I say almost unstoppable, I have the attention span of a Gnat; do Gnats know they have short attention spans?
Or are they just content buzzing about all
“oooh look a field”
“ooooh look a field”
“ooooh look a field”
What is it about a Cows arse that is so attractive?
Goldfish are meant to have short memories as well but I think that’s a blessing really when you live in a tiny bowl and the only form of company is a plastic skull that blows bubbles, still at least you could do Hamlet.
Don’t be stupid it would never work, fish haven’t got hands they couldn’t hold the skull for the “Alas poor Yorick …” Bit.
So yeah anyway what was I saying?
Ummm as you can see Vaguely Surreal Lad doesn’t wear a mask to hide his identity he says its important people know who he is now, so he wears a disguise when he is going about his everyday business so as to not detract from his well known crime fighting alter ego.
Last week we caught the notorious crime baron Kevin “The Little Chef” Phillips, who had the disgusting plan of poisoning our great nations drivers with tiny portions of overpriced, over cooked foods.
On the way to his lair, why do villains always have lairs? And they are always mad, why just for once can’t we have a perfectly sane criminal who lives in a flat in central London, he wants to move out of the city but he feels the commute would be too much for him.
So yes fear us, for we will catch you eventually!
Grow up
All my life I have been told to grow up, it was the ex wife’s favourite put down but I have had it from teachers, my parents and once from the kind lady at the job centre who didn’t like the idea of me looking for a job that was fun.
Maybe its time you grew up?
Why?
I like to have fun, I like to giggle at cartoons and comics I know all the words to the Spongebob Squarepants theme tune and I think its important that comic book films get all the little details right.
I can talk to children on their level about things they like not just down to them and treat them as inferior people just because they are young.
I don’t sit staring blank faced at the soaps and I don’t care how “your” football team did at the weekend or who is in the final of the X factor.
I like to read actual books not trashy magazines about celebrities and what they are wearing.
I can quote Voltaire yet you think knowing the starting line up for England’s football team twenty years before you were born is somehow important.
I know that dna is Deoxyribonucleic acid, you know that it features a lot on Jeremy Kyle so must be important. I also know how a lie detector works and why it can’t be used as such conclusive proof
I know that when I die, my heart will stop beating, my brain will stop sending and receiving messages, I will be buried and my body will rot in short I will cease to be, you chose to believe that you will die, leave your body and live in the clouds with a bearded man who has been about forever and made everything.
I believe in free speech, I’m against censorship in all its forms (why hasn’t anybody from the BBFC ever gone on a rampage and killed and raped and maimed?) You believe what you read in the sport.
The only limits on what I think and do are my imagination your limits are scuppered with things like “I can’t do that I’m 26 years old now”
Life is for living and age is irrelevant maybe its time you grew up and realised this?
Maybe its time you grew up?
Why?
I like to have fun, I like to giggle at cartoons and comics I know all the words to the Spongebob Squarepants theme tune and I think its important that comic book films get all the little details right.
I can talk to children on their level about things they like not just down to them and treat them as inferior people just because they are young.
I don’t sit staring blank faced at the soaps and I don’t care how “your” football team did at the weekend or who is in the final of the X factor.
I like to read actual books not trashy magazines about celebrities and what they are wearing.
I can quote Voltaire yet you think knowing the starting line up for England’s football team twenty years before you were born is somehow important.
I know that dna is Deoxyribonucleic acid, you know that it features a lot on Jeremy Kyle so must be important. I also know how a lie detector works and why it can’t be used as such conclusive proof
I know that when I die, my heart will stop beating, my brain will stop sending and receiving messages, I will be buried and my body will rot in short I will cease to be, you chose to believe that you will die, leave your body and live in the clouds with a bearded man who has been about forever and made everything.
I believe in free speech, I’m against censorship in all its forms (why hasn’t anybody from the BBFC ever gone on a rampage and killed and raped and maimed?) You believe what you read in the sport.
The only limits on what I think and do are my imagination your limits are scuppered with things like “I can’t do that I’m 26 years old now”
Life is for living and age is irrelevant maybe its time you grew up and realised this?
An Ending. A Beginning.
They sit in the bedroom after an argument, the air is thick with tension, they can’t look at each other. They both love each other, or at least they think so, so how could it have come to this- a showdown in their own three bed semi in the suburbs. Fifteen years of marriage, but is it just something they’re doing for the kids? Is it easier to stay together than to split? Is that what has got them to this point? He thinks he’s in love with a girl from work. That girl gets him, she’s smart and funny, she likes the same films, art, music as he does. He’s never shared cultural tastes with his wife, and that’s important to him- it wasn’t when they met, started going out, slipped into engagement, had the fairy tale wedding, when the first child came into the world, when the second came into the world. Or wasn’t it? At some point during all of that it became very apparent to him that it WAS important. But when?
He’d already had an affair several years prior to this, but in that case it had nothing to do with music, less to do with films, and exactly nothing to do with art. She was nothing more than an easy lay- someone who wanted him, and wanted nothing from him other than sex. He was working away from home alot, and his wife’s sex drive had diminished almost to nothing, but he was still a man, he still had needs, and she came along at precisely the right time. Or was it the wrong time. His wife had never found out about what had happened- it had only gone on for a few weeks before the guilt had started to eat him up. It was only when he began to lose his erection mid way through the sex that it occurred to him that the guilt was lurking in the back of his mind. His wife was a good women. Sure, they’d grown apart somewhat, but she’d always been faithful, she was an excellent mother, and kept an exceptionally tidy home, despite working herself. As wives go he’d found a good one, and despite how they’d got to this point, there was still a part of him that loved her. It was that last thought that was coursing through his mind on the last occasion he’d met up with her. She’d acted distraught when he’d broken the news that he was calling it off, but he knew she was seeing someone else anyway, so she’d soon get over it. Damn, how the hell did he end up risking his marriage- his LIFE- with such a slut. He meant nothing to her, nothing other than a handy fuck and free meals in nice restaurants.
So he finished it. He went home, he held his wife, she was glad of the attention, but was surprised by it nonetheless. The man she was married to went to work that morning, but the man she fell in love with came home that night. And that night they shared some of the most intimate moments of their marriage. Suddenly he was an attentive lover, where before he was looking for the means to an end. He paid attention to her, and in return she paid attention to him. She lost herself to the feeling, to the moment, in a way that she hadn’t done for years. And afterwards, when he went for a shower, she laid in bed and wept. Then she outright cried. She cried with relief.
Of course, it wasn’t a complete surprise to her. She knew he’d been seeing that slut. Despite what he thought, she had friends too. Friends that he didn’t know that dined in the same nice restaurants. She vaguely recalled once meeting her at his firm’s christmas party, she seemed nice enough- perhaps too flirty around him, but he was an attractive man. She knew though. She knew what was going on, and even if they hadn’t started their sordid little affair at that point, she knew it was going to happen sooner or later. She hoped to God that it didn’t. She hoped to God that he’d manage to stop himself, but it seemed that God had stopped listening to her, so what could she do but wait for it to happen, and deal with it at the time.
So it had happened. She didn’t say anything at the time, what would have been the point? They would have argued, they’d have fought, she would have driven him into her arms, and then all would be lost.
Of course, she blamed herself for it. If she had been a more attentive wife, instead of trying to be a perfect mother, perhaps his head would never have been turned. If she’d have offered all the she had, and more, this would never have happened. And so, on nights when was away on business, she would lay in bed and cry herself to sleep, huge sobs that left her without breath, fearful that he would not come home again, that he had finally found the resolve to leave her. But that day never came. After only several weeks of the uncertainty, he had come home, and the way he held her told her that she was safe once more.
But here they were again, in the very same situation they had been in before. Only this time she hadn’t seen it coming. Oh no, he’d been very good at keeping his thoughts and emotions in check. He wanted to think things through in his mind, he wanted to be sure that what he was doing was the right thing. He hadn’t embarked on an affair, not this time, he knew that he would only end up fucking it up again, and coming back through a misplaced sense of loyalty. He had gotten extremely close to her this time. She was younger, by some margin, but it didn’t matter, because age was irrelevant at his age. It was thoughts and experiences that were important to him now, and she had plenty of both. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure that she even loved him, but she was his muse of sorts. He knew they got on well, and it had cleared his eyes for him. He had been bogged down in a conventional marriage for too long now, and whether she wanted him or not, it was a good chance for him to escape.
But he was faced with a problem. He didn’t want to ruin the friendship he had with her. And so all of his calculations of the possible outcomes were based on assumptions. Despite everything, he at least had a secure life at the moment. He knew that his wife still loved him, she loved him dearly, as did his sons, his most proud achievements. And these were what had stopped him leaving sooner. In some respects he resented them, although he realised exactly how foolish that was. They had only been married for six months when she fell pregnant with the eldest, and the second had come four years later, fourteen and ten respectively, and they were dictating his life without them even realising. And yes, he did resent them. If they hadn’t come along, he would have been long gone, but he hung around because that’s what you’re supposed to do isn’t it? You’re supposed to stay together for the kids, no matter how loveless your marriage, because that’s what happens. The kids grow up happy and well adjusted, and you can be proud that you made them what they are. It doesn’t matter that inside you’re screaming.
But now, now it was different. The boys were getting older. They would surely understand about the concept of love, and how it’s not always straightforward. Sometimes people fall out of love. They would be upset, that was for certain- as far as he could tell, they had no suspicions, Mum and Dad were still happy enough. The thought of telling them was the one thing that was killing him. He knew his wife would be upset if he left, but when it came down to it, they didn’t really owe each other anything. He would pay his share towards the kids, they could sell the house and start afresh. But telling the boys wouldn’t be so easy. He was aware that what was in his mind had the potential to destroy his relationship with them, which, although not Hollywood perfect, was still pretty steady. He took them to the football every now and then, gave them their pocket money and helped with their homework when he could, but all of that could be irreparably damaged if they chose to see that he was about to betray and upset their mother, who they doted on. And that was what worried him most.
Of course, things weren’t right, she was starting to suspect that he was lusting after another woman again. It seemed that nothing she could do was enough to keep him. Well, if that was the case, then she was damn well not going to get an overhaul and become a Stepford wife just to keep him. She was sick of it, and she was starting to snap. She didn’t know what the hell he wanted from her. She cooked his dinner every day, she kept his house clean and tidy, making sure that all of his shirts were washed and ironed. She did everything for that bastard, and she was getting tired. What was the old saying, ‘You should be a goddess in the kitchen, and a slut in bedroom’, well, she’d tried, but she just wasn’t as into sex as he was. She enjoyed the intimacy, whereas he wanted things to be as kinky as he could get her to do. She liked making love with the light off because it accentuated the feeling, and made it more erotic, whereas he wanted the lights on so that he could see what porn moves he was pulling. She had never been interested in anal, but she had given it a go for him. She hated it, it hurt like hell and was pretty much the most degrading thing she’d ever done, and he KNEW that, but still he wanted it. She knew she didn’t have the best figure in the world- Christ, she’d borne two bloody children, how was she supposed to look like a supermodel? But still he insisted that she dress up in slutty underwear, which she only did for him, to keep him happy.
And it seemed that none of that was worth a damn to him.
And it seemed that nothing he thought was worth damn to her.
So he stood up, and without a word grabbed a suitcase. She sat there in silence while he stuffed his clothes into the case. He spoke only once before he left- to confirm that he was sorry for how things had turned out, and that he hoped she understood. He promised that he would call in the morning to speak to the children, turned, and left.
She sat on the bed, listening until she could no longer hear his car engine. She got up and walked into the boys bedrooms, tucked them in gently and kissed them both so very tenderly on their foreheads, and went back into her room. She put on her pyjamas, turned out the light, sank into her bed- a bed that seemed bigger tonight than it had ever been- and stared at the ceiling. There were no tears tonight.
They would come, she knew that.
But not tonight.
He’d already had an affair several years prior to this, but in that case it had nothing to do with music, less to do with films, and exactly nothing to do with art. She was nothing more than an easy lay- someone who wanted him, and wanted nothing from him other than sex. He was working away from home alot, and his wife’s sex drive had diminished almost to nothing, but he was still a man, he still had needs, and she came along at precisely the right time. Or was it the wrong time. His wife had never found out about what had happened- it had only gone on for a few weeks before the guilt had started to eat him up. It was only when he began to lose his erection mid way through the sex that it occurred to him that the guilt was lurking in the back of his mind. His wife was a good women. Sure, they’d grown apart somewhat, but she’d always been faithful, she was an excellent mother, and kept an exceptionally tidy home, despite working herself. As wives go he’d found a good one, and despite how they’d got to this point, there was still a part of him that loved her. It was that last thought that was coursing through his mind on the last occasion he’d met up with her. She’d acted distraught when he’d broken the news that he was calling it off, but he knew she was seeing someone else anyway, so she’d soon get over it. Damn, how the hell did he end up risking his marriage- his LIFE- with such a slut. He meant nothing to her, nothing other than a handy fuck and free meals in nice restaurants.
So he finished it. He went home, he held his wife, she was glad of the attention, but was surprised by it nonetheless. The man she was married to went to work that morning, but the man she fell in love with came home that night. And that night they shared some of the most intimate moments of their marriage. Suddenly he was an attentive lover, where before he was looking for the means to an end. He paid attention to her, and in return she paid attention to him. She lost herself to the feeling, to the moment, in a way that she hadn’t done for years. And afterwards, when he went for a shower, she laid in bed and wept. Then she outright cried. She cried with relief.
Of course, it wasn’t a complete surprise to her. She knew he’d been seeing that slut. Despite what he thought, she had friends too. Friends that he didn’t know that dined in the same nice restaurants. She vaguely recalled once meeting her at his firm’s christmas party, she seemed nice enough- perhaps too flirty around him, but he was an attractive man. She knew though. She knew what was going on, and even if they hadn’t started their sordid little affair at that point, she knew it was going to happen sooner or later. She hoped to God that it didn’t. She hoped to God that he’d manage to stop himself, but it seemed that God had stopped listening to her, so what could she do but wait for it to happen, and deal with it at the time.
So it had happened. She didn’t say anything at the time, what would have been the point? They would have argued, they’d have fought, she would have driven him into her arms, and then all would be lost.
Of course, she blamed herself for it. If she had been a more attentive wife, instead of trying to be a perfect mother, perhaps his head would never have been turned. If she’d have offered all the she had, and more, this would never have happened. And so, on nights when was away on business, she would lay in bed and cry herself to sleep, huge sobs that left her without breath, fearful that he would not come home again, that he had finally found the resolve to leave her. But that day never came. After only several weeks of the uncertainty, he had come home, and the way he held her told her that she was safe once more.
But here they were again, in the very same situation they had been in before. Only this time she hadn’t seen it coming. Oh no, he’d been very good at keeping his thoughts and emotions in check. He wanted to think things through in his mind, he wanted to be sure that what he was doing was the right thing. He hadn’t embarked on an affair, not this time, he knew that he would only end up fucking it up again, and coming back through a misplaced sense of loyalty. He had gotten extremely close to her this time. She was younger, by some margin, but it didn’t matter, because age was irrelevant at his age. It was thoughts and experiences that were important to him now, and she had plenty of both. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure that she even loved him, but she was his muse of sorts. He knew they got on well, and it had cleared his eyes for him. He had been bogged down in a conventional marriage for too long now, and whether she wanted him or not, it was a good chance for him to escape.
But he was faced with a problem. He didn’t want to ruin the friendship he had with her. And so all of his calculations of the possible outcomes were based on assumptions. Despite everything, he at least had a secure life at the moment. He knew that his wife still loved him, she loved him dearly, as did his sons, his most proud achievements. And these were what had stopped him leaving sooner. In some respects he resented them, although he realised exactly how foolish that was. They had only been married for six months when she fell pregnant with the eldest, and the second had come four years later, fourteen and ten respectively, and they were dictating his life without them even realising. And yes, he did resent them. If they hadn’t come along, he would have been long gone, but he hung around because that’s what you’re supposed to do isn’t it? You’re supposed to stay together for the kids, no matter how loveless your marriage, because that’s what happens. The kids grow up happy and well adjusted, and you can be proud that you made them what they are. It doesn’t matter that inside you’re screaming.
But now, now it was different. The boys were getting older. They would surely understand about the concept of love, and how it’s not always straightforward. Sometimes people fall out of love. They would be upset, that was for certain- as far as he could tell, they had no suspicions, Mum and Dad were still happy enough. The thought of telling them was the one thing that was killing him. He knew his wife would be upset if he left, but when it came down to it, they didn’t really owe each other anything. He would pay his share towards the kids, they could sell the house and start afresh. But telling the boys wouldn’t be so easy. He was aware that what was in his mind had the potential to destroy his relationship with them, which, although not Hollywood perfect, was still pretty steady. He took them to the football every now and then, gave them their pocket money and helped with their homework when he could, but all of that could be irreparably damaged if they chose to see that he was about to betray and upset their mother, who they doted on. And that was what worried him most.
Of course, things weren’t right, she was starting to suspect that he was lusting after another woman again. It seemed that nothing she could do was enough to keep him. Well, if that was the case, then she was damn well not going to get an overhaul and become a Stepford wife just to keep him. She was sick of it, and she was starting to snap. She didn’t know what the hell he wanted from her. She cooked his dinner every day, she kept his house clean and tidy, making sure that all of his shirts were washed and ironed. She did everything for that bastard, and she was getting tired. What was the old saying, ‘You should be a goddess in the kitchen, and a slut in bedroom’, well, she’d tried, but she just wasn’t as into sex as he was. She enjoyed the intimacy, whereas he wanted things to be as kinky as he could get her to do. She liked making love with the light off because it accentuated the feeling, and made it more erotic, whereas he wanted the lights on so that he could see what porn moves he was pulling. She had never been interested in anal, but she had given it a go for him. She hated it, it hurt like hell and was pretty much the most degrading thing she’d ever done, and he KNEW that, but still he wanted it. She knew she didn’t have the best figure in the world- Christ, she’d borne two bloody children, how was she supposed to look like a supermodel? But still he insisted that she dress up in slutty underwear, which she only did for him, to keep him happy.
And it seemed that none of that was worth a damn to him.
And it seemed that nothing he thought was worth damn to her.
So he stood up, and without a word grabbed a suitcase. She sat there in silence while he stuffed his clothes into the case. He spoke only once before he left- to confirm that he was sorry for how things had turned out, and that he hoped she understood. He promised that he would call in the morning to speak to the children, turned, and left.
She sat on the bed, listening until she could no longer hear his car engine. She got up and walked into the boys bedrooms, tucked them in gently and kissed them both so very tenderly on their foreheads, and went back into her room. She put on her pyjamas, turned out the light, sank into her bed- a bed that seemed bigger tonight than it had ever been- and stared at the ceiling. There were no tears tonight.
They would come, she knew that.
But not tonight.
At Night
As I sit here, at 3:50 am, I’m drawn to wondering what it is I like so much about the wee small hours.
I know that I should have been asleep three hours ago, but I don’t care. Common sense dictates that I should go to bed earlier, so that I can wake up earlier and enjoy more of my day. The problem with common sense, however, is that it isn’t always right. It just so happens that between two and five in the morning is my favourite time of the day.
I suppose it’s easy to see why. There’s no one to bother me, for a start, and for some reason, music always sounds better at night. It doesn’t matter what I’m listening to, I can guarantee that it will take on more meaning to me when I know that everyone else in the house is sleeping, and I know I’m the only here at this time, at this place, to enjoy it. Squarepusher, although somewhat overbearing during the day, at night becomes a thing of beauty.
At 3:50 am, it doesn’t matter whether you’ve paid your phone bill, or whether you have a looming deadline. None of these tasks can be completed, so there’s no sense in getting upset about them. The only thing you can do right now is kick back, drift away into another world, and let your mind wander in time with the music you’ve chosen as your soundtrack.
But do you know what the best part is? You don’t wake up when it’s dark and cold, wishing you could still be in bed, and dreading the journey to work. When you finally rise, it’s sunny and warm outside, and the world is vibrant and awake. There’s no morning depression for you, just an inner joy that today could be the best day of your life so far.
You get up, you see your family, you see your friends, you spend a delightful evening, surrounded by people you respect, admire, and perhaps love- for love is something that you get to spend more time contemplating in the middle of the night. And the best bit is that you’re doing it on your terms. You know that at some point around midnight, these people will drift away to their common sense sleeping patterns, but your night is only just beginning.
And you smile, knowing that once again you will be alone with your thoughts.
I know that I should have been asleep three hours ago, but I don’t care. Common sense dictates that I should go to bed earlier, so that I can wake up earlier and enjoy more of my day. The problem with common sense, however, is that it isn’t always right. It just so happens that between two and five in the morning is my favourite time of the day.
I suppose it’s easy to see why. There’s no one to bother me, for a start, and for some reason, music always sounds better at night. It doesn’t matter what I’m listening to, I can guarantee that it will take on more meaning to me when I know that everyone else in the house is sleeping, and I know I’m the only here at this time, at this place, to enjoy it. Squarepusher, although somewhat overbearing during the day, at night becomes a thing of beauty.
At 3:50 am, it doesn’t matter whether you’ve paid your phone bill, or whether you have a looming deadline. None of these tasks can be completed, so there’s no sense in getting upset about them. The only thing you can do right now is kick back, drift away into another world, and let your mind wander in time with the music you’ve chosen as your soundtrack.
But do you know what the best part is? You don’t wake up when it’s dark and cold, wishing you could still be in bed, and dreading the journey to work. When you finally rise, it’s sunny and warm outside, and the world is vibrant and awake. There’s no morning depression for you, just an inner joy that today could be the best day of your life so far.
You get up, you see your family, you see your friends, you spend a delightful evening, surrounded by people you respect, admire, and perhaps love- for love is something that you get to spend more time contemplating in the middle of the night. And the best bit is that you’re doing it on your terms. You know that at some point around midnight, these people will drift away to their common sense sleeping patterns, but your night is only just beginning.
And you smile, knowing that once again you will be alone with your thoughts.
Half Full/Half Empty
Half full, or half empty?
Does it really matter? Does it make the slightest bit of difference?
“Ooh, you just said the glass is half empty, that’s makes you a pessimist. I ALWAYS say the glass is half full, I always have. That makes me an optimist.”
Wonderful, you’re an optimist, you see the brighter side of things. You see refreshment where others see a resource dwindling. But does that make you a better human? Does that make you the second coming of whatever false deity you believe in? Will your life actually be any better, or simply more full of disappointment because you didn’t see the shitty way that you’re treated, until the last minute, because you were too fucking blind to take any fucking notice.
Will your life be any better than mine, where I’m hardened to the shit that the world throws at us? I understand that life isn’t all flowers and fluffy bunnies, I’m prepared for the shit storm that’s just over the horizon. I’m not going to drive myself mad wishing that everything would just be a little happier.
Well, because of that, I’ve trained myself to always see the glass as half full, despite being naturally pessimistic, and seeing the bad in everyone first.
Kind of pissed on your chips there didn’t I?
Does it really matter? Does it make the slightest bit of difference?
“Ooh, you just said the glass is half empty, that’s makes you a pessimist. I ALWAYS say the glass is half full, I always have. That makes me an optimist.”
Wonderful, you’re an optimist, you see the brighter side of things. You see refreshment where others see a resource dwindling. But does that make you a better human? Does that make you the second coming of whatever false deity you believe in? Will your life actually be any better, or simply more full of disappointment because you didn’t see the shitty way that you’re treated, until the last minute, because you were too fucking blind to take any fucking notice.
Will your life be any better than mine, where I’m hardened to the shit that the world throws at us? I understand that life isn’t all flowers and fluffy bunnies, I’m prepared for the shit storm that’s just over the horizon. I’m not going to drive myself mad wishing that everything would just be a little happier.
Well, because of that, I’ve trained myself to always see the glass as half full, despite being naturally pessimistic, and seeing the bad in everyone first.
Kind of pissed on your chips there didn’t I?
Thursday, 28 August 2008
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?'
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?'
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
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...
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.
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.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
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.
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.
Friday, 22 August 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, 21 August 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
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.
Monday, 18 August 2008
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.
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.
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