Saturday, 7 November 2015

40 SHOPPING DAYS & 40 SHOPPING NIGHTS (A little ditty for artificial inseminators everywhere)

The turkeys are too fat to shag
The turkeys are too fat to shag
The pimp with the pipette has stifled his gag

The children are halting, half pelican crossing
panting and texting and short term of breath
The vermin are fleeing, cubs stranded and bleeding
the chubbiest hounds full of wheezing and death

The turkeys are too fat to shag
The turkeys are too fat to shag
The zero hours worker is waving his flag

The car-parking bay widths can’t cope with the axles
the shoppers are bag-less and laden with crap
The bins overflow with roundworm and foxes
unnecessary boxes and unwanted wrap

The turkeys are too fat to shag
The turkeys are too fat to shag
A quick squeeze of semen should soften the scrag

The verges are drowning in ‘one for the roads’  as
the butchers scrape marble with bloodied old knives
the jingles from adverts turn whistles to screeches
as hungry plump husbands tell brow-beaten wives

The turkeys are too fat to shag
The turkeys are too fat to shag
Job done. Shelves stocked. Money in the bag.

Wednesday, 4 November 2015


After their rather lengthy meeting in the pub, lifelong friends Thomas, Richard and Henry decided that it was a no-brainer.
Their collective shopping bills were astronomical, they were all in the rudest of health, and the allotment fees were less than forty pounds a year.
Tom signed the agreement on behalf of them all, and a plan was made to visit 'the rods' the following Thursday.

It was Tom that piped-up first.
"Harry. We agreed that we would share the cost and share the bounty.
I don't have a car. Bio-fuel is of no benefit to me".

Henry countered.
"And I don't very much care for parsnips! Despite your good wife saying they're her favourites!
Dick? Can you arbitrate on this one?"

Richard remained silent.
He pursed his lips, raised one eyebrow, and then exhaled an exasperated plume of frosty breath.

"You still want wildflowers don't you Dick?"

Richard nodded.

"We won't reduce our bills by growing wildflowers!" Henry cried.

"And neither will I by growing rapeseed Hazza!" Spluttered Thomas.

Richard shrugged his shoulders and slowly walked back to the lean-to shed.

It was here that he devised the plan to kill both Henry and Thomas, and bury them under a sea of poppies, cornflowers and dog violets.

Tuesday, 3 November 2015


Cecile didn't understand social-media.
And why should she?
If any of the other birds had anything to say, they didn't tweet; they gobbled.
All day.
They all knew that one day, if the sky didn't fall in, they would all be taken to 'The Wild'.
And there they would cluck, putt, purr and yelp.
But until then, they would just gobble.
All day.

Cecile couldn't understand why her mother was so famous?
She didn't know her very well, but her photo had reached the far corners of the earth!
Headless, footless and with a Wild tan to-die-for, the image of her and her big game hunter became an internet sensation.
The people from the Wild asked the hunter where she came across my mother?
They asked the hunter if she'd had to put her hand up her mother's bottom?
And if her inside bits were edible?
They asked her what they should bathe her mother in? (Fame has its luxuries after all).
They Liked the photo, they Shared the photo, they Favourited the photo and they Tweeted incessantly.

A little bit like Cecile & the other birds did, the last time they saw their mothers.

Cecile knew they would be taken to The Wild soon.
The sounds from the box on the wall had changed; the grain they were fed was plump and forthcoming.
The weapon that the hunter in the photo brandished with a smile, began to appear everywhere, especially near the door that led to The Wild.
The people with the phones that shared the photo wore hats.
Red ones, with bobbles.
All day.

As Cecile followed her chubby little friends, to the door that would make her 'Queen of the Jungle', she remembered the last thing her mother had told her
"Do not try to fight a lion, if you are not one yourself".
(African Proverb)

Tuesday, 19 May 2015


Day 7:
It wasn't the crippling constipation in the end.
I wonder, when people say they're 'shitting bricks', if they really know how it feels to shit a brick?

And it wasn't the dry mouth or the sweating; nor the confusion, the restlessness, the drowsiness or lack of libido.

It wasn't the feeling of vulnerability or the inability to leave the house.

It wasn't the fact that I couldn't be arsed doing anything.
And it wasn't even the hallucinations and the voices.
(I quite liked them).

It was the permanent ear-worm, during daylight hours, AND during sleep.
Lurking in my mind.
Apparent in my humming and in my whistle.
The soundtrack to my dreams.

At first it was 'Mistletoe and Wine'.
Then came 'Merry Xmas Everybody'.
Over and over.
Like a shitty Christmas jukebox stuck on repeat.
A Now That's What I Call Xmas CD on shuffle.
A commercial radio station in November, with a suicidally depressed DJ, working out his pension.

When I joined the Parade of the Wooden Soldiers on Phil Spector's 'A Christmas Gift For You', I knew it was time to ditch the smack.
My head felt like it was about to implode.
I was marching to the beat of a thousand existential crises.

I hate the Yuletide period with a passion anyway; I make no secret of it.
I'm the Grinch of Generation X.

But this was enough to make even the most sentimental of supermarket managers kick over his pallet of Quality Street tins.

I've put the remaining morphine in the fridge for now.

I know it's there if I ever need to hasten 'the End'.
It's incredibly effective at suppressing physical pain.
But I'm not ready to go yet.
Not if it means holding hands with Cliff and Noddy Holder.
I'd rather live in misery and discomfort.

Where's that bleach?

Tuesday, 12 May 2015


DAY 5:


Severely constipated and very angry.
(Unsure if the two are related?)

I've been pain-free for three of the last four days.
(If you discount the unripe watermelon in my bowels).

OCD at an all-time high.
Currently dusting the cobwebs in my garage.

Friday, 8 May 2015


I have been prescribed morphine, an opiate derived from the opium-poppy.
Over the past few years, I have been passed from pillar to post, consultant to GP to specialist, clinic to operating theatre, and back again.
My MRI's show at least six prolapsed discs bulging against my nerve system.
Everyone agrees I need surgery, but no-one has created that opportunity yet.
Whilst I wait for the new Tory Administration to ring-fence NHS spending, and formalise budgets, I have been given smack to take away my pain.

DAY 1:
On the advice of my GP, I take a small teaspoonful of oral morphine. It's a fairly insignificant amount, compared with the bulk quantities of distalgesia and neuropathic pills that I imbibe on a daily basis.
Initially, I get a slight headache, although this could be due to the copious amounts of coffee I had this morning, fueling my desire to become a 'Trainspotter'.
I seem to be talking a lot, although I'm usually quite loquacious; but apart from an obvious thirst, nothing really happens.

Until about half-an-hour has elapsed.

The light-headedness I feel is akin to that first sip (or gulp) of wedding champagne, on a warm summer's day. The nice bit, before the tiredness and uncomfortable shoes start to dictate proceedings.
It's lovely!
I'm not one for getting drunk. I like the first bit. But similarly to most people, I struggle to maintain that level of tipsiness.
I'm constantly searching for a 'session beer', lower in alcohol than the stuff you find on pallets in Tesco.
And as I get older and "lurch unsteadily to the Right" (Tim Clare) I find myself slowing down for horses, keeping a safe distance, picking up other people's rubbish, and trying to keep the warm feeling of premature drunkeness afloat, rather than drowning in complete & utter pissed twat.
This is where I'm happily at, after one hour of morphine.
The pain has all but gone.

Incidentally; if you'd like to learn more about the ageing process, and the political swingometers of the greying-pubed, early-middle-aged gent, go & see Patrick Lappin's show 'Chasing Norman Tebbit', currently showing at the Brighton Fringe.

After more than an hour, my head is less tipsy, and a lot more furry, blurry and misty around the edges.
It's a bit like being on mushrooms.
I find myself talking constantly, mainly to myself, but pretending I'm talking to the dog.
I talk to every dog-walker I encounter, even the ones I normally try to avoid.
I smile a lot.
This is really nice.
The pain has been completely eradicated.

After a couple of hours I begin to feel a bit detached.
A bit fucked if I'm honest.
It feels like the MDMA 'plateau', after the initial rush has subsided.
I feel compos mentis, but I'm inadequate in what I try to do.
I fumble a lot.
I could quite happily lie in the bath forever.
I find myself literally laughing out loud.

I run around the house totally naked, and free of any inhibitions.
I smoke pot, because I feel the need for a leveller.
I think about dying my hair, but slump in front of the telly.
I watch a programme on aerial archaeology.

When I wake-up, I have a banging headache.
My aches and pains are returning, and to be honest, I feel like shit.
I rush around tidying.
My OCD is back to a high state of alert.
And my back feels worse than its ever done.

I think about having another hit, but decide that it's probably time to cook the wife's tea.

Maybe tomorrow................