Monday, July 31, 2006


Bristol is not meeting any of its recycling targets, so has put into action a new rubbish collecting plan.

What’s the brown bin for?
That’s for left over food.

And the green one?
That’s for garden waste.

What’s that one for?
That’s for cardboard and only carboard, nothing but cardboard. Do no place anything in it it……except cardboard. If you’re not sure it’s cardboard take it to our new ‘Is it Cardboard? Office’ in the main council building. They can tell you if the piece of cardboard you’re holding is suitable to be recycled as cardboard. They may decide it’s not cardboardy enough, in which case you need to take a long hard look at what you are doing to the environment of Bristol, in fact the United Kingdom. The whole world could very well be completely fucked because of your lack of care in discerning cardboard from very thick, cardboardy paper.

What about the black bucket?
For recyclable goods that aren’t cardboard. You put cardboard in there and we will kill you. Not a euphemism , you will face death.

And the Black Bins?
That’s for rubbish. And will be collected every seven years. I don’t think I need to explain what will happen if we find you’ve been putting cardboard in there? You will of course have your penis ripped off by an evil west-country goat. This penis must be disposed off in the yellow penis bin. (Please do not put cardboard in this bin.)

Sunday, July 30, 2006


I had a day off this week to catch up on some stuff. I may have accidentally switched on the television mid-morning and it may have been on ITV. And who was on the television?(Who am I asking this question too?) It was Jeremy Kyle, the Trisha replacement, talk-show host, goat-loving (unsubstantiated, in fact made up) over-opinionated, person I’d most like to punch.
Everybody always used to laugh and look down on people on American Talk-shows. But, I think they should be laughing at us. Laughing at people who’s lives are so fucked up they’ve decided to embarrass themselves, by washing their shit-stained laundry on television.

The episode I saw, I mean glimpsed at, I mean barely noticed, featured a man who was unsure about whether the child he had been raising was his. Actually…I think this was on the Jerry Springer in the UK show, not Jeremy Kyle. But is accuracy really necessary in the world today? How faithful was the film Lord of the Rings : The Two Towers to the events that really occurred in Bristol all those hundreds of years ago?( Apparently these questions are rhetorical, although as I‘m going to make no attempt to answer them, they are also something called ‘irrelevant‘. ) Where was I? (Bollocks!)

Yeah, this bloke thought maybe this kid was not his, so on comes the mother. When people make entrances to these type of shows they always, by convention I guess, have to spew out a ranting monologue to the person who’s been slagging them off. I think there must be a rule that under no circumstances must they pre-prepare these before entering, as it could inadvertently make them appear like they once went to school. On they come stand by the person sitting down and start shouting “YOU JUST NEED TO SHUT UP!”, “YOU AIN’T ALL THAT!”, “YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS!”, “WHAT YOU DOING WITH THAT GOAT KYLE?”
In this instance a genuinely fantastic exchange takes place. The mother is pissed-off. Annoyed and hurt by this hurtful ( hurt and hurtful in the same sentence can it be done? (Just accept it) ) accusation.

“I’ve only slept with you. What makes you think that she’s not your child anyway?” she says arms waving around like only someone that ugly can. Good question I think. She’s backed him into a corner. He’s now going to have to make a case, and we the public will judge if it’s good enough. And if it’s not, he will surely be killed by a pack of hunting dogs, who will be extra-specially hungry as they don‘t get no fox action these days.

“You told me it might not be my baby” came the reply. Ah..oh dear…So…..ehhh…. Well he might be lying because he’s on television? The outrage on the girl’s face certainly betrays the fact that she does not agree with his recollection of what she said. It’s still game-on. And then the girl, who I can’t remember the name of, but for the purposes of this story we’ll call her ’fucking stupid’ comes up with her argument to this supposed recollection. She delivers it in a tone and manner which displays such disgust at what the bloke, let’s call him ‘Fucking Stupid-To-Go-Anywhere-Near-Her’, has said that her whole body wobbles. With an accusing finger outstretched, she raises her ass from her chair, and shouts the immortal words.


I don’t know what this bloke’s problem is! How can he doubt it’s his baby if she only ever said he wasn’t the father once? Of course it’s his baby. If it hadn’t been, she would have told him there were doubts over the parentage the minimum three times, as required by British law.

Anyway I can’t remember what the DNA test said. It was definitely either not his child or his child. I’m off to get a pasty!

Friday, July 14, 2006

Noisy Streets

“I don’t fucking care anymore.” he shouted to noone in particular, dazed in a smart business suit in the midday sun. His zig-zag walk down the pavement of Gloucester Road in Bristol was slow and hampered by his substance intake. His head was pushed out in front of the rest of his body, so he had to stop himself from tipping over every ten seconds by stopping. “You don’t care about me, and I don’t care about you.” he continued.

Everyone carried on walking, lifting their heads up the minimum amount so they could observe him but not gain his attention. An old man with a bright orange coat and scruffy blue trousers walked past and offered “Just calm it down eh mate?”

“I am calm” he replied with massively exaggerated arm movements; movements of someone who wasn’t calm. Movements of someone who didn’t fucking care anymore, but might of just hours ago. Who might have cared more than anyone about something or someone, but was drowning under the glare of those that lived around him. People who he usually ignored, who usually ignored him, his neighbours. They watched him now, and he courted their attention.

An empty can of Carlsberg rested in the middle of the pavement. He quickened his approach and swung his right leg towards it. He stopped, everyone stopped; they watched the squashed green can, they watched it move through the air and bounce off the leg of a ten year old girl. The girl started crying, the mother comforted her, then walked towards the man with fire and long nails. The man pushed his hand into his face. “I’m sorry!” he shouted, but she continued her approach. He rested against the wall, the mother reached him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she shouted. He didn’t answer. She didn’t stop asking. He shook the more she shouted, scraping his head along the wall so it drew the sight of blood. She moved back, pulling her daughter who slipped to the pavement tears spilling, her hand covered her open mouth. The blood covered man pushed his hands hard against the wall, projecting himself backwards towards the road. The taxi was coming at pace as the man reached the curb. The taxi’s brakes were on full, the man continued backwards, his body convulsing as his panic took hold. The taxi skidded through and the man disappeared.

“I’m sorry." He sat on a traffic island, bouncing the back of his head against the blue circle with its white arrow.

The police came and slowly and somewhat ceremoniously walked the man to their car. As they did so a lowered Corsa drove by with its windows open, with two tiny, badly bearded 17 year olds sat in it and a song that looped the single word “Fuck” to a fast Garage drum-beat booming proudly from the stereo. The two police-man smiled, the bloodied taxi-dodger smiled, everyone smiled. A community finally, laughing at wankers in a purple car.

The police car drove off slowly, and as it moved from sight, the sound of busses and car-horns and motorbikes. Silence again.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006


What was it with this sun that’s suddenly been doing its heat thing over the last few days. Has it warmed for a reason. To burn the St George’s Crosses from the sides of all the cars in England.

We’re all surprised again about how late it stays light in the evening. As if it’s never been this long before. Are we right to be suspicious? Is it the government bringing in longer nights and a hotter sun. A not so prudent chancellor raising the temperature by 2 degrees in his weather budget, putting 10% on the evening illumination.

Then today nothing but rain. Nothing but people in soaked summer clothing screwing up their eyes, running through supermarket car-parks with trolleys full of salads and ice-cream.

“It’s good for the garden” they nod, and close the door.