Wednesday, May 23, 2007

All is gone..........

Sometimes I feel tired. Really knackered, not because I’ve done anything particularly strenuous or stressful just because because. And on these days I have no thoughts. I mean I can walk (lethargically) and mumble “Hello”. I can even just about scrape together a bit of what is called work. But there are no thoughts, the lights are not on and the bulbs have been removed.

It’s a curious feeling. I can see things happening, but can make no judgement on what they mean. Often I’ll wander into shops and buy things like toothpaste, get home and realise that I can’t push my flat door open as it’s already over-packed with Aquafresh 3. I’ll be unable to follow the plot of an episode of Neighbours, I’ll get confused by celery.

But I can lie back and enjoy it, as the actor might say to the…stare at the ceiling, feel all these little start-thoughts being born, bursting within a thousandth of a second in a hostile, sand-stormed brain. Simply nothing there, just a small crack in the ceiling…then it’s gone.

Thursday, May 17, 2007


I’ve decided to become a tabloid entertainment reporter. That is the decision I have made. My finger is on the celebrity pulse more than anyone I know. I'm always hanging out with Hawkes and Thornton. I am so damn perfect for this job. So here’s my first column. I call it BLING BLING, cause the kids get it right?


The five members of pop sensation Girls Aloud have been arguing over a buoy located just off the Blackpool coast.

“I saw it first”, mentioned the dirty looking ginger one, “There it was bobbin on top of them little wave things. I wanted one straight away.”

Girls Aloud are not the only ones to have been seduced by the latest celebrity craze; Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes have a buoy just off Southsea and Carol Vorderman was seen cosying up to one in Poole harbour.


Posh Spice is most definitely thin my sources have been telling me. She’s not fat.

SPOTTED Kate Bush stroking a dead cat in Leicester Woolworths.

SPOTTED Michael Parkinson hitting a southerner with a stick in Halfords.

On a slightly different note. Here's something for all those fond of moaning about political correctneess:

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

"Fuck Off! I'll tell you when I've had a fucking 'nough when I've had a fucking 'nough..."

Bank Holiday and Weymouth: There’s can be only one outcome. A whole town wading through a fermented Saturday. Every person, all ages and circumstances, joined together as a community bladdered, and it’s only just gone six.

This is wasted Weymouth. We’re all at it, they’re all at it, and the dirty sun casts shadows through the windows of the fat grockles walking past.

“This is my table “, says Ted pointing to a sign on the table saying ‘Reserved for Ted'. “They reserve it for me…for the football. Love the's God's sport aint it? Some people reckon it's cricket, but I know, I can feel it. It's football I love....One hundred and twenty grand a week he gets paid…” Ted shakes his head, his bending yellow finger pointing accusingly at Sky Sports, “…for kicking a football around. I didn’t get that in my day”

“Did you used to play football?”

“Worked on the Shop-floor mate, all my life…never any good at football. ”

And then the voice of the short bloke lost amongst his bouncing, posturing mates. “He walked past and I fucking swear to you...I fucking...I fucking swear to you he called me a wanker. So I said ’Oy you wanker did you just call me a wanker?’…fucking wanker said nothing didn’t he…wanker…so I said ’Oy you wanker did you just call me a wanker?…and he said nothing didn’t he…so I said ’Next time you call me wanker say it to my fucking face you fucking wanker’…and he said nothing didn’t he?….fucking knew he would...fucking wanker.’

They all laugh at him. He’s the funny one.

Three women past forty…(is that old anymore?)…stride into the pub…not used to their consumption…not used to a bank holiday. “Oh nooooooo….not fucking football!”

“Let’s go…come on Claire…let’s go…’ate football..” Proper women, hating football. And off the three wobble, out the exit in a confused huddle, unintentionally splitting into three directions as they leave before ten seconds later realising they’ve unintentionally split into three directions. Their briefly confused faces subside and they turn back to meet each other at the pub entrance, before triumphantly re-entering the same pub.

"Who's playing Claire?"

“Fucking Smirnoff Ice innit Shirley.”