EVERYDAY REFLECTIONS

Lies

2009-02-14T01:36:00.000Z

‘So that’s the story of how Lynn Bartholomew became the first woman to win Wimbledon with an underhand serve,’ I said when I’d finished, and I smiled with all the conviction of a second-hand car salesman trying to look angelic.

She pushed the dinky gold-rimmed spectacles that cost, don’t-tell-your-dad, back up her nose. Her nose is not yet formed enough to hold them in place so it’s like watching one of those mechanical statues that lift their hats up and down on a timed cycle. She had returned to watching THE expert storyteller, Spongebob Squarepants.

Charming, I thought. But, I knew the little men running around inside her head would be pressing buttons, making calculations, scouring through manuals, and sooner or later, they’d admit defeat and she’d ask some questions.

‘That Patrick is stupid,’ I said in-between crossword clues.

She didn’t even flinch, she just pushed the spectacles up.

‘Your Mum’s lying you know,’ I said to get her attention at another mental pause doing the crossword.

She turned around to give me a dirty look.

‘Those spectacles don’t make you look more intelligent,’ I said.

I got another dirty look as she left the room.

The back door banged just as I turned the telly over. I waited a couple of minutes then I got up to close the back door. She just slams it and never lifts the handle back up to close it proper.

Later that night in bed, the Mrs and me were reading our books when something she had read made her think, and she whalloped me over the back of the head with the book.

‘You – stop telling the wean lies,’ she said.

‘What,’ I said with an innocent tone, and chuckled inside.

I knew the wean would ask questions eventually, she always does.

Freeloader

2009-02-14T01:28:00.000Z

‘Have you brushed your teeth?’ I asked her.

All I got for an answer was a big grin with clenched teeth. She then returned to the homework she had been pretending to do for a half hour.

After a while she said, with her puzzled, but, I am trying to be intelligent pushing my spectacles up look, ‘Dad, what does freeloader mean?’

Now, picture yourself at work, or in the pub, and someone asked you the same question; you would be perfectly entitled to counter-ask why they asked such a subjective question.

Ha, the thing is, I’m too experienced at this Father hood stuff to be so naive, and I know, if she asks a question, any question, the last thing I want to know is why she asked it.

Questioning questions is a poisoned chalice; believe you me … I know, and I've got the T-shirt.

‘Why don’t you ask your brother? He knows,’ I said.

I did not tell any lies, he does know, in fact the skinny git is freeloading aficionado. If we had bunk beds, he would be the one sleeping on the bottom bed. He is so languid, that climbing the ladders would be too much like effort. Mind you, his Mother would lift him up, so maybe he would sleep on the top bunk.

I’m convinced he is the unfortunate result of an administrative error, and we brought home the wrong baby from the maternity hospital. There is no way anyone - without winning the lottery - can exude such a picture of happiness, and, and, to be as lazy as he is, there is no way on earth can he come from any genes belonging to me!

Her Mother returned from where ever she had been, and I was excused from any involvement in further conversations. I just slinked back into the shadows, and watched the football.

Toast

2009-02-14T01:25:00.000Z

‘What you at?’ I said. I was in her bedroom putting clean clothes in her drawers and to retrieve the dinner plate and empty glass she took up to her room earlier.

She put the handset down and switched the Play-station off. ‘Nothing,’ she said while looking out one of her colouring book and pencils.

I knew what she was doing; I know the signs and the tone. She won't make eye contact, she just deals with things, and she does it her own way.

I’d invaded that space, her private escape world, and I’d burst the protective bubble and brought her out of the dream place she escapes to and copes.

I sat on the bed for a minute or so, and watched as she coloured in. Not once did she go out side the lines, and the colours were so light I could barely make them out. She does it with such deft delicacy and patience way beyond her years.

My baby had grown up so much in the past two years.

Her Mother had cancer, and passed away. In the end, it was a relief, she was suffering too much and it was for the best

Although I didn’t ignore her, I did give ninety percent of my time to her Mother. No, not my time but, certainly my love and my effort.

Anything I had to give was given to make sure her Mother was comfortable and happy in what was as far as she was concerned, the last season of happiness she would have.

So, through no fault of her own at the age of nine, she had to spend so much time alone with nothing but colouring in books and her games for company.

She was an angel then, and still is, my special angel now.

Not once did she complain when I said she couldn’t have friends around. She never cried when I shouted at her for making a mess when all the time, there was no mess. Without her I can’t say with any kind of honesty I wouldn’t have ended it all myself, I’m sure I’d have gave up long ago.

I don’t know how she did it, but I’ll always be thankful she did.

I stood up. ‘D’you want me to go?’ I said and ruffled her hair.

‘Dad!’ she said annoyed, and buried her head further into the book.

I left her and her thoughts alone and returned to finish ironing school clothes.

Later that night, we were in the lounge, she had returned to the real world, our world. A world where we can steel a laugh without feeling guilty. A world where we don’t care if other people will think we are being heartless and insensitive if we smile.

She sat watching the telly and ate toast before bedtime. I read the paper, and for the first time since the funeral, some seven months before, she kissed me goodnight before she went to bed.

Comfy

2009-02-14T01:21:00.000Z

‘Y’know Bill, I reckon fish’n’chips is what makes life worth living,’ said Wilma as she unravelled the large paper package in front of her.

She then took her jacket off, and the two of them sat at the big wooden table Bill made the first year they got married, some forty years earlier.

Bill took his fish’n’chips from the newspaper wrapper, and placed them on his plate. ‘Aye, I reckon you’re right love,’ he said as he shook some salt then vinegar over his Friday night tea. ‘Aint much beats Harry’s fish’n’chips.’

They followed a ritual almost religiously for the last twnty years. Every Friday since William Jnr had left home, they'd come home from work, and Wilma would fetch the fish’n’chips for tea around six o'clock.

When they were done, Wilma spoke first, ‘I’ll tidy up love, you make us a cuppa!’

She then proceeded to place the plates in the sink. She had hot water running into it, and bubbles spilled over the side like an avalanche as she wiped the table with a wet cloth.

Bill made two cups of tea after the kettle boiled, Wilma put the plates in the pantry, the cutlery in the drawer, and they then retreated to the lounge; just in time for the news. The gas fire was up high, and the room was comfortable. Bill was asleep before the news finished, and Wilma wasn’t far behind him.

#

William their son, who had moved to Australia grew concerned when he didn’t get an answer when he made his usual phone call at ten the next morning. Father is always up at this time, he thought.

Carbon monoxide the doctor told him over the phone two days later;

Junkies

2009-02-14T01:16:00.000Z

Everyone has their secrets in this place. Behind every set of twitching floral print curtains lies a world more surreal and fucked up than anything any of the junkies they tut at and treat like lepers, could ever dream up. If you used practical biology and dissected this shit hole, you’d find scenes and scenarios far worse than some fucked up youngster sticking a needle in a vein could imagine. Behind those facades things happen, things people pretend don’t happen, but they do.

Grown men dress up as women and get thrir kick by being fucked by their women using giant vibrators.

Little kids who by nothing more than birthright are battered, and abused by ignorant and sick parents because they were battered, and abused, and think its their right to carry on the family tradition.

Respectable housewife’s who deny they have a problem with the Mothers Helper they drink to cushion the blows reigning down from their angry bitter men, and still have the nerve to walk to the shops carrying their tartan bag with their nose in the air.

Women who miraculously walk into doors that strangely resemble their men’s fists with such regularity that its strange when you see them without a black eye caked in badly applied makeup.

At least us junkies are honest fucking scum. We came out of the fucking shadows, bared our souls, and opened the fucking can of worms.

They sit in their rent arreared castles guarded by gnomes and complain things have changed, well they have, something’s changed alright. People don’t like the way the wind blows anymore, they cant pretend things are normal. The smell of shit isn’t hidden behind closed doors anymore, the shit is in their face, and right up their snooty fucking nostrils.

They aren’t any different from us, they only think they are. Were not fucking animals, were only human just like them, there isn’t the six degrees of separation between us they like to think there is. Despite the fact they can shut their front door to hide their fucking depraved secrets, they are and always will be, just as much scum as we are.

Treacle

2009-02-14T01:14:00.000Z

What can I say – embarrassing isn’t close, bury your head in sand and hope the world isn’t looking is more apt. Jack and his obsession with toffee treacle was always going to – excuse the pun – get him into a sticky situation, and situations do not come any stickier than the one he found himself in on that balmy August day.

The evening had started off ok, his charm had worked a dream, and after only an outlay of two half pints of draught beer the lady agreed to accompany him home. 'To ahem, look at his vast stamp collection'

After a bout of mutual ear licking and more than a little giggling at photo albums and tall tales from when he was incarcerated in the local jail for bad deeds, Jack was brave enough to enquire if the ‘lady’ would by chance be interested in being covered in warm sticky toffee treacle. Surprisingly enough she thought it would be a marvellous idea.

After lighting the stove under the vast vat of toffee treacle Jack kept for such occasions, he returned to the living room and continued the courtship. To add to the suspense he asked the ‘lady’ to lie down on the floor while the sweet smelling goo became warm and malleable.

Sadly, some would say tragically, they both fell asleep, and the toffee treacle, left alone boiled over and engulfed them both rendering them unable to move.

The fire-crew that eventually came to their rescue still laugh and talk about the day - for the first and only time - they rescued the stranded lovers helpless in toffee treacle; the subject however is never mentioned in-front of Fire Chief Trustworthy who wasn’t too pleased to find his own wife lying sheepishly surrounded in toffee treacle. They divorced soon afterwards.

Umbrella

2009-02-14T01:12:00.000Z

Some people are driven by obsession so great that it can make a five foot four man think he’s actually six foot six square. Harry Slocum is such a man, and the obsession – he truly thinks he is a first rate hard-as-nails gangster.

At the time this tale was happened, Harry still stayed at home with Margret, his Mother, a sour faced spinster who was married to Ted for only three years before he killed himself by telling his life story to a moving train.

The poor, poor man couldn’t take her spiteful frigid ways, or worse, the cackling sound Baby Harry had perfected just to annoy his Father, so he just … well, he just.

One day Margaret ran out of bread despite it only being Tuesday; now normally a loaf lasted until Thursday, but Harry was feeding the evil pesky pigeons again. A deed that irked his Mother so much her lips bled because she bit them when she was angry.

Harry, you get down to the shop and get me another loaf, she shouted, and take your umbrella with you it’s going to rain cats’n’dogs soon. It wasn’t, but she liked to say such things; it was she felt, better than silence.

Harry was only in the shop two minutes when suddenly a thief came in demanding to be handed over the day’s takings. The shop-keeper couldn’t move, he was so startled, not because he was being robbed – he was used to that, but Harry in his shop on a Tuesday, buying bread, that was something to be startled about. The man thought he had slept for two days and no one had told him.

Harry, he was cheesed because the thief being impatient had jumped the queue, and as far as Harry knew; he was the only gangster in town – so he stabbed the thief with the deadly sharp bit at the end of the umbrella. The thief promptly died, Mr Patel, the shop-keeper he was so pleased he wasn’t getting robbed that week, he gave Harry two loafs for the price of one, the pigeons, they feasted like royalty that day, and Margret, when Harry told her what had happened, she bit her lip so hard she went into shock and also died right there on the kitchen floor.

The moral of the tale – even though he is only a short assed thirty six year old orphan, Harry is indeed a hard as nails gangster who has a soft spot for feeding pigeons, so be fore-warned, don’t get into scrapes with genuine lunatics.

Oh, and no matter how pleasant you may think it is, don’t bite your lips too hard or you’ll end up like Margret.

Holiday Blues

2008-02-02T09:19:00.000Z

‘Well Bill, this is it, a moment of truth,’ Ina said to her husband handing him a bottle of water.

Bill gagged when he looked at the size of the blue diamond shaped pill he held in his hand, ‘are you sure this is safe?’ he said to his wife as she fixed on some lipstick.

‘Oh for God sake Bill, stop being such a fuddy duddy, and take the bloody thing,’ Ina said, and snapped her handbag shut.

Bill popped the pill in his mouth, and with the help of the water, he managed to swallow. He wasn’t as convinced as Ina, he was still trying to figure it all out. How could a little blue pill make something work, some things just don’t seem right? He thought.

Dressed in their finest clobber, they then went down to the hotel dinning room for the evening supper and a few in the mood drinks.

Ina could hardly contain her excitement, it had been a few years since they had managed anything resembling sex, and the last few menopausal years she hadn’t missed it either. Now she felt a need to feel womanly again, and Bill, for all he was willing, other parts weren’t. Ina did all the research, and she bought them from a web site that came with some encouraging users comments.

The comments proved to be true, and Ina made a note to add her recommendation when they got home.

#

The next day at the pool Bill couldn’t get rid of the erection, he lay beside the pool sunbathing on his belly, and Ina, you would have had to slap her to remove the grin from her face.

Bill never uses sun cram, and unable to turn around like a spit roast, he felt his back burn. In a rare moment of quiet when no one was looking he made a dash for the pool, and immersed himself in the cooling water.

After a while, a little boy came ambling by with a ball under one arm, and eating an ice lolly with the other.

‘Hey mister,’ he said, squinting his face from the glare reflecting off the water, ‘what are you doing sitting in the shallow end?’

‘Go away,’ said Bill splashing himself with water, but the child wouldn’t move, he was a defiant little shit.

Ina, she was no help; she had fallen asleep with the grin still intact, and no doubt dreaming about later.

‘Throw the ball in,’ Bill said, thinking about how he could get out of the situation without any embarrassment.

The child thought about it still squinting, looking at Bill, and trying to figure if he meant what he said.

‘It’s a real football mister,’ he said.

‘Just throw me the fucking thing,’ Bill said, agitated enough that if he had a gun, he’d shoot the annoying little shit, and he’d shoot anyone who complained about it.

The boy threw the ball in. Bill looked around, no one was paying any attention, so he launched it as far as he could into the manicured, and totally false green shrubbery.

The boy, pouted, put his hands on his hips, and looked at Bill with disgust, ‘What an asshole you are. That was no accident, was it? He said, and went to retreat his real David Beckham football his Mother had spent four euros’ on, just to shut him up for five minutes; she was now drunk on the all inclusive gin, and could care who little Tom was annoying.

Bill made a hunched dash for the sun-bed hoping no one would notice his shorts were sticking out too far.

Later that night, Ina dined alone, Bill couldn't get off the loo, he had a dose of ‘the skitters’ brought on by sunstroke. He spent the rest of the holiday in bed lying on his belly bemoaning the blue pill. His back was blistered, and burned raw; Ina had to keep rubbing calamine lotion into it.

Ina, wasn’t in the least bit upset, she was determined that despite the circumstances, she was on holiday, and as far as she was concerned, she was going to enjoy herself. She didn’t rest on her laurels, or lament her husbands misfortune, she sought, and found solace with Juan. The aging Don, the hotel bar manager had what seemed like an endless supply of little blue pills. Her grin grew as he grew, the holiday went on, and Bill was none the wiser.

Ina, already has them booked into the same hotel for next year.

Our Kids

2008-01-30T21:34:00.000Z

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‘Have you brushed your teeth?’ I asked her.

All I got for an answer was a big grin with clenched teeth. She then returned to the homework she had been pretending to do for a half hour.

After a while she said, with her puzzled, but, I am trying to be intelligent pushing my spectacles up look, ‘Dad, what does freeloader mean?’

Now, picture yourself at work, or in the pub, and someone asked you the same question; you would be perfectly entitled to counter-ask why they asked such a subjective question.

Ha, the thing is, I’m too experienced at this Father hood stuff to be so naive, and I know, if she asks a question, any question, the last thing I want to know is why she asked it.

Questioning questions is a poisoned chalice; believe you me … I know, and I've got the T-shirt.

‘Why don’t you ask your brother? He knows,’ I said.

I did not tell any lies, he does know, in fact the skinny git is freeloading aficionado. If we had bunk beds, he would be the one sleeping on the bottom bed. He is so languid, that climbing the ladders would be too much like effort. Mind you, his Mother would lift him up, so maybe he would sleep on the top bunk.

I’m convinced he is the unfortunate result of an administrative error, and we brought home the wrong baby from the maternity hospital. There is no way anyone - without winning the lottery - can exude such a picture of happiness, and, and, to be as lazy as he is, there is no way on earth can he come from any genes belonging to me!

Her Mother returned from where ever she had been, and I was excused from any involvement in further conversations. I just slinked back into the shadows, and watched the football.

Stupid

2008-01-29T22:49:00.000Z

I used to love the song 'Sweet Home Alabama', now I cant stand to hear the first fuckin' chord. It reminds me of a night I'd rather forget. I heard it on the radio today and it all came back.

#

It was a Friday night, five years ago. I fancied a couple of beers, so I went to the local. It must have been, half past eight – nine o’clock, something like that. It wasn’t busy, a few in, not many. He was in, my brother Steve, standing playing the fruit machine. I bought two pints, and took them over to where he was. I knew instantly, the bastard was on something.

I could see it his eyes. Black fuckin' quartz that is how I would describe them, just black soul-less quartz.

He drank his beer as if it was water. He was playing pool, feeding the fruit machine, and the jukebox, all at the same fuckin' time. He was there, but at the same time, he wasn’t.

[This band, they ARE the berries! Fancy another drink big man? I’ll be back in a jiffy! Did you see the football today?]

Small talk, just trivial fuckin' nonsense, and he went on and on, non-fuckin'-stop. He wasn’t talking to me, was he fuck, he was just talking, and, it was doing my head in. He sounded like a fuckin' machine gun for Gods sake.

He was back on drugs despite the promise he made to me, and his Mother about being, a reformed man. I could tell: Smack, Ecstasy, coke or Speed, whatever, it didn’t matter, there all the same to me, bad fuckin' news.

Who the fuck did he think he was, mister invisible? I can assure you he wasn’t, and neither was the fact he was flying as high as a kite.

He was acting like a dog dying from thirst, constantly licking his fuckin' lips, searching for salt. Dehydration brought on by his kidneys screaming out for help, and drinking beer like a fuckin' fish probably made it worse. It is another sure fire sign of some cunt high on drugs. I told him to calm down, 'take your fuckin' time,' I said, but he just laughed. [What do you know big brother?]

#

He even started dancing around the pool table with Mary any-chance-‘o’-a-fag-Corigan, the scheme bike. She’s nothing but a fuckin' smelly whore, bloated and scabbied through drink. She’s been used, and abused by nearly every bastard who is desperate enough. The idiot couldn't give a fuckin' monkey’s, he was oblivious to any embarrassment surrounding him, he was in his own little fucked up world.

‘Mary’s alright,’ he said grinning.

‘Sweet Home Alabama’ started up. Him and Mary fuckin' danced away like two bulls in a china shop, and annoyed every-cunt in the place.

I just shook my head: what else could I do?

I left before some-cunt punched the idiots fuckin' face in. It seemed to me it was only a matter of time the way he was carrying on. It was eleven o’clock, something like that.

Hindsight it’s a wonderful thing, what if this, what if that?

Stupid, stupid, idiot, what a fuckin' idiot.

#

Next thing I knew, the phone rang in the middle of the night. It was the Police. [Your brother is in intensive care]. It was half past five in the morning, and twenty minutes later, I was at local hospital along with a hundred other fuckin' social misfits crying out for help, or methadone, or fuckin' both.

Drunks and junkies with slashed faces, and bottled heads covered in blood soaked household towels. Scum of the fuckin' earth terrifying law-abiding decent people.

Concerned parents clung to sick children wrapped up in cartoon blankets. Mothers and Fathers thinking, was it a good idea bringing their sick children to such a fucked up place?

It’s not night porters they need, it’s fuckin' armed security guards who are allowed to shoot the bastards instead of trying to calm them down.

#

I asked at the desk where he was.

‘Intensive care, room twelve,’ said the receptionist. She had a ‘I’ve-seen-it-all-before’ look. So would I if I had to deal with that fuckin' lot every fuckin' weekend.

The intensive care unit was whiter than white, a scary place, sterile, and deathly silent. It's like the fuckin' place people go before they go to the morgue, a half-way house, and somehow, it's how I’d imagine purgatory would be like.

In a dimly lit room he was lying in bed, covers neatly folded down to his waist, and there were fuckin' tubes protruding everywhere. Machines bleeped away, and nurses busied around doing this'n'that.

His brain was all but dead, cabbaged, and there was fuckin' no chance of a recovery. A sombre bleary-eyed doctor just shook his head when I asked what his chances were. Though to be truthful, I didn’t need to fuckin' ask. It was obvious enough.

The doctor sounded like he was reading from a medical journal when he told me about the multiple injuries, internal bleeding, and irreversible brain damage. Just about every bone in his body is broken, and some, he said, were no more than mush.

I knew what he meant. A decision had to be made.

Mother, she was too fuckin' old for that shite, I’d left her at home. The woman was in no fuckin' fit state to make a decision like that.

There never was a Father, not since he died when I was five, and Steve was only two.

No, it was all down to big fuckin' brother to make any decision, mister sensible, mister fuckin' reliable, me.

#

The stupid, stupid junkie bastard, what on earth was he fuckin' thinking about?

A bus, it was a big red fuckin' bus for God sake. Why would anyone run out in front of a fuckin' bus? I mean its not as if you could say, ‘hey, I didn’t see it,’ they’re not the most inconspicuous objects in the world; are they?

I’ll tell you one thing, there is fuck all in this world to prepare anyone to cope with situations like that. How could I tell the doctors to switch the fuckin' life support off?

I mean, after all that was said'n'done it was still my wee brother lying there. I’m not God, I’m just ordinary fuckin' Joe, the man on the street, a fuckin' layman.

#

I remember looking at him, Mr Selfish, and his fuckin' angelic face below the mask helping him breathe. Ha, fuckin' angelic. It was funny, because, his face must have been the only bit of him that wasn’t fuckin' bruised.

He always was a selfish bastard, he never thought about any-cunt bar, me-me-me, all his days. He would have stolen the sugar right out of your fuckin' tea; so he would.

Even right up until the last, the selfish bastard was having a laugh at us all, especially me, his big fuckin' brother. Oh, how he would have loved to see me squirm in that hospital, he was that spiteful.

#

‘Well wee man,’ I said to him, ‘this is your last fuckin' laugh, and I hope to fuck it’s been worth it.’

I resigned to facts. He was gone, and there was fuck all I, or anyone could do about it. I couldn’t at the time decide whether it was good riddance; a kind of relief that there would be no more heartbreaking. I just remember feeling fuckin' numb, without any tears or anger.

I walked out of that depressing room to where a nurse sat at a desk in the corridor doing paperwork. She smiled as best she could, letting me know it was the right thing to do. I smiled back thinking, don’t I fuckin' know it.

I signed what papers I had sign, and I left without looking back.

Happy Birthday

2008-01-29T22:30:00.000Z

So, I’m in one of those shops that sell cards and mugs and things. You know what I mean, card shops that only employ people with a low IQ count. Anyhow, I asked if they had a banner that said ‘Happy Birthday Boss’, and the assistant who clearly adds credibility to the fact we humans evolved from apes, drops her eyebrow (singular).

‘Have I got this correct?’ she says with said eyebrow still drooped, ‘you are looking for a banner that says ‘Happy Birthday Boss?’

‘Ahuh,’ I say opening my wallet surprised at her surprise.

The Neanderthal one goes to speak to a colleague and the two of them whisper and giggle. Then she comes back over and says ‘I’m sorry sir, but we don’t stock such items.’

People are queueing behind me, people who clearly use Eau De Urine, and who buy sevent-five pence condolence cards as a habit, are beggining to tutt loudly: adding to the masive discomfert I'm already feeling.

Smiling through gritted teeth, I say, ‘Cherie (the name on her company badge. So she doesn't forget) do you have one that says ‘Happy Birthday Wife or Darling, or Bitch, or Nemesis. Anything like that?’

To which, she puckers her lips, and I swear to God, I heard voices talking inside her head.

‘We have them for Daughter or Granny!’ she says proudly after she, or the wind up computer inside her head, worked out some kind of logic in her head.

#

Personaly, I think the Police were rather heavy handed. After all I only threatened to rip her head off, I didn't. Is it my fault she can’t deal with irate customers?

Fanny

2008-01-29T22:24:00.000Z

‘Nooooooo, stop it,’ she shouts, nearly screams in fact.

I’m unrepentant, laugh, and say - like a mechanical tin clown on a pier someone fed 2p into in a Hammer House of Horror film - ‘I am Velcro man, and you shall obey.’

‘You’re a raving loony,’ she answers when I let her go. She rubs her red-raw-face, and says, ‘I’ll have a bloody rash now.’

‘I suppose, some passionate kissing, followed by rigorous, sweaty, and prolonged sex is out of the question then,’ I say lifting the daily paper I've had to search under twenty-five cushions for.

‘Phaaa,’ she chortles.

It was noted she didn’t say ‘no,’ and I'm trying to remember if I have any razor blades left, or if she's blunted them all on her Desperate-Dan-legs. (blunted = bad word choice. I know, it even made me cringe.)

I take a seat, and begin to read the back page. Nothing sensational is happening. The lead story revolves around how farcical the SFA are. Hello, this might be many things, I’m thinking, but it isn’t news. I don’t recall anyone saying the SFA were anything other than farcical.

‘It’s a dirty business love,’ I say while folding the paper so I can begin to pretend I know some answers to the crossword. She’s busy watching some program, it's about women who buy realistic life-like looking dolls. One of them is buying an outfit, baby clothes, get this, from Harrods, and she’s pushing the doll around the shop in a pram. Worse still, her man is with her, and he’s paying a couple of hundred pound’s.

I’m trying my best to be sympathetic, and I'm honestly trying to understand what would drive a woman to have such a strange hobby. I hope they say at the end it is mental problems, and some bearded psychiatrist wearing a tweed second hand jacket explains, and explains in minute detail why people do such things, but I wont hold my breath.

‘What is?’ she says, annoyed, but at the same time, she's imprudently nosy enough that she has to know what I mean by, a dirty business.

‘What’s what,’ I say, then chew my favourite biro. I tried not to say it of course, but it just came out.

‘A dirty business,’ she says.

‘Working down a mine,’ I say, rather proud I kept a straight face.

‘Fanny,’ she says, and folds her arms under her boobs when she decides I’m obviously being childish.

‘You’re sitting there engrossed in a program about dolls, and I’m a fanny,’ I say.

‘Shush,’ she says.

So I make as much noise with the paper as I can, and contemplate making a cup of tea, just so I can make slurping noises; always a winner that one

Chips

2007-09-08T12:13:00.000+01:00

“I haven’t had chips like this since I was ten,” I said.

She kept eating, but her eyes said she was looking for an explanation.

My daughter, the nine year old, she never believes a word I say, and she thinks I make every thing up. I do with most things, so I guess its my own fault she suspicious. We were waiting for her mother who was in some shop or another when the sudden urge for a bag of chips came over us when we could smell them from the nearby chip-shop.

“Well,” I said, “when I was nine or ten, we, me and a few friends used to go to the swimming baths in town. We would have enough money to pay in, the bus fair there and back, and a bag of chips from the chippy next to the bus-stance when we came out,” I said telling her the story of my adventurous youth.

“You used to go on the bus by yourself when you were the same age as me?” she asked. Her eyes were aghast, as if getting on a bus on your own was a crime.

“Yes, every week. Father, old Jimmy your granddad, used to roll up my trunks in a pit towel and stuff it under my arm, and that was me ready for the bus.”

“A rolled up towel?” Her brow frowned, trying to picture a rolled up pit towel.

“Yes, a rolled up towel, like a rolled up newspaper. We didn’t have fancy back packs like you do,” I said, giving her a nudge.

“Aye right,” she dismissed, nudging me back, and then blowing another hot chip she wasn’t about to give up on, before eating it with her teeth, and not caring who was watching her as we sat on a bench.

“What are you laughing at?” she enquired when she caught me watching her.

“I was just thinking about when I used to blow chips like that after the baths,” I said and grinned. “Standing waiting on the bus home, eating big hot chips, trying to put a brave face on so nobody thought you were a wimp.”

“But if they are hot you’ve got to blow them!” she said indignant while blowing another chip.

I just smiled.

“They are good, a bit hot but good. Are yours good Dad?” she said with enthusiasm.

“Yes love they are indeed,” I said as her Mother approached.

“Mum, Dad said he used to go on the bus with his pals when he was my age,” she said, all in one breath running towards her Mother

“Don’t listen to him hen, he’s just a blether,” said her mother stealing one of my chips. Then blowing it like a mad woman because she’s realised they are too hot.

Me and the wean burst out laughing. Her Mother asked what we were laughing at as we make our way to the car, and she feigned a mood because she wasn't privy to our little joke.

Memories

2007-09-08T11:22:00.000+01:00

The grass needs cut, thought Bert aware he was now thinking like his ‘old man’. Long, limp, and dark green, the morning dew was wrestling the grass back to the ground. He cursed March; life woke up from winter sleep in March, and grass woke up earlier than most things. It still needs April’s heat to dry things out. Father taught him such facts when he was a boy.

He recalled the hours he spent sitting in the shed, sifting soil ready to take seeds, and him asking too many questions. Fathers face, reddened, and weather beaten. A fastidious man who as far as Bert was concerned knew everything. He was proud, set in his ways, and always had an answer ready.

Bert made a mental note to oil and grease the lawnmower. Preparation, and planning – two weeks of this sunshine would be long enough. Father would be pleased he was thinking ahead.

Looking out of the window, squinting at the low spring sunshine, he checked the sky for clouds and wind direction. Maybe it will hold, he thought. Reading the weather is another thing he learned at an early age from his Father, he didn’t know he was doing it half the time.

“Are you alright?” asked Margret pulling, and adjusting his tie.

“Stop bloody fussing woman,” he said loosening the tie in defiance.

His wife, smelling of her best perfume, the one she kept for special occasions, stood beside him looking out of the window, anxious.

The cars arrived one minute late. Bert, relieved the wait was over, took his mothers hand, and eased her slight frame up from the settee. She tightened his tie, and fixed his jacket, he didn’t argue.

“Ready?” he said.

Looking her age, ‘The old lady’, smiled at her son, and nodded. Bert, looking every bit like his Father, took her arm and led the way. Margret with all the other members of the family walked behind.

She brushed his shoulders with a damp hand, happy to take second place to his mother who needed him more.

The National Lottery

2007-09-08T10:57:00.000+01:00

For once we had, not only the living room, no, we had the honour of the whole house to choose from, a concept that seems quite alien recently. I used to ask – hey, where is everyone – now I couldn’t care, so I don’t bother, besides, if I did it might put an Indian curse on my wishful thinking.

To the untrained eye watching from a passing bus it would appear, I - We - run a B and B - apart from the fact our kids don’t pay of course – ha - that would be ridiculous – them pay for anything,? my god, the world would stop spinning.

Alone, We, the Mrs and me got comfy in the splendour of our living room, she sat on the couch, I sat in the big chair – even the ‘Brown’ décor seemed more annoying than usual. After a respectable time – four minutes to be precise - I asked her – darling - I said in my best romantic voice, do you mind if I get naked,?

She didn’t answer, which I took to mean, - no, you bloody cant. So being the alpha male of the house, I compromised, and took the button out and the zip down – a man’s bits have to breath you know, and gasses have to escape.

Dinner – or the Indian takeaway, devoured, and digesting nicely, any leftover chicken tikka has been stored in a foil wrapped dish in the fridge - for future use. Though why she doesn’t just cut out the ‘middle-man’, and simply throw it in the bin there and then is beyond me. Come Monday, the smell will be unbearable, and like a broken down record player, it’ll be – My goodness, we forgot to eat that chicken, I had better put it in the bin. Quite tedious really, but alas, it is a way of life – routine – routine – … routine.

Is there anything interesting on the TV tonight sweetheart? I asked, an open sarcastic tone reverberating in my voice – as I was opening a can of beer. Just making conversation - passing moments in the vacuum of married life, the silence killing me, as was Eamon Holmes’s Irish patter. A show to lead people into the bit where the lottery numbers are announced – why – what is the point?

Oi - fat-so - I shout - all people want is the bloody numbers for god sake.

Will I be at work on Monday – or am I to be a slave to the man for another week? That’s all they care about.

Get off the telly you moron.

I should write a letter to the BBC - I propose - to my self of course - saying it to any one else would be a waste of breath. Mrs on the couch, she didn’t bat an eyelid.

She is either Indignant – or ignorant – which is left open – I’ve still to decide – it isn’t easy or wise to pre-guess.

Sighing – and making as much slurping noises as I dared while picking bits of leftover Indian from my teeth didn’t have the usual affect. She didn’t bite – the fish weren’t feeding.

Ejaculating the bounty retrieved from the foray onto the carpet did receive a – Tut. It was something, a reaction.

Sorry – I said - grinning like Cheshire cat - picking bits of discarded chicken up.

Still she held onto the remote control, it was hers, the ‘holy grail’, and she wasn’t giving it up.

This is shite! – I said. Referring to Eamon, and his tedious quiz show he has the affront to take good money for fronting – an affront if you ask me.

Again, she, the-remote-is-mine, didn’t answer.

Fancy watching a blue movie, - I asked – in jest - knowing the answer to that question before she quickly said no – rather too loudly; I thought.

Well at least she is talking; I thought - again.

Where are you going? She said. When I put my shoes on. As if she cares!; I thought, tying my laces.

To the pub, - I said – walking out the door.

Surprise – surprise, - she said – sounding as if she was reciting the death march.

So here I am - in the pub - on my own - drinking beer - alone, and she is in the house - on her own - watching telly - by herself.

Makes me wonder why we crave the house without kids, and their dominating ways dictating every aspect of our life - at least we have a life when they are around. A preposterous thought.

Life Begins

2007-08-03T19:44:00.000+01:00

‘I’ll be down soon love.’

The wife wondering how long it takes a forty year old man to get ready for a party. It takes longer every time, if the truth be known. Forty today, woopy fucking doo. Why is it people want to celebrate becoming forty? Twenty, that’s something to celebrate, not bloody forty.

Life, it has been said, begins at forty. Who the fuck came up with that one? Someone who turned forty that’s who, obviously I know that much. Someone woke up one morning, realised they were getting old, and decided to make themselve feel better about it. Whomever it was declared that turning forty, instead of being just another fucking day, it would be from now on, the day your life begins.

Well I suppose they had a point, turning grey, being slightly impotent, wrinkly and over the hill with love handles that wont shift no matter what exercise is thrown at them, isn’t the best.

From the day of your fortieth birthday onwards, life will be an endless round of parties, hilarity and general good times. As fucking if.

Obviously this rule was made before having a mortgage was normal, or before having kids in your thirties days. Because my friend, if it was made up after such a fucking time then it was invented by someone with way too much money, and way too much time to spare.

I mean, look at yourself. Take a good honest look. Youthfulness left home a long while ago, and believe me, he aint coming back. No fucking wonder the biggest growing market today is plastic surgery, followed a close second by male grooming products. Anti-wrinkle creams would have to be miraculous for the bags under my eyes, look at them, they are now fucking fully fledged suitcases for crying out loud. As for the wrinkles, well they can’t possibly be passed of as laughter lines any more. The fucking laughter stopped a long time ago. Worry lines maybe, but laughter lines, somehow, I doubt it.

Why is it we can’t seem accept growing old gracefully? Are we afraid of something? Are we jealous of a generation below us, when we, the older states-people have had our day and in reality should be leaving the all night partying to people who can actually handle it?

Take tonight, I’ll have a few drinks, probably get a little more than merry, and it will take at least two days to recover from the hangover. A hangover I may add, that at one time I could swat to the side like a fly hovering over a salad, and continue with whatever party came along the next day. Now, sadly I’ll lie in bed complaining that there must have been something wrong with the potato salad. Self denial, it’s a powerful thing. Pretending to other people is normal, part of every day life, but when you start to actually believe your own lies, then you know its time to give up and admit defeat.

Defeat might be a tad too strong. You’re not really defeated, more like, you just need to admit that you need more time to recover, more time for the body to get back into a state that allows you to function without feeling sick or sore.

No, we think we can prolong a generation, stretch out hedonistic times, when all the time the only thing we should be stretching are waistlines. We should be content to sit back and enjoy longer rest periods.

Jogging! Need I say more? How degrading is it watching a forty year old, who took a twenty year abstention from exercise suddenly decide that a pair of ‘Nike’ trainers, a head band, silky shorts and a heart monitor can turn back a clock that has no intention of turning? Gyms throughout the land take money, good fucking money I may add, weekly from people who would be better off investing the same money in an allotment for fuck sake, or they could just as easily burn fifty pound cash every week. It equates to the same fucking outcome, money down the fucking drain. Casualty departments in hospitals are visited every day by men dressed like something from a catalogue sports page clutching their chests, and complaining about heart attacks caused by trying to run the equivalent of the London marathon. When what they should have been doing is sitting at home watching Sky Sports or the fucking Simpson’s with a can of beer and a packet of family size crisps at their side.

‘I’m coming love.’

I think she worries more about me being forty than I do.

I’d better get ready, she put a lot of effort into things. There is a buffet that could feed a third world country for a week, enough drink to fill a lake, and a new dress that she will never allow me to know the cost of, the lot, she really pushed the boat out this time. Perhaps she is afraid, after all, we are the same age, and if I’m getting on a bit then she is also.

She still looks great, but she’s more used to grooming products than me. Fuck it, I’ll just gracefully go grey. Distinguished looking, and happy.

I really need to do something with my weight though or I’ll have to buy a whole new bloody wardrobe for fuck sake. Cut out the midweek boozing, and do some walking. I vow to never become a beetroot jogger, no matter how fucking fat I get. I’d preffer to stick knitting needles in my eyes.

Right, are you ready to face the public?

Forty, its only fucking half time ... I hope. It’s nothing to worry about, though I doubt I’ll agree that it something I should be fucking celebrating.

Does my bum look big in these jeans?

Bob Marley

2007-06-27T08:10:00.000+01:00

*************************************************************
Its like sharing a house with Larry Grayson. The idiot is camper than a row of tents. Fifty years old and he thinks he’s still trendy, when all he is, is embarrassing. Gary’s coming around tonight, his latest shag bag and the idiot is making dinner. They met online at Gays’r’Us five month ago. Gays’r’us, fucking should be renamed sad old gits are us. Losers.

“Will you turn that racket down, puleeze?”

God he’s off on one again. Rolling his eyes, hands on hips, typical, bloody drama queen. He doesn’t like the fact that Silvia and Kieran in the flat above still have enough time left to enjoy life. They go clubbing every weekend, sometimes all weekend. Larry Grayson there, he goes to the his gay club once a month, or grab a ‘Granny’, or ‘Grandad’ in his case.

“Music, that’s no music, we know what music is. Don’t we Donny?”

I’m named after someone called Donny Osmond. Lover boys first crush. Apparently, the first person he wanked to while dreaming about him. I heard him tell Gary one night they were playing truth or dare.

‘By the way tube, lets have less of the we when you talk about tastes in music, and another thing, just in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a dog you fucking moron.’

What a fucking idiot, he thinks I actually care what he thinks, and, and, he actually believes I’m his friend. ‘Get this asshole, I can’t fucking stand you!’

"Whaaaats wrong sweety-pie, do you want a little Scooby-snack, is daddies cooking making you hungry? I hope Gary’s hungry, do you think he’ll like tender steak. Oh my god, what if he’s a vegetarian? I should have asked. Too late, I cant change it now. What do you think."

See what I mean! He’s fucking crackers. Loopy-lou. ‘Stick your ‘scooby snacks up your arse.’

He’d probably enjoy that, fucking poofter. Gary a vegetarian? I would imagine Gary eats beef every fucking night.

"Daddies going in the bath sweetheart. You behave. I wont be long."

"Take as long as you like. Fucking drown for all I care."

He’ll come out smelling like an accident at a perfume factory. He does it to hide his chronic wind problem. That’s why he bought me, he needed someone to blame for it, someone who couldn’t argue.

I’m away for a fucking sleep, its going to be a long fucking night listening to those two. All they talk about is curtains, clothes, Will Young and ornaments for fuck sake. They’ll get merry on the wine, pop a fucking Viagra each and dance to fucking poxy Abba. Then they’ll go to bed for a shag. Gary, he’ll go home, the drama queen will cry all night. Because he wants more commitment. The two clubbers up the stair come in at six in the morning, shag till fucking nine or ten, and in between all this I’m supposed to get a fucking kip. I’m fucking sick of it, I swear to god, I’m fucking sick to the back teeth. If that Gary asks me for a paw again tonight I’ll bite his fucking hand off, fucking smarmy git.

I can oly hope that one day I'll be Emancipated. Bob Marley, now thats my kina fucking music.

Apples

2007-06-14T17:58:00.000+01:00

Sundays were miserable, with nothing to do. There were no Play-stations, Game-Boys or Sky Television programmes when I was younger. Ten is a funny age to be a kid, old enough to wander about on your own, and still too young for parent’s not to worry if you do.

Kenny, my cousin was staying with us for a while on holiday. I remember the day like it was yesterday, one of those days when things just seem to happen, no plan, just random youthfulness.

It was dry when we set out, but it was overcast with clouds you could almost touch. We had been out wandering around for hours, the rain was a constant threat, and when we discovered we were hungry the rain wasn’t a threat any more, it was lashing down. We were soaked to the skin with no money and we were too far away from home, besides if we went home it would mean being kept in and we were enjoying ourselves despite the rain.

From the road we could see apple trees in the garden, they were teeming with fruit. We made our way around the back of the house via a slimy cobbled alley-way. Standing between us and our fruitful bounty was a wall, not an ordinary brick wall, one of those grey dry stone dykes with grass and moss growing from crevices. Built long ago and built to keep intruders like us out. It was a massive thing. Well it was when I was ten. Plenty of foot holes to make the climb easier and still we stood in silence and stared in awe at the prospect before us. Neither of us admitting or showing signs of fear as we dried our hand as best we could. We both started the climb and were soon straddling the top of the wall, surveying the house for signs of life. The lights were on but we couldn’t see any. Kenny went first, half way down he jumped off the wall hitting the ground with a thud. I slid on some moss coming down and lost my footing, scraping my knees and hands against the rough stone. They hurt like hell, but I didn’t make a sound. Kenny still gave that look, the one with eyes wide open and a finger pushed against lips, the universal shush.

Apples lay scattered over the lawn, we knew from experience that wasps ate apples on the ground, and we wanted fresh ones. Kenny managed to grab a low hanging branch, and two hours of rain gathered by the leaves was dumped on him instantly. I kept lookout, watching the back door, when I gave a nod he began to shake with minimum noise and the apples fell without too much fuss or disturbance. We both started laughing, not loud, more through nerves and a sense of achievement than anything else. We tucked our jumpers into our waistbands to use them as cargo holds.

The climb back up posed more of a challenge. The inside of the garden wall faced north and had a lot more moss than the outside. The climb out was more slippery and difficult than the climb in. We were too young to make an escape plan and our jumpers were full of apples. We managed through sheer determination. I got to the top first after a hunch up. Once again I was straddling the top of the wall, one hand trying to pull Kenny up, the other desperate to stop the liberated bounty falling out of my jumper.

Just as Kenny got to the top, the man from the house grabbed his shoe, silence was forgotten, we both screamed. He came from nowhere. What a fright we got.. I can’t remember how I got down but I did, adrenalin I suppose. Kenny followed as soon as his foot was free and we ran like the wind. The man made a token gesture, he came out of a side gate, and pretended he was chasing after us, shouting out and calling us names followed with the familiar.

‘I know who you are, I’ll be telling your fathers.’

We knew he didn’t, besides we had our food, and we felt good, like freedom fighters.

We found an old cow shed, in the dry we ate our bellies full and recalled our narrow escape, laughing having a good time. The rain had died away to a drizzle when we made our way home. At that age you just know when its time for home, and I knew it was already too late. Still, the scalding would be worth taking.

The scalding was severe, poor Mither was worried sick. Faither, he knew the score, still he went through the motions as he made our supper.

‘Where have you two been, ‘we were worried bloody sick?'

He was just glad we were alright. We ate our toast, drank our tea, and went to bed.

Scottish Terrier.

2007-06-14T12:18:00.000+01:00

Every weekend you'd have found us out walking in the hills. Spot, a slightly dubiously breed of Scottish terrier, and me, Jack Higgins. Not the actor, God no, just old humble me. Last weekend, I was breaking in my new walking boots, or to be more precise, they were breaking me in. Sixty-five bloody quid they cost from a trendy outdoor-type shop in the city.

They even have a small made up terrain of granite slabs so you can walk up and down looking at yourself in a big strategically placed mirror. Why any one would want to know how they are going to look as they roam about in the hills covered in muck beggar’s belief. Do they think they might perhaps by chance meet an unimportant member of the royal family? Even if they did, do you think the unimportant member of the royal family would care about what you look like? I don’t bloody think so some how. I went for the sturdiest boots I could afford, ones that will last me until my dying day.

‘No dear,’ I said to a pretty looking female assistant who had a white tooth smile, and a bum that resembled two boiled eggs in a bag. ‘I don’t want to walk up your pile of granite looking at my self in the big strategically placed mirror, but … hey, you feel free, if that’s what takes your fancy.’

‘That’ll be sixty-five pound.’ she replied rather abrupt.

I was shocked. After all, I was a paying customer and a bit of courtesy doesn’t go a miss. In my day, we were brought up believing civility costs nothing. It is a sad sign of the times I suppose. Young people nowadays have no respect for their elders. It was a pity, before that she was a garrulous wee thing. This one could yap the lugs of a donkey, I was thinking to myself. I could have admired that bum all day.

Where was I? Oh yes, last weekend, and our walk through the hills. A nice place, the Corrieshalloch Gorge, its south east of Ullapool. The gorge is over two hundred feet deep in places and it has a wee bridge designed by the same man who built the Forth Rail Bridge, Sir John Fowler (1817-98), he liked the place so much he bloody bought it. A wee bit of local trivia for you. I’m good at quizzes, my head is full of inconsequential nonsense.

After a while I was tired, so me’n’the dog stopped for a wee rest. I’m getting older you see, the arthritis plays up after a while and these wee breaks are more frequent than they used to be. I sat on a rock, rolled a fag and let the autumn sunshine warm my face.

Spot, he was acting his usual mischievous, chasing a Grouse he had disturbed. He was running around in circles like a headless chicken, leaping through the heather, popping his head up now and again to look for his prey, who had enough sense by the way, and had simply flown away to safety.

I’ll miss that wee dog, aye, he was good company. A bit on the thick side, mind you, but a good wee companion who kept me amused. The wee scamp never did do anything he was told, and I just knew the idiot was going to go flying into the gorge.

I shouted as loud as I could! ‘Spot! Stop ya wee eejit,’ but no, as bloody usual he knew best and just kept running. Yelp, my god you should have heard him. He had no chance, not with a one hundred foot drop leading to a rocky bottom. I left him where I found him, there was nothing I could do, he was splattered, and no bloody danger I was carrying him back to the car. I did retrieve the collar, well, it cost ten bloody pound. I went home for lunch, my favourite, Baxter’s broth.

I’ll get another dog, I don’t like walking on my own and there is no way I’m spending sixty-five bloody pound on a pair of walking boots so they can lie in the bottom of a bloody cupboard under the stairs. No, I’ll go to the dog pound at the weekend, and see if I can pick one with half a brain this time. A Collie? Their reasonably intelligent. Aye, I’ll see if I can pick up a Collie that some cruel so’n’so has got fed up with, and dumped it in the street.

Grease.

2007-06-10T18:23:00.000+01:00

No baby-sitter she said. We’ll have a nice cosy night in watching the telly she said. Why would I want to do that I replied. Now the daft bitch is in a huff. For what I have no idea. She wants ME to sit in the house on a Saturday night and she’s got a hard neck to go in a huff. She was told, I don’t do sitting in on a Saturday night. No fucking danger MRS, not me.

Saturday night telly or the pub … mmm … . Right first of all she’s sitting gushing, literarily gushing watching Grease, a film where people fucking sing and dance, and its over thirty years old for crying out loud. After that there’s a program trying to pick the next Travolta and Olivia whats’er’name. Well I could have done without the first ones never mind more of the soppy gits. On the other side we can watch as grown men make utter idiots of them self’s on national TV. Joseph, my god its depressing. Not quite as depressing as Fucking Casualty, I’ll give them that much but my fuck, its shite. On Sky, The wonder that is one hundred channels we have, Who Killed Mr Burns an old Simpsons.

The daft cow is trying her best, trying to engage me in conversation about how the grass is getting long and how it needs to be cut. TELL SOME ONE WHO GIVES A DAM MRS. Besides cutting the grass is her job not mine. I never wanted the garden in the first place.

Gordon Ramsey Wannabe

2007-05-31T18:46:00.000+01:00

The table was set and the gammon was roasting away in the oven. The new potatoes were prepared, lightly scrubbed ready to boil along with the vegetables. I couldn’t find a tin of pineapples, every other tin of fruit Tesco’s stock except a tin of fucking pineapples, and she was due home in three quarters of an fucking hour.

Don’t fucking panic, I told myself. There was plenty of time. I’ll go to the local and buy a fucking tin; I don’t normally go shopping, but it was a one off, how fucking hard can it be, I thought. After all, people go shopping everyday. I lit a small gas under the potatoes, and left to go to the shop. Extreme, you might think for a tin of bloody fruit, but the one thing I pride myself on, it is my fucking cooking. You will never hear anyone talk about a bad feed in my house.

On my way to the shop, I met Billy, nothing unusual in that, Billy’s like a bad fucking smell, always around when you don’t want him to be. Billy is one of many unemployed scavenging bastards around here, and the last person I wanted to talk to.

He talked about shite, how he was on his knee’s, and promising he would pay me back the next time he was flush.

Well I just couldn’t be arsed.

‘Billy before you start,’ I said raising my hand, ‘I’ve got fuck all for you, and another thing, I don’t want to hear any fucking hard luck stories, not today. So if you don’t mind, just fuck off.’

All said without breaking stride.

The sad useless bastard just stood there looking like a gold-fish giving a fucking blow-job. Well, what else could I do, I was on a fucking mission, and those fucking potatoes weren’t getting burned because he fancied a fucking chat, and besides, the smelly git was already due me twenty quid, and I’m not a bloody charity.

Right, remember I don’t usually do shopping. Shops, and the people in them get on my fucking nerves, but needs must as they say. I had it all worked out; I’d waltz in, find the pineapples, make my way to the till, pay my money and fuck off out off there.

Only two people before me at the check out; a young mother with a kid, and an old woman.

The brat in the pram dropped a toy rabbit, and the fucking mother didn’t notice. She was too fucking busy working out whether she could afford another twenty cigarettes. I picked it up and gave the kid it back. Just then the mother turns around, and smiles.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

I never answered the silly cow, her yellow teeth were making me heave. The skinny bastard thinks she’s got a figure; shite, she’s suffering from malnutrition. Buying cigarettes and booze leaves no money to buy fucking food. She’s dressed in fucking jogging trousers, and the fucking things haven’t been washed since she bought them. I’ll bet she takes it up the arse on the first date.

The little one waves, when they leave. As if I was going to talk to the little bastard, no fucking danger.

The old woman started emptying her trolley onto the check out, and she had a fucking trolley full of shite she’ll never fucking use.

I’m fucking standing there with a fucking tin of pineapples. Any cunt with the slightest bit of decency would have said, ‘oh is that all your buying son, on you go.’

The old bastard never flinched no matter how much I sighed. Pissed me right off, and by this time, cold sweat was running down my back.

I’m standing with my hands on my hips trying my utter most best not to run out of the fucking shop screaming with rage. Boiling, I was fucking boiling, listening to this old fucking retard complaining about the price of the fucking things she’s picked. I’m thinking, Just get fucking on with it you smelly old cunt, buy your crap and, fuck off.

Half way through her trolley load, and this junkie bastard came in waving a fucking gun about. The aids ridden bastard, he’s that skinny his fucking head was moving inside the balaclava he was wearing. Every time he turned his head too quick, all he could see was the inside of the balaclava, and rendering himself blind every time he did; the thick ignorant cunt.

‘GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY, GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY,’ he shouts waving the gun at the check out girl.

By this time she was blabbing like a fucking two day old baby. The fucking old woman she’s that fucking deaf she’s still fucking complaining about the price of food as this is unfolding, and the poor woman who appeared behind me in the queue stood trembling, and pished herself right there and then.

Well enough is enough, I thought. There was no fucking way some skinny junkie bastard was ruining my fucking day, so, I picked up a tin of dog food from the old dear’s trolley, and I fucking threw it at him with enough force to fell a fucking elephant.

I didn’t even wait to see if the stupid bastard was dead, I had potatoes on the boil, and no one was stopping me.

The potatoes were fine and, almost perfection. Another five minutes and she’ll be home, I thought, so I opened a bottle of wine and lit two candles.

So, in she comes all smiles and chatty.

‘How was your day love? Take your jacket off. The dinner will be five minutes I’ll give you a shout,’ I said, trying my fucking best. I know how to be nice.

I sat through dinner listening intently to stories about that days events, and heard all the fucking office gossip. I couldn’t fucking care but I listened, I nodded, I looked shocked, I looked concerned for old Mr Jenkins, and I agreed that Mr Dick Head was in fact a dick head.

The fucking least she could do was eat the fucking pineapple.

‘That was lovely,’ she said.

Lovely, fucking lovely, well if it was so fucking lovely what’s wrong with the fucking pineapple, I felt like screaming.

She was lucky, I should have shoved the fucking plate down her throat, but I was dying for a shag. It had been a while and my balls were down at my knees begging to be emptied. So, I said fuck all.

I’m only telling you this because, here I fucking am, two day’s later reading a fucking letter from the CO-OP. The bastards thank me for my efforts in stopping an armed fucking robber. They’re telling me how fucking grateful they are, and at the bottom of the letter, fuck I cannot fucking believe this. At the bottom of the letter, after they have said how fucking wonderful I am, how fucking heroic I was, the fucking CO-OP are reminding me that I forgot to pay for a tin of fucking pineapples. I can’t speak I’m fucking mad.

Thirty-two fucking pence and these bastards have written to say, they don’t want to involve fucking lawyers.

Monk goes berserk-Hilarious-Bizzare

2007-05-22T11:55:00.000+01:00

I found this on the net, it is the strangest cartoon I have seen in years, watch and enjoy.

More of this guy's work can be found here http://www.aniboom.com/Homepage.aspx

The Best

2007-05-18T12:05:00.000+01:00

Brown Sugar

2007-05-17T12:05:00.000+01:00

July, and I had no worries bothering my mind, nothing can explain my moment of weakness. I should have looked the other way when you appeared at the party. I should have ignored you and like a fool I thought I could talk, flirt like old times and then walk away.

I was married with two beautiful kids and held a well respected position with the local council paying good money with good prospect. It had been sixteen years since these eyes last saw you, sixteen years since I walked away, fed up with the possessiveness, the selfishness. I decided to start afresh, vowed never to speak about or acknowledge your existence ever again. No one knew we were once lovers, no one knew we onced danced cheek to cheek.

November, only five months later and I feel sick for falling for destructive charms once again. Your beauty is as it was, a mirage that hides a true ugly self and you'll never change. Like a fly dragged in by the spider on her web, seduced by the same false promises and like a silly schoolboy I believed I could carry on life as normal, one life at home and another with you.

Now all I have is nothing, the marriage, the kids and the house are all but memories I know I can’t return to. She tossed me aside as soon as the truth was known of our trysts. Work is no longer an option, they also relieved me when they discovered our little secret, my position was such that a public enquiry wouldn’t be in their interests. Why didn’t I see, why didn’t I learn from the first time we met, your beauty quickly deteriorates with each visit, and still the visits became more frequent not less.

Brown sugar

No Secrets

2007-05-15T19:30:00.000+01:00

Just last week we sat in the pub with friends, everything seemed so rosy in the garden, she was spouting on about our marriage and how chuffed she was that our relationship thrives because it contains no secrets, she even gave me a kiss in front of every one. What a devious cow, how could any one be so cold hearted, never mind the bloody woman I gave my soul, my all to.

Last week my heart nearly jumped out, bursting with pride with those hollow words, now it feels like its been ripped clean out by those cold callous bare faced lies and I don’t think, no I know forgiveness will never come.

Six years of what I thought was blissful marriage, and all the time she was lying, how could she. I’ll never be able to look at any of our so called friends again, they knew, the bastards knew and they let me think everything was all right.

All the effort I put into this shallow relationship now seems so stupid and pointless and what I thought was adequate now it appears wasn’t. Six fucking years the cow has been saying I was the best, I was a stallion, I was her sex machine and for six fucking years the bitch has faked every single orgasm .What a fucking cow, I simply cannot believe it.

It was as if someone had stuck a knife through my heart when I read that survey filled in Cosmopolitan magazine. Would it not have been simpler to say, Jack you’re a pish ride, you need to read some books, watch some videos for tips and by the way, plastic surgery apparently only costs a thousand pounds an inch.

Bi-Ography-ish Part 1

2007-05-12T20:58:00.000+01:00

It has been said, on more than the odd occasion that we married too young and in truth they were probably right, twenty, twenty one is young, especially when I talk to twenty one year old people now. When I say talk I don’t literally mean talk, you cant have a conversation with people who are constantly Ee’d, you talk, they just mumble, agree and tell you your beautiful, which believe me, I know that someone telling me I’m beautiful stretches any sense of reality there is. Looking back I honestly didn’t think we were that young and immature, though I wouldn’t discount it, it’s a scary thought and thank God I never touched ecstasy.

She was a catholic girl, notice I didn’t say shy! I lived in a two-bedroom miner’s cottage with my parents (plural, we were posh, I had a named father), brother and sister, we wanted our own place so we decided to marry, simple as that. As things stood we would have had more privacy if we moved into Edinburgh Airport. That is if, only if we could have shaken off my little brother, who to the casual observer seemed joined at the hip to the future Mrs. He used to sit out side the toilet having conversations with her, trying to talk through the gap under the door. Come to think about it he still does and he’s thirty two now, that’s no surprise from someone who still practices crying in front of a mirror, he could put Sir Lawrence Olivier to shame! (Is he dead or alive? god if the poor man is dead I’ll feel guilty for using present tense.)

The council allocated us a three bedroom flat in the village, top floor, left hand side and even using the Estate Agency language saying it was in need of a little modernisation is underestimating the place, it was a bloody black dirty hovel.

The keys were collected three months before we were due to get married, every day of those three months were spent re-decorating and de-lousing the place. Us two, an assortment of friends along with gang pressed family stripped, skipped, papered, painted, sweated and laughed our way through until it was habitable. We used more paint than a squad of worker’s on the Forth rail Bridge do in a year. If the place had went on fire it would have burned for six months and the story would have made national television, planes on route to America, would have been diverted around a plume of smoke resembling the fall out from Mount Etna.

Decorated, de-loused and finally furnished, we thought it was a palace, we even had a balcony overlooking the local pit slag-heaps, we called it our very own Penthouse. Charcoal grey carpets, a black leather-ish couch and a black ash sideboard, which at the time didn’t seem quite as gothic as it sounds now. A black Phillips twenty four inch telly in the corner and in front of the coal fire lay a sheepskin rug, why Anne Summers don’t sell sheepskin rugs is beyond me, or coal fires.

Cheap coal bought from local alcoholics and the stones it contained turned the living room into a war zone, firing out hot bricks who just didn’t want to burn at great speed meant the sheepskin rug only lasted about six months but it was fun while it lasted. In the end it looked like it was the first to land at Normandy, burnt and bald.

Happy days indeed, people say they would not go back to a coal fire, they loved the glow and the heat it gave out but they couldn’t be bothered with the cleaning out every morning. Well it was a chore that did not bother me, I didn’t let the thing go out, it just kept burning for six moths at a time, thus eliminating the need to set it every day. I also enjoyed bargaining with the local alcoholics who delivered the coal, coal they liberated from the local quarry in the early hours.

“How much a bag?”
“Three pound.”
“I’ll give you a pound.”
“Bugger off, two pound.”
“One pound fifty.”

At this point in the delicate negotiations I always opened a can of beer, cruel I know but it never failed, they took the one pound fifty and went to the pub. I felt like Donald Trump closing a million pound deal. Of course, this meant more stones the following week and a game of tit for tat that no one ever won, still it was worth the valuable lesson in bargaining skills.

Days long ago when we were happy enough to stay in on a Saturday night, mates used to phone asking if we were going out, club, pub, wherever.

“Alright, what’s the plans this weekend?”
“Nothing, were staying in.”
“Get real.”
“No, we just fancy a quiet weekend.”
“Yer Arse.”
“Honest man, we just want to stay in.”
“What’s wrong, are you skint?”
“No, we just want to stay in that’s all.”
“I’ve got money here if you need it.”
“For gods sake, we just want to stay in.”
“Fifty, Sixty, will that be enough? I’ve got more if you want it.”
Beeeep

Imagine wanting to stay in now even if you have money, sacrilege.

Yes, we even had spare money, money was no object and we lived like royalty, we went to the ice cream van every night. Then our cosy we world fell apart, brought crashing down with a visit to Boots and three small pink lines.

Toast with Jam

2007-05-05T14:32:00.001+01:00

Why is it we all stay within a comfort zone? Approval, laziness, or have I just given up?

Jack was talking utter shite again, and the Mrs was having none of it. Sick of him and his riddles she didn’t even answer.

I’ve decided, to stretch my wings, try and soar that wee bit higher, on to the next level. Do you know what ah mean doll?

Eye, go for it doll. She said and really didn’t have a fucking clue what he was on about, but thought it best to say something.

“Your just saying that, you don’t have a clue what the fuck I’m talking about, you take no interest what so ever in what I do.” Jack said, trying reverse psychology.

“Listen, arsehole, don’t hit me with this shit, if you want to get better at what you do then fucking go for it, if you want to stay where you are then fucking stay there. But don’t accuse me of having no fucking interest, who’s the daft cunt that’s got to read your wee fucking stories every fucking night, eh? Who’s the daft cunt that listens to you greeting every fucking night when somecunt slates your wee fucking stories? Who’s the daft cunt that listens to that, fucking keyboard, rattling away all fucking night every fucking night and never ever fucking complains about it, eh?”

Slightly taken aback, Jack struggled for words, still coming to terms with the severity of the attack, he thought about it for a few seconds and tried to find some reason for such an attack

“And since when did you become the Advocatus Diaboli?” He said trying the intellectual route.

“Since you became fucking holier that thou, and thought you were the best fucking thing since sliced bread, arsehole, that’s when I became the Devils Advocate in this fucking house. Now if you don’t mind I have a fucking crossword to do and I can’t get it done while your feeling fucking sorry for yourself.”

Jack continued to rattle away at the keys, annoyed that he forgot he had married a wee catholic girl and didn’t win the intellectual row.

“Do you fancy some toast and tea for supper doll?” he said after a while.

“Put some jam on it, see if you can take it to the next level.” Said Mrs, enjoying the sarcasm.

“Cow!”

“William Shakespeare.”

“Heartless bitch.”

“Mr know it all.”

Jack left it at that, and went to make the supper, he knew, the cow always had to have the last word. Jam....a good idea he thought.

Baby Annabelle

2007-05-05T14:32:00.000+01:00

I have a mission! The mission being, to preserve the innocence of the wee girl for as long it is possible. Easy? Not in this mad world we live in, with a daily onslaught bombarding pre-teens with diets, images, and more innuendo than a Paul O'Grady routine.

She came down the stair the other day while I was slaving away at the/my cooker, and the whiff I got from the perfume she had on nearly knocked me off my feet.

“You’ve got perfume on?”
“SO!”
“It’s bloody stinking!”
“So do you!”
“Cheeky wee shite!”
“See you later fatty, I’m away out!”

SLAM!
A PAUSE< DOOR RE_OPENS

“Tell my Mum I’m away to such and such’s.”

SLAM

She is only bloody nine, when I was nine I had a bath on a Sunday night. (Even if I didn’t need it, we were posh.)

I was working when I first bought deodorant, and still to this day I use nothing but soap for washing, hair the lot. I do own some aftershave and contrary to popular belief there is nothing wrong with ‘Old Spice’.

On holiday last year I had to put up with tantrums every day because she wanted to wear a bikini, what on earth does a nine year old want to wear a bloody bikini for. Peer pressure, what a load of tosh. I didn’t care how long we sat in the room, she was not winning that argument and before any one starts, I know there are perverts out there, but my God, where will it end.

She takes longer to get ready than it takes both me and her Mum.

Nine years she’s been on this earth and we have had the same argument every year, the argument being, I refuse to allow the wean to get her ears pierced. You might think this is Victorian, and I wont argue with anyone else’s point of view. It’s my house, she’s my child and she is beautiful enough without two wee diamond studs in her ears, it’s the principal. Next it’ll be, ‘stop being silly Jack, all the kids at school have their belly buttons pierced’. Don’t laugh, its bloody coming.

Tops with straps; Barred
Make-up; Barred
Shoes/Boots with heels; Barred
Hand-bags; Barred

She has them, they think I’m daft, but they don’t come out when I’m around.

We/The family visited one of those B&Q superstores, the weans room is to be re-decorated, so I was informed, we were looking for a suitable pink paint for the walls and there was one called ‘Sexy Pink’, why? Its obviously targeted towards pre-teenage girls, or some boys with issues.

The ‘tubes’ were laughing at me for moaning, they think I’m mellowing, well I’m not and ‘Sexy Pink’ didn’t leave the store.

Oh and by the way, when I say the family, I include ‘Baby Annabelle’ in the equation, perfume, and she still plays with dolls.

There is nothing like a good doze of reality to make people realise how innocent nine year olds are.

I rest my case.

Shaving

2007-05-01T18:57:00.000+01:00

Sometimes the Mrs, when the hormone planets align, which is not very often, but when the situation arises, she’ll sit in the living room watching the telly, and out of the blue she’ll come away with, “You need a shave?” Yes folks, it’s a question or rather a request and can only mean one thing, she fancies a ride.

Now, I’m not complaining, well not overly complaining, its just that, I adjusted to married life many years ago, I have my own wee routine and the witch fancying a wee rub during the week knocks my routine out of balance. Besides, Mrs has a hard neck telling me to have a shave, when she has legs like Desperate Dan’s chin and as for the bush, well, that looks like a burst couch, you could quite easily get lost in there.

You need a shave! That is her idea of foreplay, it is, and do I complain? No, I just take a deep breath and go for it, no one can say I’m a selfish person.

If I fancy a wee rub during the week, I have to go on a course to become a world class masseur, buy scented candles, brush my teeth and have a shave.

Mrs, she thinks I’ll jump through burning hoops just because she says, “You need a shave.”

Well, I was in a sarcastic mood, so I kept watching the football, lifted my can of bear and said, “Do you think so doll?”

“Eye!”
“How do you not like it?”
“You look dirty!”
“I was thinking about growing a beard!”
“No you weren’t!”
“What’s up, do you fancy a wee rub?”
“Well!”
“Well, what do you mean well? Your sitting there forming a puddle!”
“Cheeky Pig!”
“Get me another can and I’ll think about it!”
“Get your own effin’ can!”
“Can of lager, or no rumpy pumpy?”
“You are an, arsehole!”
“Shut it Mrs, get me a can and another thing, while your up, give that couch a wipe, any body would think we keep snails in here.”
“Beat it tiny dick!”
“I’m away for a shower!”
“I’ll be up shortly, mind the shave!”

That folks is it, foreplay in our house. Sex, midweek, its just not natural.

2007-04-30T22:53:00.001+01:00

Jack's own face scorned him as it looked back from the restroom mirror.

“What can I do?” He asked the reflection as he checked his teeth for rogue food and praying somehow, he would get an answer to his dilemma.

The window was too small for an escape and he couldn’t stay in the restroom all night. Jack sighed, fixed his tie and made his way back to the restaurant.

Internet dating, he knew it came with a risk, blind dating for people too lazy, impatient, or desperate. Jack wasn’t sure which category he fell into.

Its not that he found her so ugly that he wouldn’t take her to bed, his standards stooped lower than snakes belly when it came to sex. She wasn’t too fat; he even liked the way mounds of flesh stuck out like mini pyramids, sliced through the gaps in her fishnet stockings. Besides, he had a thing for plumper, voluptuous women. He blamed his Aunt Vera and a summer at Skegness when he was twelve for this fetish.

The high pitched giggle annoyed him, he had better conversations with drunks, she did over do it with the make-up and she probably lied about her age. All these traits rolled into one didn’t put him off.

It was the silliest of things. Even with Jack's low standards he just couldn’t take to a woman who drank out of a pint glass, it wasn’t right.

The swing door reverberated at speed when she left. Jack shrugged his shoulders at the waiter. He had seen it all before, uninterested he shrugged back and went about his business tidying tables.

Asking a date if she 'took it up the arse' was a gamble, but it worked a treat and the black eye was a small price to pay.

Jack finished his drink, paid the bill and made his way home.

Happiness

2007-04-30T22:53:00.000+01:00

The golden triangle was a wee saying we had, just me, the wife, with the boy and nothing else mattered and nothing came between us. Sure, there were other family, friends, work mates, they came and went as the years passed, but I never thought about one of us going.

Six years the wife has been gone. Cancer, it was quick. Six years and I never thought I would be here this long without her. Then the wee one came along, Wee Molly, she’s four now, and now I have something to get up in the morning for.

Her Granny, God bless her, she will never be dead as long as the wee ones alive. She’s got the same skinny wee legs, the same head of curly hair, and just like her Granny, she never stops talking either. Same temper too, oh that wee one can be a right crabbit one as well and she’s never happy until she gets her own way, the same mould as her Granny came from. Molly is here nearly everyday, the boy and his wife work, we hope you don’t mind they said, mind, I wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s the one doing me a favour, eye, the golden triangle is back, this time there is the four of us.

Its funny but all our friends were couples, Joyce and Tam, Moira and Andy, Jean and Harry, they were good after she passed away, but it wasn’t the same, I just stopped going out.

Big Harry lost Jean three years ago, people say me and him have become a couple, every morning we go for the papers, same time, there for the shop opening. Family do’s, weddings and the likes, me and Big Harry get invited, the cheeky buggers only send out the one invite, Jack and Harry. Still its good to have friends, its good to get out now and again.

Every Saturday the wee one stay’s with me, I’m sick of watching that Dancing on Ice, so I am and if its not Dancing on Ice its some cartoon, still she's usually asleep on my knee for match of the day starting. I told the boy, son, you and your wife will be a couple long after the wee one leaves the house, so every Saturday, I watch the wean while they go out, eye, even if I’ve to give them the money. Me and his Mother went out every week as a couple, it never did us any harm.

The boy plays golf on a Sunday, so Helen, Molly’s Mother comes to collect her. Every week, I make the dinner and she always has a wee sleep, me and the wean, we know she works hard all week, so we give a wee bit of peace.

School next year, I’ll be glad, she's getting too fast, and she canny half wear me out these days.

Where’s my specs? I’m sure she hides them, same as her bloody Granny did, a reincarnation is right enough, that’s what she is a reincarnation of her Granny.

Heartless Bitch

2007-04-30T18:28:00.000+01:00

“Is that for me…Really?” That’s what the cow said.

She was being sarcastic about something.

Four bacon rolls, two cups of tea and a wee flower in a glass, all on a tray. The fucking effort I put into it and to top it off, I'm stood there, stark fucking naked apart from a red ribbon, tied neatly in a bow, around, an impressive, erection.

I like to spice things up now and again, keeps her on her toes.

“Well doll, you know what they say?” She added.

My eyebrows dropped, this cunt was in a funny mood, I could tell, “What?” I said.

The cheeky cow, I couldn’t believe the fucking cheek, the cow said, “It’s the small insignificant things that make a marriage work!”

Hurt, fucking hurt, the ungrateful bitch, Listen I said, “I went out into the garden to pick that fucking flower just for you, you heartless cow.”

“I wasn’t talking about the flower.” Said Mrs

She lost me at that point, I wasn’t in the mood for her daft games, and she can talk in the stupidest riddles sometimes. Besides, the tea was getting cold and my cock was going purple, I tied the bow too tight.

Let that be a lesson, keep the spice alive, keep the marriage alive.

Who's the daddy?

Saddle Sore

2007-04-28T16:37:00.000+01:00

Sunday morning, Sunday fucking morning is the only day she could have a long lie and although she was obviously in need of more sleep, she lay awake with a face now contorted with pain. How could she sleep with a fanny throbbing with pain, a pain not unlike a bad dose of toothache? Only, this was worse.

With only the dim morning light to go by and unable to see the clock to witness the time, she guessed it to be after six, but before seven. There was no chance she would fall back asleep. There was no point lying there sore, bitter and annoyed. Nell got out of bed and dressed in an old nightgown.

The digital clock, when she finally saw it, blinked at five forty, cursing both the time and the ‘bastard’, still lying sleeping, snoring like a pig she hobbled down stair to make a cup of tea.

After an hour and three cups of tea, she could hear movement from upstairs, placing the cigarette in the ashtray she got up to make more tea.

Naked and for the world to see, a still very much aroused, Jack, the bastard, now stood framed in the kitchen door. “Good morning” He said stretching and smiling at the same time.

Tying the belt in defence tightly around her waist, trying her best not to look interested and unsure if good morning was a question or a statement she did not bother with an answer.

“Tea.” Jack said as the kettle began to whistle.

Again, she did not answer and to her surprise nor did she resist, as he snuggled into her back.

Sensing the mood, Jack’s hand moved downwards to the belt she tied earlier in defence, it easily gave way, and the nightgown fell to the floor.

With a teenage smile, she arched her head back and found his mouth. Her fanny now forgetting the soreness, it now throbbed with experienced knowing fingers.

Following him back to bed, Nell cursed under her breath and made a mental note.

‘Next Saturday the bastard will only be allowed half a Viagra.’

This story is fictional, with no part resembling my/our loving marriage, I do however apologise in advance for any resemblance made to any person or persons, living or dead.

Jack will admit (If questioned in a court of law!) that the part about ‘Knowing Fingers’ is in fact semi-autobiographical.

Holidays

2007-04-27T19:59:00.000+01:00

Last year was the first year we went on holiday without the boy, just the wife, Lucifer’s daughter and me, two weeks in Tenerife.

I was bored stiff, I was, never in a million years would I have thought I would have missed the gangling idiot and never in a million years would I tell the cunt even if I did.

Just sitting beside a pool in Tenerife might seem ideal, but I sweat like a rapist and can’t sit still in the heat for too long. Mrs, she can sit in a fucking sauna and still doesn’t sweat, she’s a weirdo. Lucifer’s daughter decided, we would spend the fortnight in the fucking pool, well, there is only so many fucking times a ball can be passed around in a pool, and I get too angry with obnoxious teenagers trying to out annoy every one.

Yes, I find it hard not to commit murder when it comes to such children, and their squawking parents.

Timothy, stop that this instant, you’ll have someone’s eye out.

Charlene, Charlene, please stop doing that, Charlene, please stop doing that, Charlene, please stop doing that, she was like a fucking broken record player and enough was enough.

I told Charlene if she didn’t stop fucking doing it, I was going to shave her fucking hair off, Charlene’s Father just sat there like a fucking poof, Charlene’s Mother tutted and turned her nose up at me every time she saw me after that. I didn’t give a toss, the cunts never came near the pool again.

Usually the plooky one would have been there, and at fifteen, sixteen, there is only so much time you can spend sitting beside a swimming pool, trying to look cool when your little sister is begging you to play with her and only so long you can sit at that age trying to conceal an obvious erection.

So me’n’the plooky one, we used to go away a walk, go to the beach, play football, and generally do anything other than sit at the pool.

Last year I didn’t have an outlet, I did go walking during the day, but it was over one hundred degrees and at forty I just look like an old pervert if I go to the beach on my own.

Four books read in the first week, six magazines read, adverts the lot and I had a tan like Adonis, I never said the body, stop sniggering. I was bored.

Thankfully, I had an MP3 with me to while away the hours and drown out any other Charlene’s beside the pool.

Now, I don’t know if you will be familiar with the song “Squeeze Box.” By a band called ‘The Who.’, if your not then fuck off. Legends they are legends and “Squeeze Box” is one of my favourite songs.

Singing and me don’t go, no its worse than that, I am a tuneless fog horn and I never sing no matter how drunk I get. Well, boredom took over, the Mrs was sunbathing away, Lucifer’s daughter was doing cartwheels in the fucking pool, surprise, surprise, and I don’t know why I did it. But I straddled Mrs, taking her by surprise, held onto her arms so she couldn’t get to my earplugs and I belted out the whole song “Squeeze Box” as loud as I could.

Embarrassed, is not the word to describe Mrs, she was simply fucking mortified.

Arsehole, arsehole, she kept repeating and Lucifer’s daughter, she refused point blank to come out of the pool.

I just lay back chuckling away to my self and she had to run out of things to throw at me, sooner or later.

After a half hour, Mrs was calming down, Lucifer’s daughter even came out for an iced lolly and a couple passing on their way to get ready for dinner, the fellow put his hand on my shoulder.

“The day job, big man, don’t give it up.”

That started Mrs off again, See you, see you, you’re a fucking arsehole.

True story that one.

Scoundrals

2007-04-27T15:00:00.000+01:00

“Another glass of ‘Heavy’, Jimmy my old chum?”

“Davie, you know fine well, Margaret will have ones tea ready and will be very, very cross if one fails to make it home at the time agreed before one departed this morning.”

“One for the road, one, surely”

“Davie, you are a humoured chap and I swear you will be the death of me.”

“Splendid, and, a little whiskey to finish the day?”

“Why not? You bounder.”

“Good lady, can you refresh the glasses please, and two whiskies if it is not too much trouble.”

“Would that be Malkie McKay over there?”

“Where?”

“Ha, had you going, I had you fooled old chap.”

“James, you know I have a week heart, you bugger you.”

“Don’t fret old chap, if the cad starts any of his nonsense, one will kick his charlies, and one will not be held responsible for ones actions.”

“Good, splendid news, I can always rely on you James.”

“Well, Davie, one thing one has learned is that one would be as well as getting hung for a sheep as a lamb. Another round of refreshments, don’t you think?”

“My arm old boy, was twisted a long time ago.”

“Young lady, another round for my good friend and me. Oh and have one your good self.”

"Will we take a pew old chap, ones gout has been playing up lately?"

racism

2007-04-26T20:01:00.000+01:00

Do you remember the programme ‘Roots’?

I do, and I was probably only ten or twelve.

Did you like me feel utterly outraged at the treatment, and the plight, of the African Black people?

Whoopee fucking do! What the fuck did we, as a fucking nation learn all those years ago, fuck all, that’s what. We still bury our fucking heads in the sand and if any thing we got worse.

‘Oh Moira some of my best friends at work are ‘coloured’, they are such a lovely people you know.’

How fucking condescending is that, and I fucking hear words to that affect often. Even the word ‘coloured’ gets right up my nose, its only the new version of ‘nigger’. As long as we see people other than fellow human beings we will never be in a position where we can truly say, ‘Racist, what does that mean’, and sadly folks, there is a long way to go before that will ever happen.

Have you noticed certain companies advertising on the telly, have you noticed the wee bits at the end. UK call centres only…a bit colonial if you ask me.

I still do it myself, wrong I know but…no, I was going to try to excuse my ignorance, but I’m offering no fucking excuse because…there is no excuse.

I’ll sit in the living room watching football with the ‘Family’.

I have been known to shout at some poor man who makes a simple mistake or a fucking howler for that matter, AND I still have been known to shout, ‘away ya black bastard, or ya useless black bastard’. I always fucking despise myself for doing it, and…I was going to say especially in front of the kids, but that would be wrong, make it sound okay if the kids are not there. Well it’s never okay and I know its not okay so why the fuck do I still do it. I don’t think I’m a racist person, but I do realise the offence caused by saying ‘Black Bastard’.

Firstly…it’s a form of cowardice, the many ganging up on the few.

Secondly…its pure and utter ignorance, and like any form of bullying its fucking wrong.

Thirdly…what the fuck makes white people think they are so fucking superior?

I can’t offer any words of wisdom, I can’t say the problem will disappear over night, but I will try and do my wee bit, and all it will take is for every other ignorant bastard to do the same.

So the next time I watch football on the telly, ‘Away ya useless cunt!’ or (sorry if this offends the ladies), ‘fuckin’ hell, whaaaat aaaa fannnnnny!’ is much better use of my language.

After all, a man still has a right to curse when his team/bet is on the losing side.

We do, it is Part B, Paragraph four of ‘Rules and a Mans Rights’, look it up, its there in black and white.

Clyde

2007-04-26T12:35:00.000+01:00

'That sunny Jim, is Frivolous mirth at its best.' She said.

I said, 'What the fuck is that supposed to mean?'

She groweled back. 'Stop being so fucking childish.'

'Oh, somecunt's been eating a dictionary for breakfast.' I replied.

There was no need to throw a shoe. Somecunt could have lost a fucking eye.

Quite brainy words fae that cunt, considering they came from someone who doesn’t know how to work a bloody cooker. I try my best, I tried to make the cunt laugh but fuck all seems to work these days.

All I did was hold a lit cigarette in my foreskin and imitate a helicopter, I thought it was fucking funny, I was laughing, is it my fault she left a new fucking silk blouse lying on the floor. Anyone would think I tried to burn a fucking hole in it.

Back to square one, back to wanking myself daft in the spare room.

I know, I’ll buy the idiot some flowers.

No, she’ll think I stole them from the graveyard. When will she let things go? I was drunk for fuck sake and it was ten years ago.

There is no point in dressing up, apparently dressing up as the Joker is not considered a turn on.

She can speak for herself on that one!

Oils and candles are out of the question as well, the insurance weren’t going to pay out the last time we fucking tried that.

Oh, I don’t know, the last time she was this fucking bad, she was preg..n..a..nt.

Fuck me!

Fuck, there goes the golf next year and I just got a membership, Fuck.

I wonder if she’ll let me name this one? I wanted to call the last one Clyde if it was a boy.

She’s the one who though about monkeys, I told her, he is not a fucking monkey he is an orangutan, and there is a difference, its not like I wanted to call the baby PG Tips or something.

Woman, she was at the back of the queue when the humour genes, were shared out.

Senile at Forty

2007-04-24T18:43:00.000+01:00

Away with the fairies, that’s me, away with the fucking fairies. One minute its there the next its gone and I’m getting fucking worse.

‘I’ve no touched your fucking tape measure, what the fuck would I want with a tape measure?’

That’s the wife, usual answer, a well rehearsed fucking stock answer, honed to perfection over the years. Something she started a long time ago, deny fucking everything and think later.

Every time I ask where something is, she denies all knowledge about its whereabouts.

I don’t fucking tidy the house, who’s the one that leaves every thing at their arse, me that’s who! Well that’s what Mother fucking Teresa’s always tells me.

Honestly, she thinks I’m off my head, or as she so eloquently puts it, I’m a ‘demented auld bastard’.

Forty, I’m only bloody forty and I’m going senile! Fuck me! What will I be like if I reach seventy? The weans will want nothing to do with a gibbering old pervert. They will stick me in a home as far away from them as possible.

Incontinent, talking utter shite, and, trying my best to look down nurse’s blouses. Scary, stuff indeed. I’ll make Homer’s dad seem sane.

I cannot say I noticed any thing different, its just that, well, things started to dissapear. They fucking do! Surely, I’m not that daft.

She said its because I rush too much. Fucking rush, the demented whore has a list as long as her fucking arm. ‘Wee jobs’ she calls them, wee fucking jobs, my arse.

Tile the kitchen, five minutes.

Hang a shelf, one minute.

Lay a new floor in the kids bedroom, she might allow eight minutes for that.

Cut the grass, two minutes. I still don’t see anything wrong with green concrete.

Every fucking day the list gets fucking longer and more elaborate.

I fucking loath, those programmes where the bastards do some imbeciles house up. Forty fucking minute make over, or something like that. What this daft cow forgets is, its s fucking telly program, there will be fucking forty of the bastards doing the work.

What chance do I, humble me, have in such a competition?

All I’ve got, is a cheep fucking electric drill bought in a fucking Tesco’s sale.

Too much of a rush! I’ll give the bitch too much of a rush. There isn’t enough hours in a day for what she wants.

Besides, I fancy a pint, and I’m going to do just that.

Mrs!

‘Where is my fucking wallet?’

I had the fucking thing no more than five minutes ago.

Forthingwood Zoo

2007-04-22T11:47:00.000+01:00

Norman the youngest of the two polar bears at Forthingwood Zoo strutted around the enclosure like a dog in heat. After a while he got bored and plonked his fat lazy arse down beside Geraldine.

Norman’s sighs and fidgeting she simply ignored. Geraldine was content to do nothing other than digest a hearty breakfast as she soaked up the early morning sunshine, balancing half on and half off a giant rock in what must be an uncomfortable position. “Bugger off.” She said when it was clear that flouting his obvious attempts to strike a conversation were not going to be enough of a deterrent.

Too old and set in her ways, Geraldine was not in the mood for youthful excitement, nor did she care to discuss the eminent arrival of two new bears to the zoo.

As usual, Norman would not take her words as a statement that he should adhere to, so continued to sit.

“I wonder where they come from?” he said, now resigned to the fact no conversation was forthcoming from Geraldine.

“You know me Geraldine? He asked anyway, “I am not in any way, shape or manner a racist, but I do hope the newcomers are white.” Norman continued.

Bemused Geraldine shook her head in disbelief. She had to know. “What are you on about?” she said, and instantly knew she would regret asking.

“I am not going to be no brown grizzly bears bitch boy.” Norman answered.

Mystified, Geraldine told the idiot to fuck off.

“Come and play with daddy white boy.” Norman tried his best to imitate a Brown Jamaican Bear but was unable to hide his Middle English accent.

Geraldine rolled her eyes in disbelief and shook her head.

“I wonder if it’s true.” He said after a short pause.

“If what’s true.” she found herself caught in this crazy conversation.

Norman moved closer, looked one way then another.

Gesturing towards his crotch and in a low voice he asked, “Is it true brown bears have bigger…you know…penises.”

“You are a poof.” She answered, and before he could interrupt, Geraldine burst out into hearty laughter.

“We were only cage mates.” She said. Sitting up now, Geraldine continued to mock in between fits of laughter.

In a huff and hurt, Norman could only mumbled “We were.”

“Bert did this, Bert was better at that, Bert must have had a small fucking dick.” she reeled, sensing a rare moment for glory

Bert was Norman’s last companion before the zoo decided to pair him with a female.

Norman knew he was out of the closet. Raising himself to all fours and shook his head at Geraldine with contempt.

Geraldine was by now uncontrollable with laughter.

All he could manage to say was “Geraldine…sometimes you can be a very spiteful woman.”

Geraldine just laughed louder.

“That’s the last shag you get from me, you, you, you…fat bitch.” Norman said and without further attempt to redeem any dignity, he walked away with his nose in the air.

CAUGHT RED HANDED

2007-04-21T17:54:00.000+01:00

It was one of those hot and sticky, no wind, no air, kind of nights. Sweat oozed continuously from every orifice. A couple of times I had to peel my legs apart, it was that bad.

Mrs Never too Hot, lying next to me would still have the fucking electric blanket on if I had not cut the wires. The stupid fool has changed the fuse four times. Snoring away, like a pneumatic drill stuck on overdrive, she was.

I had the laptop on, and was merrily surfing away. It is not a habit, so don’t be getting the wrong idea, but somehow, I found my way to surfing…P…O…R…N.

See, I’m not even comfortable saying the bloody word.

Guilty as charged your honour. I’m not proud, but I won’t apologise, there was nothing illegal. Certainly nothing involving animals, fuck, the thought, yuck.

Any way, as I was saying, remember what kind of night it was and I’m not offering it as a defence, more…a reason.

I am a man after all, I have needs, and sometimes these needs have to be, shall we say…met.

I thought the bitch was sound asleep and anyone snoring like she was had to be half fucking dead for god sake. Well she wasn’t, or she woke up while I was otherwise too occupied to notice.

‘What are you doing’ she said.

What a fucking fright. Frozen in mid flow, I was, I could not move a fucking muscle.

What? I replied, not that I could not hear what was just said, I was simply stalling, trying to register a reply. I knew instantly there was no reply.

‘I said, what are you doing, and don’t say, I was doing nothing’

The answer came back all to fucking quickly and with that voice, oh that fucking voice, not an angry tone or a disappointed one, a fucking victorious one. The bitch had me in her sights and my fuck, was she going to enjoy herself.

Now she was sitting up with the lamp on and in full sarcastic flow. I just lay there, trying to wilt into the mattress. The cow was having none of that.

‘Don’t let me stop you, I’ll just watch.’ How she mocked,

What the fuck can you say to that? Fuck all, that’s what. I simply grinned inanely.

Reaching over she pulled away the covers. My cock has never been so fucking small or pathetic. The bastard had deserted in a time of need.

‘Where is that camera?’

As if I was going to tell the loony bastard. Fucking camera!

Continuing with the wee game, she pointed at the computer screen, ‘We could always post a picture of…that.’ She said, pointing and laughing at something else.

I had to agree, ‘that’, was probably a good description.

I got up and made my way to the toilet. The cow watched every step, enjoying the obvious discomfort and, honestly, that was the first time I actually seen the resemblance to her mother. Arms folded under her saggy tits and her mouth was chewing away at nothing to stop the fucking laughter spilling out.

I stalled at the bedroom door, I had to retrieve the situation, I’m the man of the house and that cow wasn’t getting the better of me, no fucking way.

Turning around full front, hands on hips. Brazen as you like.

She cocked her head to the side, you know that, well go for it big man, kind of attitude. Well I fucking went for it.

Seeing as how you’re awake bitch, I said,

That straightened the bitch upright, and before she could answer. I got mine in first.

Get the fucking pyjamas off. I’ll be back in five minutes.

I shut the room door and went to the toilet.

The pyjamas were off when I came back.

The night grew more hot and sticky. Well it did for her anyway.

Glenmorangie

2007-04-21T16:40:00.001+01:00

Drunk, of course I’m drunk. I've not been sober for twenty years and another thing don’t be coming over to sympathise, or patronising, thinking ‘what a shame’.

Being a drunk is a life chosen not bestowed. The last thing needed around here is sympathy, but if you are here with a bottle of whisky, then sit down and together we will try to resolve whatever woes you might have.

Everybody needs a best friend now and again and sometimes whisky isn’t enough.

Talk friend, talk, talking is the way to make new friends.

Glenmorangie. A fine choice on such a fine day. Cheers.

Park benches and bar stools. The pews and pulpits for drunks. A wee quote from the distinguished and well versed, Jimmy Donnelly. A fellow drinker with more wit and wisdom than any member of the schooled debating chamber we call parliament.

Jimmy, a man’s man, never preaches, never mocks, but when he starts it can be a joyous trip into another world. A clean and a shave and he would be on the telly.

Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination. Mark Twain.

I read that a while ago and at the time, I didn’t really understand it. Now it has become somewhat of an unofficial motto. How I live life.

Happier people tend to be the kind with no worries, if the demeanour is worry then a smile will not be its companion.

I’m happy so therefore I cannot be insane, simple and effective.

Do you remember the song, ‘don’t worry be happy’? The man was right, don’t worry and happiness is sure to follow, a fellow humorist after my own heart.

Life is what you make of it and if your choice is to be a miserable git then so be it, just don’t be bloody preaching it to everybody else. At the same time, the other side of the coin is happy people preaching and that must be as bad.

Live your own life. Be yourself and if the choice is happy, then there will be other happy people to share it with. Miserable people tend to be on there own.

‘Thank you kind sir, and a good morning to you.’

What? Listen, I don’t beg, I simply put my hat on the ground and if the kind people of Edinburgh wish to contribute to the ‘Happy Fund’ then so be it. I never ask, never harass people, I always say thanks and It is always meant.

There is a lot to be said for drunks. There is…how many people do you know work away for some corporate machine and at the end of the day have nothing but contempt for the way they live. The daily routine, slave to the monthly cheque, and how many say on more than the odd occasion, ‘I wish I could walk away fro all this’, well drunks have done just that. Braver than it looks, being a drunk.

Drunks, they know how to walk away.

Now if you don’t mind friend your presence, though welcome anytime it is preventing a tired old man from some shut eye, the sun is up and I’m wearying.

By the way, I didn’t quite catch your name.

God…

Well, God, I’m Jack, and it is always a pleasure to meet new friends. Thanks for the wee chat and the whisky.

God, before you go, don’t feel embarrassed contributing to the ‘Happy Fund’.