The Curious Tale Of Bonty Liar, a Politician So Corrupt he Burst into Flames.

maninflamesOnce upon a time…many, many years ago in a world long since forgotten, there was a country called Anywhere. And in the land of Anywhere there was a fine and prosperous city called Anyplace and in this city there lived, during the times of the ascendancy of the destructive and rapist Greedy One Percent, a politician called Bonty Liar.

Now Bonty was a hugely corrupt man, most definitely one of the Devil’s Special Children. From a well to do family, he had been educated at one of the Finest Public Schools in the land of Anywhere, benefiting from the Best Education Money Can Buy.

From school, with help from Friends Of His Father, he entered the legal profession and soon, by dint of the fact that he was a good actor, an adept liar and lacking in social or moral conscious he, not surprisingly, did very well in his chosen career and was soon a Promising Young Lawyer.

It was at the Promising Young Lawyer stage that he was spotted by members of The Greedy One Percent, who were always on the lookout for bright, morality-free, personable young men and women they could manoeuvre into positions of Responsibility And Power.

And so the inducments began. Having a Feral Ability to sniff out Bad Character, The Greedy One Percent recognised Bonty’s Dysfunctionally Strange sense of self-regard, his greed for money and power and psychopathic tendencies and suggested to him that he might enter the World Of Politics where, should he but do their bidding, he could be very useful to them and they could offer to him in return fame, power and lots and lots of money: a huge advance for a book of his memoirs at a later point in the future, a Guaranteed Income Stream from speaking tours (addressing members of The One Percent), lucratively paid non-executive directorships on the boards of Banks And Corporations, well-rewarded contracts to write articles for The Means Of Communication…these were just some of the inducements offered to Bonty to enter the World Of Politics.


Bonty accepted everything offered gladly: he was, and always had been, fascinated by the extremely wealthy and was desperate to join their ranks.


Mentored by The One Percent, quietly supported by their money and noisily supported by their tame journalists in The Means Of Communication, Bonty rose quickly in the Political Sphere, soon becoming Leader of his party and then Leader Of The Country.

Bonty now proved his worth to The Greedy One Percent. If a law needed changing or abrogating to allow them to pursue a business that had previously been seen as unconscionable or illegal, Bonty changed it. If a (rare as Trolls teeth) honest politician or journalist needed to be blackmailed or bludgeoned into silence, Bonty wielded the club. If corrupt policy had to be justified by lies, Bonty lied. If the Public Services or Benefits And Welfare had to be cut to impoverish The Ordinary Folk, Bonty did the cutting. If an Illegal War needed to be started in a Far Flung Land to enable The Greedy One Percent to steal its resources and make even more money selling arms…well, Bonty started it.

In short, Bonty proved to be an Invaluable Servant of The Greedy One Percent. If anything, they came to realise that they had, in fact, underestimated his greed for money and power and the depths of his psychopathic leanings: Bonty not only did what they wanted but during the course of his ten years as Leader, he managed to prostitute the entire Office Of Leadership to enriching himself and his Owners.

I suppose it could be argued that The Ordinary Folk of Anywhere had some blame in the rise of Bonty Liar. Perhaps they should have noticed the blindingly obvious fact that his surname was LIAR or perhaps they should have realised that his infuriating habit of smiling whenever he was talking was in fact a form of “Distraction Theft;” the cheesy grin distracting your eye whilst hands sneak round the back of you and steal your wallet, your Life Chances and the lives of your children. I suppose I would then have to say, how can people make informed decisions when The Means Of Communication function as a 24 hour, 7 day a week, 365 days a year Propaganda Mouthpiece for the wealthy and powerful?

Whatever the rights and wrongs and who was to blame, Bonty accumulated vast amounts of Blood And Treasure and became a happy man. And if his incredible success was built on the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people in Far Flung Foreign Lands and the impoverishment of others in his own country…well, then, what of it. You Ordinary Folk are but a detail of history.

Now one particular day, three years after stepping down as Leader Of The Country, Bonty (now an immensely wealthy non-executive director of numerous corporations and banks, columnist, after dinner speaker, author, property investor and, irony of ironies, Peace Envoy) was giving a speech (for a very nice fee) to a Select Group of Greedy One Percent Individuals and something very, very strange happened.

Bonty had spent a good half hour lauding the Wonderful And Generous Nature of the fabulously Wealthy and their Inestimable Contribution To The Nation, extolling the virtues of the Magick of “Trickle Down” theory and was just about to start telling a series of Vile Lies about the Leader of a Far Flung Foreign land, that being to lay the ground work for Propaganda in the next day’s Means Of Communication that would eventually become justification for another Illegal War, when his Soul decided it had had enough.

For, oddly, despite spending a lifetime in Bonty’s corrupt body, his Soul had remained Pure, close to God and In Equilibrium With The Universe. But as it saw yet more filth and lies coming down from Bonty’s mind, words aimed at starting yet another war in which yet more Innocents would die, his Soul decided enough was enough. It had always tried to do its God-Given duty, had spent decades telling Bonty, No Don’t Do That Its Horrible. Always it had been ignored, always squeezed out by Bonty’s lust for money and power, by his complete lack of regard for others. It was time to accept defeat and save itself from the Rampant Corruption that this man, this Child Of The Devil, represented. It was off, it was out of here and on to That Which Lay Beyond, Sod This For A Game Of Soldiers.

As Bonty uttered the first of his lies about the Leader of the Far Flung Foreign Land, his face became very red. Sweat broke out on his forehead and poured down his face, he paused as he spoke, discomfited by the intense heat that seemed to have flared up deep inside himself. Then he moaned in pain as more heat bubbled up from somewhere deep inside and steam came off him in great waves, he rolled his head back and screamed as his eyes turned all white, like an egg yolk being boiled… clouds of smoke billowed from his mouth, nostrils and ears and he suddenly, and explosively, burst into flames, fire consuming his body as he stood at his lectern.

Terrified by such a spectacle, his Rich Guests ran screaming from the room, sparing them the site of Bonty’s flaming head exploding into tiny fragments as his Soul made its exit from his Vile Body, a fast-moving Incandescence, shooting upwards, smashing through the nearest window, out into Fresh And Sweet Air and making its escape across a Broad, Bright Blue Sky.

What was left of Bonty’s body collapsed to the floor, lying smouldering by the lectern, and at that point the ground around began to shake and tremor and a large hole opened up in the ground by Bonty’s remains. It was hole so deep that it reached down to Hell itself and from it issued Flame and the Nauseating Smell of Brimstone, and out of the Hole crept a Large, Scaly, Red Hand which snatched away the remains of Bonty and dragged them down to Hell: the hand of the Devil himself, come to reclaim one of his Special Children.

And the moral of this tale is: never trust those who seek to put themselves in positions of authority above you. They are strange and twisted people and seek only to benefit themselves.

This story is taken from my book, “The Curious Little Book of Extraordinary Big Tales, Vol. 1.”




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The Curious Little Book…Tales 4- 6.

In which the Devil devises a cunning plan to add to the Greater Sum of Misery in our lives and much blood is shed as a Fairy is outraged, Trolls go on the rampage and Various Children are saved from a Dreadful Fate

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Here’s to the Freaks. Here’s to the Future.

girlaloneHere’s to boys who like boys, girls who like girls and men who like to wear dresses. Here’s to the woman who doesn’t want to look like an anorexic stick insect from some vile fashion magazine and who knows she is the equal of any man. Here’s to those who don’t have any interest in telling others how to live their lives but have an interest in the lives of others, those who can shed a tear for their fellows, who know it’s not always about “me, me, me” and always remember that “there but for the grace of God go I.” Here’s to those who recognise the Love of God and know that the life we live in this world is but a small fraction of our total existence. Here’s to those who will not accept that a system that hands out opportunity and privilege based on how rich your parents are is neither justified nor justifiable, to those who believe in a level playing field for all. Here’s to those who are, every day and in every way, angry with the world even in the face of their own powerlessness and who don’t know when to shut up about it, refusing to go quietly into the night. Here’s to those who aren’t ready to be the people other people think they should be, who just won’t dress appropriately for their age or do the “sensible” thing. Here’s to those who don’t believe a word they are told, who will always check the “facts” and the “research” before coming to a decision that is entirely their own, be it right or be it wrong. Here’s to those who accept they are different and revel in it, who enjoy standing out in the crowd, who know that they are unique and wonderful individuals but no more unique and wonderful than any other individual. Here’s to those who nobody loves, those who society has cast out to sleep on the street as though they were nothing more than human garbage. Here’s to those who won’t accept authority and see it for what it is; an attempt by flawed, sick and dangerous people to gain power and control over others so that they can satiate their own perverse desires. Here’s to those who are appalled by the brutality we inflict on animals and weep at the way we rape the world that sustains us. Here’s to those who feel outrage that 1% of humanity controls as much wealth as the other 99% does collectively, who are disgusted that even a single child should starve to death in a world of plenty. Here’s to those who have principles and beliefs and who stick to them even when there’s a price to be paid for doing so. Here’s to those who have strange ideas and say stuff that they shouldn’t say, who say “maybe things are not all they seem to be” and who carry on saying it even when others are laughing in their face. Here’s to the gentle, the kind, the loving, the caring; here’s to the meek and to the day when they shall inherit the Earth.

Here’s to the old man standing on a street corner, protesting at the way things are, waving his walking stick in the air and shouting incoherently at passing traffic. Here’s to the different, the strange, the eccentric, the odd, the looked down upon, the ignored, the outcasts, that funny bloke from number 37. Here’s to the freaks. Here’s to the future.

If you enjoy my manically mumbling meanderings please support me by buying my book, “The Curious Little Book of Extraordinary Big Tales, Vol. 1.”



By 2016 the richest One Percent will be wealthier the other 99% of the World!

pigThe entirely engineered and predictable banking crisis of 2008 was a colossal con inflicted upon the rest by the greedy and rapacious One Percent, it represented the largest single transfer of wealth in human history…a transfer from us to the One Percent. And that process is still, via the engine of “austerity,” going on. Oxfam now state that by 2016, now get this, I’m putting it in CAPS in the hope that some of you somewhere might WAKE UP…here we go…BY 2016 THE RICHEST ONE PERCENT WILL BE WEALTHIER THAN THE OTHER 99% OF THE WORLD’S POPULATION COMBINED.

That’s an incredible statistic. In what universe is that justifiable and sustainable? Of course we know the political classes and the scumbag “journalist” presstitutes aren’t going to do anything about this particular inconvenient little truth, politics and the media being wholly-owned subsidiaries of The Plutocracy Inc., so the question is…what are you going to do? Of course, you don’t have to anything, but if you don’t you are so, so fucked and you need to get ready to doff your cap, drop your gaze, get down one knee and make obeisance to neo-feudalism.

I think this is an apt point to reblog my short story “The Greedy One Percent Who Wanted It All and Destroyed Everything.” Considering I originally wrote this story back in 2013 I think it’s remarkably prophetic…will real life events turn out as bleak for the One Percent and the rest of us as they do in the story? God knows…


Once upon a time… many, many years ago in the land of Anywhere, in a world long since forgotten, there was, at one time, a kind of Golden Age. It was not, it has to be said, an age that was Perfect but it was agreed by almost all that it was an age that was much, much better than That Which Had Gone Before.
You see, after Generations Of Struggle against Social Injustice and two Catastrophic And Immensely Bloody Wars with the nearby land of Anotherplace, in which the Ordinary Folk had died and suffered to a catastrophic degree, it was decided by all except the Rapaciously Rich that Things Had To Change.
From that point on, Ordinary Folk were given access to Free Education, Free Healthcare, Pensions, Benefits to help those who fell upon Hard Times and all the advantages of what you would know in your world as a Welfare System. New taxes were introduced to redistribute some of the vast sums of money accumulated, mostly from Stealing, Cheating And Tax Avoidance, by the Wealthy and the Aristocracy over the years (who were collectively known in the land of Anywhere as The One Percent) and Political Reforms introduced to break their stranglehold over the Political And Economic Life of the country. Additionally, the Right to Vote was given to all (except Trolls and Faeries, obviously).
And the land of Anywhere blossomed, for it was found that a populace Free From Hunger And Illness, that was properly Educated and Cared For, produced huge numbers of Talented men and women that previously had Languished due to Poverty And Lack of Opportunity. These Talented men and women drove the land of Anywhere to new heights of success, founding businesses, employing people, making a mark in the worlds of politics, science, medicine and culture. Slowly but surely, the Dead Grip of The One Percent, who had dominated and controlled the land of Anywhere for as long as anyone could remember, was broken.

But within the body of the land of Anywhere a Malignant Cancer was growing.

And the location of the tumour was a small area in the city of Anyplace, known as The Anytown. The Anytown had always been the centre of Financial Services and Banking and the people providing the money behind it, and benefiting from the money it made, had always been The One Percent. As they saw their Power And Wealth eroded by new Taxes And Political Reform, The One Percent swore on oath that, in these changed times, if there was only one thing they would hold on to, it would be their control of The Anytown. For in The Anytown, they saw a means to Restore Their Fortunes and return things to The Natural Order, which they, of course, would be back in charge of.
Using an Ancient And Potent Form Of Magick known as The Old School Tie, The One Percent successfully kept control of The Anytown, the Magick Of The Old School Tie ensuring that all the Really Important positions in the Financial Services and Banking businesses in The Anytown only went to their own kind. Now, whilst the One Percent had to employ some Ordinary Folk in these new Enlightened Times, they were placed in jobs of little real power or influence. Further, if an Ordinary Person had to be employed then great care was taken to employ only a certain type of person: people who, like themselves, were destructively greedy and conspicuously lacking in morals and who cared nothing for others. You may understand these kind of people as being “sociopaths;” in the land of Anywhere this word did not exist, rather such people were regarded negatively (along with people with red hair) as having a “Touch of The Troll” in their blood, which saying is yet another Calumny against the Troll race.
For many years the Rich And Powerful owners of the Anytown brooded on how to roll back the Social And Political Reforms instituted after the Great Wars and claim back what was Rightfully Theirs. And then they hit upon a Plan Of Action.
Slowly but surely they began to suborn the Political Establishment of Anywhere by bribing Politicians, either with direct payments or the promise of Well-Paid Directorships And Consultancies when their Political Careers were over. Then they used their money to invest in, and eventually take over, The Means Of Communication so that they could control all Pronouncements made to The Ordinary Folk.
When the Politicians and The Means of Communication were captured entirely within their silk-lined pockets, The One Percent began the second phase of their plan: to use the Financial Services and Banking businesses of The Anytown as Weapons Of War to destroy the new society that had been created in Anywhere and fully and finally restore their Wealth and Power. To this aim, the now tamed Politicians did as they were instructed and relaxed Regulations that had previously governed Financial Services and Banking and turned Blind Eyes when Obviously Illegal Activities took place.
In The Anytown, traders bought and sold a new product, the Highly Opaque And Risky Financial Instrument Of Death. These were hugely popular as they offered unfeasibly high rates of return and were sold as “Safe And Profitable” investments by The Anytown. However HORFIODs offered such high rates of return as they were based solely on almost unintelligible Mathematical Algorithms and Smoke And Mirrors (as well as Good Old Fashioned Fraud) and very soon, as per their name, they Blew Up Horribly, went Catastrophically Wrong, and Huge Financial Losses were made. But those who ran The Anytown were not concerned. To them, everything was going perfectly to pla¬n. And at what they considered to be the appropriate moment, they threw up their hands in Mock Horror and said that the Entire Financial System would collapse and People Would Starve To Death In The Streets if the losses made from buying and selling the HORFIOD were not paid for by the government, that is to say the ordinary tax payer, of Anywhere. Night after night The One Percent controlled Means Of Communication pronounced to the Ordinary Folk Horror Story After Horror Story of what would happen if money was not Forthcoming to cover the Huge Losses created by trading in the Highly Opaque And Risky Financial Instrument of Death.
Furthermore, The Means Of Communication noted, this financial support would have to be Substantial And Ongoing.
Duly, a Panicked Populace pressured the Politicians (not that they needed much pressuring, having already been thoroughly corrupted by The One Percent), screaming that Something Had To Be Done and money must be sent to The Anytown immediately!

And so it was that funds flowed from Ordinary Folk to The One Percent in Amounts That Were Unprecedented. With the backing of Puppet Politicians and The Means Of Communication, this one-way flow of money went on for year after year. The money was raised by increases in the taxes that Ordinary Folk paid and by huge cuts in spending on the Public Services.

Throughout the land of Anywhere, and much to the delight of The One Percent, it suddenly became difficult to see a doctor if you were ill, educational standards collapsed as teachers were sacked, there were no longer funds to support people who found themselves without work (of which there were now many for few people had money to spend with Local Businesses after the Substantial Tax Rises the Puppet Politicians had imposed) and gangs of bandits, Pirates and ne’er-do-wells took to roaming the streets of Anyplace as a much diminished and demoralised Police Force no longer had the means or the motivation to control them. The situation was made even worse when The One Percent, revelling in their even greater wealth and power, decided they could become yet still richer by using their Puppet Politicians to start a series of Illegal Wars in Far Flung And Almost Unknown Lands. Taxes on Ordinary Folks were raised even further to finance the Production Of Weapons by the Armaments Industry that was, of course, owned by the One Percent.
In a few short years, the land of Anywhere had been reduced to a Sad And Sorry state. The “absolutely necessary” Substantial and Ongoing Financial Support for The Anytown had reduced the Ordinary Folk to Miserable Penury and the Public Services had collapsed completely. Nowhere was this collapse better illustrated than by the Sad And Tragic example of The Asylum Of The Strange And The Different when, after three months of not being paid, employees simply stopped turning up for work. Left unsupervised and unfed, inmates turned upon each other and The Asylum slid into Barbarism and even Cannibalism. Finally, those inmates who had not been Killed And Eaten would die in a huge fire which burnt for three days and three nights (there no longer being an effective Fire Brigade) and razed The Asylum to the ground.
Society was in a Desperate Condition. The lives of The Ordinary Folk were returning to the same Miserable Conditions that had existed before The Power Of The One Percent had been curtailed. And that same One Percent did not care about the misery and suffering they had unleashed with their Highly Opaque Financial Instruments of Death. After all, The Order Of Things was simply going back to the way it was supposed to be, with them in control and owning everything. And as the Ordinary Folk became Poorer And Poorer, they became Richer And Richer. What was not to like? Happy and content, the One Percent sat in their sumptuous houses in their Gated Communities high in the Hills above the city of Anyplace. Protected by high walls and Private Security Guards, the One Percent sat back and enjoyed their wealth.
But the Ordinary Folk had reached Breaking Point. The Misery of Their Lives had become Intolerable. Everywhere in The Land of Anywhere, people had started to ask questions. What had happened to Lives That Had Been So Good? Why did they no longer have work? Why were their children Sickly And Uneducated? And why, most of all, was their money (of which there was now very little) still being paid to the Bankers of The Anytown? Surely now was the time to stop trading in Highly Opaque And Risky Financial Instruments Of Death? And if that meant that losses made by rich people trading in such had to be covered by the rich people themselves, well, was that not the nature of business? Sometimes you take a risk and you lose.

As these Questions Were Asked, a Spirit Of Insurrection grew in the land of Anywhere.

And then came a Spark that would plunge the land into Conflagration….

What happens next? If you want to know buy my book “The Curious Little Book Of Extraordinary Big Tales,” available as an e-book from Amazon:



Dogs Never Die. They Are Sleeping In Your Heart. Every Pet Lover Needs To Read This.

Dogs Never Die. They Are Sleeping In Your Heart. Every Pet Lover Needs To Read This..

The experience of losing a dog is universal for every pet parent. If these wise words help you, or someone you know, even if just a little, then this article has served its purpose.

This article was originally published on and republished here on with permission.

Ernest Montague told DogHeirs, “I wrote this several years ago in memory of Bolo, a black and white Pit Bull who would always go for a walk, right up to the day he died. He might only get 15 feet before he stopped and looked at me and gave me the look: ‘I can’t go any further. But don’t you think for one minute I’m done walking.’”

Some of you, particularly those who think they have recently lost a dog to ‘death’, don’t really understand this. I’ve had no desire to explain, but won’t be around forever and must.

Dogs never die. They don’t know how to. They get tired, and very old, and their bones hurt. Of course they don’t die. If they did they would not want to always go for a walk, even long after their old bones say: ‘No, no, not a good idea. Let’s not go for a walk.’ Nope, dogs always want to go for a walk. They might get one step before their aging tendons collapse them into a heap on the floor, but that’s what dogs are. They walk.

It’s not that they dislike your company. On the contrary, a walk with you is all there is. Their boss, and the cacaphonic symphony of odor that the world is. Cat poop, another dog’s mark, a rotting chicken bone (exultation), and you. That’s what makes their world perfect, and in a perfect world death has no place.

However, dogs get very very sleepy. That’s the thing, you see. They don’t teach you that at the fancy university where they explain about quarks, gluons, and Keynesian economics. They know so much they forget that dogs never die. It’s a shame, really. Dogs have so much to offer and people just talk a lot.

When you think your dog has died, it has just fallen asleep in your heart. And by the way, it is wagging its tail madly, you see, and that’s why your chest hurts so much and you cry all the time. Who would not cry with a happy dog wagging its tail in their chest. Ouch! Wap wap wap wap wap, that hurts. But they only wag when they wake up. That’s when they say: ‘Thanks Boss! Thanks for a warm place to sleep and always next to your heart, the best place.’

When they first fall asleep, they wake up all the time, and that’s why, of course, you cry all the time. Wap, wap, wap. After a while they sleep more. (remember, a dog while is not a human while. You take your dog for walk, it’s a day full of adventure in an hour. Then you come home and it’s a week, well one of your days, but a week, really, before the dog gets another walk. No WONDER they love walks.)

Anyway, like I was saying, they fall asleep in your heart, and when they wake up, they wag their tail. After a few dog years, they sleep for longer naps, and you would too. They were a GOOD DOG all their life, and you both know it. It gets tiring being a good dog all the time, particularly when you get old and your bones hurt and you fall on your face and don’t want to go outside to pee when it is raining but do anyway, because you are a good dog. So understand, after they have been sleeping in your heart, they will sleep longer and longer.

But don’t get fooled. They are not ‘dead.’ There’s no such thing, really. They are sleeping in your heart, and they will wake up, usually when you’re not expecting it. It’s just who they are.

I feel sorry for people who don’t have dogs sleeping in their heart. You’ve missed so much. Excuse me, I have to go cry now.”

This article was originally published on and republished here on with permission.

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Jeremy Clarkson: A case of “Celebrity Cancer?”


pic: daily telegraph

Nasty, bad-tempered, miserable old bugger, Jeremy Clarkson, is in the papers today. He’s been trying to justify punching his producer. apparently it was all down to the stress  he was under at the time and, in particular, because doctors had spotted a “possibly” “cancerous” lump on his tongue. Oh dear, oh dear. An obvious and transparent attempt at rehabilitation. Celebrities have a horribly ignominious record for using illness as 1. and excuse for bad behaviour and 2. as the first step in rebuilding their careers. Expect similar “poor Jeremy” stories in the coming weeks and to see Mr. Clarkson working for the BBC again by the end of the year (after all, the BBC was perfectly happy to employ rampant child abuser Jimmy Savile for years so re-employing a sour-faced git who’s handy with his fists…what’s the problem, what’s not to like?).

This particular Jeremy Clarkson story almost exactly mirrors a story-line in my book “I Really, Really Want It” in which Andrew Manning, celebrity agent to stars in trouble (the man who knows where the bodies are buried, and who buries the bodies…) sets about rescuing the career of reality TV star Joey Camps, which has crashed and burned after he called the Queen a “cunt” on live television: his career-saving prescription for Joey? Celebrity (i.e fake) cancer.

Is Clarkson’s cancer scare “celebrity cancer?” I wouldn’t know and I couldn’t possibly comment, but here’s the “celebrity cancer” chapter from “I Really, Really Want It.” if you’d like a review copy of the book you can contact me on


Never call the Queen a Rancid Old Cunt on live television, even if you have snorted some fat lines of coke and downed half a bottle of vodka. If I ever wrote a “how to” manual on celebrity, that would be the first rule. I suppose I should confess that I’m absolutely not a fan of the Royals myself, I can’t see the point of them. To me they’re an extremely dull bunch of not very intelligent, aristocratic benefit scroungers who get to live free in extremely grand and expensive council houses. And they breed too much. In short, I really can’t get my head around the concept that some inbred idiot should be worthy of respect and privilege simply because they were squeezed out of a “royal” vagina. Weird.

This is what’s going through my head as I sit at home later that night. I have mostly recovered from the horror dropped upon me by Charlie Gold earlier in the day, and I’m having a quiet night in. I’m sitting back, “chilling,” as the young people say, digesting both the events of the day and a beautiful meal that Rosa knocked up for me (something Ukrainian or Russian I believe, made with sour plums and chicken) and slowly drinking my way through a lovely chilled bottle of Krug.

Can you have some Krug? Bollocks you can. Have you any idea how much this stuff costs? Anyway, you need to keep a clear ahead or you’ll not keep up with the pace of events, I don’t want you losing track of things or saying something you’re not supposed to because you’re pissed.

What’s bought on this line of thought is the plight of one of my clients that I do like. To be honest, I fancy the pants off him. He’s one of those rare celebrities who is a decent, if fundamentally screwed up, human being. And he’s gorgeous. Drop dead, fucking gorgeous.

He’s straight, unfortunately. But I’m just as prone to flights of fancy as you are, so you’ll have to forgive my little fantasy. I mean, it’s not like you don’t have any fantasies yourself, is it? For example, I know all about that embarrassing incident from last year, at the office party. Talk about misreading the signs, eh? Poor you, you must have nearly died of embarrassment! How do I know about that? That’s a silly question, I’ve told you before that I know all about you, I think you must be forgetting who I am and what I do.

I’m talking about Joey Camps of course. As you already know, it all happened for him five years back when he was the photogenic winner of TV’s favourite reality show, “We’re Watching You.” From there his good looks won him the role as the face of GK underwear. Suddenly a cute, but basically quite shy, lad from Doncaster found his face and body on television ads and billboards the world over. More modelling work followed, TV appearances, six page spreads in “Hi There” magazine, coffee table books featuring picture after picture of Joey’s sculpted body, a line of men’s toiletries. Nowadays Joey’s fame is global, his smiling face beaming out from posters, televisions, magazines and papers from Birmingham to Beijing. His fame was not even dented by his troubled marriage to the beautiful but flawed Katy Morgan, who died of a drugs overdose just three months after giving birth to twins. If anything this sad incident simply reinforced Joey’s fame as it led to a slew of stories about “brave” Joey as a “tragic” single parent.

Oops, I’m wittering on like a silly old queen aren’t I? Truth be told you know all this stuff about Joey, it’s old news to an avid celeb watcher like yourself. What you really, really want to hear is the juicy stuff, isn’t it? You want to know how Joey’s gone from international heart throb to www dot joeycampsfight4life dot com.

Let’s go back three months.

It’s late at night and I get a panicked and distressed phone call from Joey, he’s yelling down the phone at me, “Andy, you gotta help me, I’m fucked,” he sounds hysterical and on the edge of tears, “I’m so fuckin’ fucked, I’m over, finished, I’ve done meself in!”

“Woah,” I say, “slow down, Joey, take a deep breath, tell me what’s happened…”

“You bin watching the Paul Hunter show?” The Paul Hunter show (once again, you’ll know this, I hear you love to watch it), is the nation biggest chat show, live and primetime every Saturday night.

“, I’ve been busy with work.” In fact, I had been busy doing some rather impressive sexual athletics for a man of my age with a rather gorgeous piece of upmarket rent whom I had just paid and dispatched (to his next punter, I suppose), but Joey doesn’t need to know that, and you, you keep it to yourself. “Joey…are you pissed, are you pissed and coked up?” I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this, “for Christ’s sake, how many times have I told you that substance abuse and live television do NOT go together.”

“I just ‘ad a cupla lines, well, maybe six, like, and ‘alf a bottle of vody, you know me I get a bit nervous, and I guess it got me more than usual cos I ‘adn’t eaten an’ that Paul were bein’ a sarcy cunt. You know what ‘e’s like, snobby twat, an’ ‘e was makin’ out I was this blond bimbo an’ a thick northerner an’ I got right pissed off. Then ‘e started talkin’ about the Royals an’ then, like, ‘e asked me if I ‘ad any thoughts on “monarchy versus Republic,” the fucking, smartarse dickhead, an’ then it just came out an’ I said that we should ‘ave a republic an’ that the Queen is a rancid old cunt…”

Oh, bollocks, cunting buggering shitting arseholes, this is worse than I thought, this is an out and out celebrity car crash death disaster scenario! I smell the acrid whiff of a career in flames. Joey has committed a number of drug and drink related indiscretions over the years, and each time I’ve called in favours and saved his career, but this, this is in another league!

“Joey, Jesus Christ, what the fuck have you done…where are you now?”

“I’m at ‘ome. They cut the cameras after I said the cunt stuff an’ I din’t want to stick around so I ran outta the studio, threw meself in a cab an’ now I’m ‘ere…”

“Okay, good, that’s at least one thing you did right. This is bad, you know that don’t you?”

“I do, Andy, I’m brickin’ meself…” he pauses and speaks again, this time sounding calmer but sad and lost, like a little boy who’s just lost his favourite toy, or a grown up facing the realisation that everything he’s built up over the years is about to turn to shit. “It’s over for me, ain’t it Andy? I’ve screwed it all up, ain’t I? I’ve totally fucked up everythin’!”

Like I said, I’ve a bit of an attachment to Joey, and his tone plucks at my heart (you see, you think I’m a cynical old bastard but the truth is I do have some finer human feelings), and I resolve at that point that I’ m going to get Joey out of this mess, one way or another I’m going to save his career.

“No, Joey, it’ll be fine,” I reply, trying to throw him some hope “we can sort this this, we just need a plan. Let’s just say your career is in intensive care, but it isn’t dead yet! First thing you need to do is to get out of your house because the press are going to be camped outside the place within the hour. Leave the twins with the nanny and tell her that you won’t be back until much later and get round here now. We’ll need to come up with some excuse pretty quick to explain why you said what you did. The papers are going to eat you alive tomorrow, Joey, it’s not going to be pretty so you need to prepare yourself for it.”

Fortunately Joey lives up in Belsize Park, a very short trip even by foot from my place, so I only had a few minutes to marshal my thoughts before the doorbell buzzed. I checked the video intercom, confirmed it was Joey and opened the door to him.

And there he was. Tall, slim, blond, languid and impossibly handsome, big blue eyes and moist, sensual lips, broad shouldered, slim hipped. When I first met him he was a boy really, just twenty one years old. Five years on and he’s matured into a beautiful man. As always when I see Joey my heart beats just that little bit faster. “Quickly, get in, we need to talk,” I say and Joey steps over the threshold, still with his cocky northern swagger, even given present disastrous, career-threatening circumstances.

Moments later we’re in my study, having briefly been interrupted by a rather grumpy Johnny who’s been disturbed by the doorbell, and being fussed over by an ever solicitous Rosa, still awake and happy to look after us even at this hour, bless her. I quickly send them both away, for in the few minutes it’s taken Joey to get here, I’ve already formulated a plan (you’ll learn that about me as we continue our journey together, I’m quick and nimble on my feet) and I need to discuss it with him privately. It’s a simple but daring plan, one where nothing can go wrong. At least that’s what I thought at the time.

“Andy, thanks so much for lettin’ me come round ‘ere…you’re right, them bastard journalist are gonna fuck me over, I don’t know what to say to ‘em, what am I gonna do?”

Joey’s beautiful, sensuous lips tremble and the big blue eyes moisten over with nascent tears and again I find myself wanting to do something, anything, to help him. I realise, with not a little shock, something I have known but repressed for a long time. I don’t just fancy Joey Camps. Truth is, I’m really a little bit in love with Joey Camps. Perhaps even more than a little bit.

I remember we were both seated on that big, old sofa I have in my study, and I reached out to, comfortingly, touch his shoulder, to show him he’s not alone, and suddenly he dissolved into my arms sobbing and I am holding him and being reassuring and, fuck, I’m actually caring about this guy. This is not good, not good at all. I can feel the barrier of professional distance melting away, the client/agent relationship shattering into something much more personal and messy.

As much to calm myself down as anything, I gently push him away, hoping that restoring some physical distance will restore some professional distance, and tell him “Joey, I can’t help you with what’s going to be written and said about you tomorrow, it’s too late for that, that’s already all screwed up, but I can manage the damage medium and long term.” He looks at me and nods, a flicker of hope blossoming in his eyes.

“Here’s the plan, tomorrow you’re going to be the most hated man in Britain so we need to find an excuse for why you said what you said about our, uhm, beloved Queen. And we need it to be an excuse that people will understand, that justifies your actions as a moment of madness caused by stress. It needs to be something that will shift the agenda back in your favour, something that gets the public back on board, something that will save your career and all those lovely sponsorship and advertising deals.”

“Okay,” nods Joey, “tell me, what we gonna do, ‘ow are we gonna find our way out of this bloody mess?”

“You, me old mate, are going to get cancer!”

“Fuck me, cancer, in’t that a bit strong an’ anyways I’m dead ‘ealthy me!”
“Don’t panic, Joey, it’s going to be Celebrity Cancer, which is to say, it doesn’t really exist. You’re going to go on a crash diet, so you look pale and drawn. You’ll pay regular visits to a nice private hospital I happen to know well. As far as anyone’s concerned you’ll be there for radiotherapy or some such stuff. In reality, a dodgy doctor friend of mine will be in charge of your “treatment,” which’ll consist of you sitting down and reading a good book for a couple of hours, or playing a game on your iphone, or whatever it is that you young people get up to nowadays. The press lap up sick celebrity stories, we can make it something like, mmm, testicular cancer, yeh, bollock cancer, that’s a good one, it’s quite fashionable nowadays. We can even get “Charitable and Brave Joey” to give his time free to a testicular cancer awareness campaign, that’ll make you look good. To start, the public will feel sorry for you, then they’ll sympathise with your brave fight against your dreadful illness, they’ll worry what will happen to those beautiful twins of yours should the worst happen to you, and by the time you “get better” in a few months’ time, the public will have taken you back into their hearts. We can use your Facebook page and upload touching pictures of courageous, but ill, Joey every couple of hours and we can Twitter constant updates about your illness and your state of mind. People will find that really, uhm, compulsive, it’ll really grip them. We can even set you up your own fucking website with daily streaming live updates, “joeycampsfight4life dot com.” Just imagine the potential of a site like that, the number of hits it’s going to get and the amount of advertising it could carry!”

“You know what, even though I say it myself, this plan is brilliant! The best part is that you only got your cancer diagnosis yesterday, just before you went on the Paul Hunter show. It gives you the perfect excuse for tonight’s outburst! Oh, the stress, the worry, the shock, the panic, you didn’t know what you were saying, you were worried sick about the twins, you hardly knew where you were, the shock of it all had snatched the ground from beneath your feet. Oh yes, we can have fun with this, save your career and make you a shitload of dosh as well! This whole thing could actually turn out to be a fabulous opportunity.”

“Andy, if you think this’ll work, I’ll do it mate…but isn’t a bit, well, like, cancer, I mean a bit sort of…tasteless?”

“Well, yes, obviously, it’s grossly tasteless but since when did being a celebrity have anything to do with good taste?”
Joey seems undecided for a few seconds, but then something in his face changes and I know he’s made a decision, he’s going to go with it, “what about my management?” he asks.

“They’re to know nothing about our little game. Let them handle the flow of news, set up the website, talk with sponsors, advertisers and all that shit, but as far as they’re concerned your fucking riddled with cancer!”
“Okay” nods Joey, “look, I’m really grateful for this, it ain’t the first time you’ve ‘elped me out…” suddenly those beautiful blue eyes seem to cloud over, “but is this enough to really save me cos I’m a serial fuck up, I mean I’m gonna fuck up again, I know I will, an’ what excuse do we come up wi’then? An’ I really, really want this, the fame, the money, the ‘ouse, the cars. I want to make sure I leave summat for me kids an’ there’s no way I’m goin’ back to flippin’ bloody burgers!”

“Hush, hush, Joey,” I say, again placing a calming hand on his shoulder, “this will work and you will learn from it and you will not fuck up again. You’ll see, six months from now the public will love you even more than they did before tonight’s slip up, your “treatment” will have worked, you’ll have conquered your “cancer” and everything will be back to normal!”

Joey looks me straight in the eye, for some reason he seems suddenly infinitely sad and says “let’s do it, Andy, let’s make me ill…”

In retrospect of course, I really should have paid more attention to that look of sadness and Joey’s comments about how much he really, really wanted fame: and the remark about the kids…how the fuck did I miss that? I guess it’s like I said, at the time it seemed such a simple plan.

What do you mean, you thought Joey’s cancer was real? For God’s sake, I know I said you were naïve but now your just being plain silly! Use your brain. Don’t use your brain. Just don’t believe everything you’re told, things are rarely as they seem.



Is David Cameron a knobjockey?


Dave “Where am I” Cameron & some of his best Eton Chums. These people are now ruling the country. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Why is it that a nation of 60 million people can only be ruled by people from one school? The rest of us must be, like, really thick!

Is David Cameron a knobjockey? No sodding idea, to be honest. I mean, he was an Eton boy so presumably he’s familiar with the concept of buggery in the dorms and I can confirm with absolute certainty that he is an idiot promoted well beyond his pay grade by dint of the fact that he had a rich dad and went to the right school (don’t you just love the English class system…did you know that 47% of all propaganda peddlers, sorry, “journalists” writing for the “serious” “press” went to public school? the other 60 million of us must be, like, well dumb, innit) and I can also confirm that his career was aided by his readiness to assist the plutocrats that own him to butt-rape the rest of us back to feudalism. But the knobjockey stuff…couldn’t tell you….

However…I did make you click through on the link didn’t I? So…if you’re impressed with my guerrilla marketing and desirous of more delight and delectation, why not read a bit about (maybe even buy) my book, links here:

The Curious Little Book Of Extraordinary Big Tales at

The Curious Little Book Of Extraordinary Big Tales at

On a personal note as a gay man, I hope to God that Cameron isn’t a knobjockey: the thought of someone like that being a member of my tribe is almost too appalling to contemplate.