When Class & Wealth make Good Love go Bad.

knifetrollOnce upon a time in the land of Anywhere, in a world long since forgotten, there lived, in the fine and prosperous city of Anyplace, a charming young couple. The couple were not yet Married or even Living in Sin (for this was as common in the land of Anywhere as it is in your own time and place), rather they were Courting with a view to Getting Married.

It was agreed by the people of the neighbourhood that the young couple were indeed a very handsome pair who seemed very happy together, Much In Love and, oh, what beautiful children they would have.

So, all was well with this charming young couple. Until.

Until Class and Money raised their ugly heads.

You see, there was a considerable difference in the Social Standing of each half of this particular Lovely Young Couple. The Boy, who we shall know as Frederick, was of humble origins, for his parents were farmers. He, himself, had come to the city of Anyplace at the age of eighteen to pursue his love of Painting, which it was generally agreed he was really rather good at. One day, maybe, he would be a Rich and Famous Painter. But maybe not, for few of those Equally Blessed and Cursed with an Artistic Temperament learn to Monetise Its Value. At least that’s the way the parents of The Girl, who we shall know as Isobel, thought.

Isobel’s parents were Concerned Parents who considered themselves to have their daughter’s Best Interests At Heart. They did not approve of Isobel’s relationship with Frederick for the boy’s chosen occupation and humble background simply were not good enough, he was an Unsuitable Suitor. Isobel’s parents were Wealthy And Successful merchants who had made a fortune trading and selling insurance against Troll attacks, Troll Depredation Insurance as it was known in the land of Anywhere. They considered it entirely realistic that within a decade or so, given more hard work on their part and a Good Marriage on Isobel’s, their family could join the ranks of the Truly And Extraordinarily Wealthy One Percent and live in one of the Fine Mansions in the hills outside Anyplace.

For this reason, they decided that Isobel’s romance with Frederick had to come to an end. The parents had believed that Isobel would grow out of Her Infatuation with the boy, but over a year had passed now since the two had met and still that had not happened. The girl obviously needed a Talking To, she had to be made to see The Error of Her Ways.

And so the Concerned Parents sat Isobel down and explained to her The Way Of The World. They explained to her that her boyfriend, though very handsome and talented in an artistic way was, given his chosen career path, unlikely ever to have Real Money. Who then would buy her all the Gorgeous Dresses And Shoes, from the chicest shops in Anyplace, that she was so fond of? And the jewellery? And the exotic perfumes? And where would she live? Did she really want to live her life in Frederick’s poky little rented flat in a Poor Area of the city? And imagine, if they should have children, there would be no money for a nanny and she would have to raise them herself! Oh, the indignity of it all. How her friends would laugh at her!

Isobel sat there and listened to her parents. And at this point I know you want me to say that Isobel weighed her Love for Frederick against all the Shallow Concerns that her parents had raised and came down firmly on the side of Love. I’m afraid not. For Isobel was truly her parents’ daughter. She was shallow, and she was obsessed with money and position. Instead, she concluded her parents were right. Frederick had to go, he really was an Unsuitable Suitor. She had to make a Good Marriage. That way she would get all the Good Things from life that she deserved so.

The very next day she sent one of her father’s servants to the lowly area of town where Frederick lived to deliver him a letter. In the letter, she told Fredrick that she did not love him and never had, he had been but a Diversion that had Run Its Course and she no longer wanted to see him or even know him.

Poor Frederick was heart-broken. He knew he and Isobel had indeed loved each other. Why had this happened? He did not understand.

Lovelorn and lost, Frederick took to waiting outside the house where Isobel lived. He would wait until she left the property and follow her around the city. He did not do this to stress or distress, for Frederick was a Truly Good Man with nothing but Love in his Soul, rather he did it because he still loved her intensely, despite her Brutal Rejection. Even to see her from afar filled his heart with joy.

Unfortunately, Frederick’s Sad And Lost behaviour did not go unnoticed. In fact his following of Isobel’s every footstep became the Subject Of Gossip. When this Gossip reached the ears of Isobel’s father he was Deeply Disturbed. Fearing that such Gossip may damage his daughter’s chances of making a Good Marriage, he decided that Something Had To Be Done.

Now, Isobel’s father had, like all wealthy people, a dark little secret. You see, the market in Troll Depredation Insurance in the land of Anywhere is fuelled by the on-going and continuous nature of Troll attacks and general Troll-related mischief. Unknown to the public, though, the majority of said Troll attacks were instigated and paid for by Isobel’s father to keep demand for his insurance services buoyant. This was a vital constituent of his business’s marketing strategy.

For this reason, he had Extensive Contacts within the Troll community and decided to use these to “warn off” Frederick.
One night, a particularly large and vicious Troll (with a hefty payment from Isobel’s father in his pocket) snuck into the city of Anyplace under Cover Of Darkness. Stealthily, the Troll made his way to Frederick’s small flat. Skilfully and quietly he broke in, found his way into Frederick’s bedroom and bundled the hapless fellow into a Large Sack he had bought with him for just such a purpose.

Throwing the sack, kicking and screaming Frederick and all, over one burly shoulder the Troll made his way back out of Frederick’s flat and ran through the streets of Anyplace at that incredible speed that can be attained by a Troll in a hurry, that being slightly faster than the animal that you know in your world as a cheetah.

Soon, the Troll and Frederick were outside the City Limits, the Troll still running. A few minutes later and Frederick and his kidnapper were deep within an isolated patch of forest.

The Troll stopped. He dropped the sack from his shoulder and shook it until Unfortunate Fredrick fell out. Then taking a hammer and a sharp knife, before the Dazed And Confused Frederik had time to react, he sliced deep cuts up and down the poor man’s face and used the hammer to break every finger on both of his hands.

Bewildered, shocked and in deep pain Frederick lay there in the dirt of the forest floor still unsure as to what had just happened. Then all came clear. As Frederick laying crying and bleeding, the Troll crouched down next to him and told him to stay away from Isobel: if he did not then he and Frederick would meet again and that meeting would make this one seem like a cosy chat between friends.

Standing up, the Troll threw his head back and gave a long, loud and evil laugh (more for effect than anything else as Troll’s are very given to the Dramatic Gesture) before sprinting away.

Frederick is left there, in the dirt, mud and leaves, sliding in and out of consciousness, slowly bleeding to death from the wounds on his face for the Troll (for one can always have faith in the ability of a Troll to mess things up) in his enthusiastic violence, had cut far too deeply, turning what should have been a warning into a Potentially Fatal Occurrence.

And bled to death he would have done if, at that exact point had not Fate, the Blind Old Spinstress who weaves together the Threads of Our Lives, decided to intervene. For along came a Fairy.

Now, in the land of Anywhere, Fairies are pretty much universally feared. This is for two reasons. The first is that they can see deep into the Human Soul and define a person’s nature in seconds. You can hide nothing from a Fairy. The second reason is the Duality Of Their Nature. Fairies are capable of using their Not Inconsiderable Powers Of Magic for either Great Evil (their tendency to steal human children for nobody knows what purpose, for example) or Great Good. Unfortunately, Fairies have a naturally mischievous nature so they tend to come down on the evil side. Needless to say, then, people in the land of Anywhere try to avoid Fairies at all costs.

So how would this duplicitous and untrustworthy by nature Fairy choose to react to poor, injured Frederick?

Fortunately for Frederick, this particular Fairy had a Story. What you would not know in your world, is that Fairies live for precisely 897 years and 13 days. And then, they simply de-materialise and cease to exist. Now on that particular day, our particular Fairy had reached the 897th year and 3rd day of her existence. During her life she had been a particularly Mischievous Fairy and, to not mince words, she had never used her powers for good, not even once. Staring down at Frederick, now completely unconscious, she examined his Soul and saw that there was nothing bad there, he was a Truly Good Man who was full of only Love and Beauty, a man who was a painter and a True Artist, and she was moved: she could help this Good Man, and finally do a Good Thing in her life. In doing so she could not only Redeem herself but also pay tribute to the Beloved Memory of her Fairy life-partner who had reached her 897th year and 13th day just the year before and who had been, as much as it’s possible, a Good Fairy.

Seeking Her Redemption, the fairy hovered above Frederick, closed her eyes, spread her arms and opened her mouth, from which came a low humming noise followed by a cloud of glittering, golden dust which gathered around the Fairy’s head before streaming off in two directions, half of the dust cloud coating Frederick’s bleeding face, the other half his broken fingers. The wounds glittered and shone, the Fairy closed her mouth and opened her eyes, the dust disappeared and Frederick’s wounds were healed: his face was scarred and still mutilated but no longer bleeding: his fingers were knobbly and twisted and deformed, but no longer broken.

Frederick would not now die of his wounds, but the fairy was aware that there were limits to her restorative powers. Frederick would no longer be a handsome man, indeed his face would be something that, on dark nights, would scare Small Children. And his hands. His battered hands. He would never paint again. So the Fairy decided to give this Good Man one more gift. From this day on, as long as Frederick held a paint brush in his hands, Fairy magic would do the rest and he would be able to commit to canvas the beauty that was in his Soul. As a final caveat, and just because she didn’t want to besmirch the reputation of Fairies by seeming too nice, Frederick would only be able to paint the Beauty of His Soul for as long as he remained a Truly Good Man.

Her job done and feeling very Righteous, the Fairy went on her way. Now she had done something good she could spend her final days being especially bad: she was off to torment some Trolls and maybe steal a human child or two. What fun she was going to have!
Eventually Frederick awoke and found his way out of the forest. Back at his humble home he sat down and cried. What had happened to him? He remembered the Troll’s warning and the savage attack. But after that? How had his wounds healed so quickly? Somebody must have helped, but who? And why had they bothered? He had lost so much. He knew he could never see Isobel again, not just because the Troll would kill him but also because what woman would be interested in a man with such a hideously scarred face? Just as bad, Frederick realised, looking at his twisted fingers, that he’d never paint again. What was the point in living?

For some days Frederick lay in his bed trying to die but frustratingly unable to do so.

Suddenly, like an alarm clock or a small bomb going off, he was filled with an Over-powering and Irresistible urge to paint. But that was ridiculous. What could he do with his crippled fingers?

Nevertheless, within a few short minutes Frederick found himself in front of a blank canvas and a selection of paints. Awkwardly, he clasped a paint brush and gasped in amazement as his hand and arm took on a life of their own, painting a picture unbidden and unaided. He passed into a calm and warm trance, awaking only when the picture was finished. And what a picture it turned out to be. It was completely abstract in nature, shot through with beautiful colour and shapes that pleased and enticed the eye, soothed the mind and raised the spirits. Frederick saw he had just done something no artist had done before. He had created a picture of the Beauty In His Soul.

From that day Frederick would carry on painting and after a number of years was immensely rich and well-regarded, his paintings being seen as things of True Beauty, Much in Demand and Highly Valuable. And despite his physical short-comings and loss of his Beloved Isobel, Frederick became happy with his life, he would eventually move into a fine house in the Best Part Of Town and become a Noted Society Figure.
Meanwhile, things had gone badly for Isobel. Her family’s business had collapsed when a member of one of the families of the One Percent had spotted the potential in Troll Depredation Insurance and had started up a Highly Geared Business that priced Isobel’s family out of the market with Predatory Pricing.

The family’s wealth vanished like Fairy Mist on a summer’s morning and Isobel’s parents had to throw themselves upon the Government and move into Social Housing. Upon finding out that Isobel was no longer wealthy all her Fine Friends deserted her and her husband (who had turned out to not be such a good catch after all) threw her and their two children out into the street and had the doors to his fine home barred against them.

Seeking Shelter for her and the children, the Devastated Isobel went to her parents’ dilapidated Government tenement down a dark and dirty ginnel. They decided they had more than enough of their own problems and told her and her mewling brats to seek shelter elsewhere.
Desperate, Isobel could think of only one other place to go. To the home of a man who was now a Rich And Famous Artist: a man she had once loved, a man who, in her heart of hearts, she still loved. A man who perhaps still loved her.

And so Isobel appeared on Frederick’s doorstep.

Upon opening his door and seeing Isobel there, Frederick found himself lost for words as all his old feelings of love for her came flooding back. She explained her circumstances to him, begged his forgiveness for the way she had treated him and appealed for help, if not for her at least for the Children.

At that point Frederick nearly, nearly, took Isobel back into his life. But suddenly his heart hardened. He thought of the pain and physical damage she had caused him. He could not forgive her. He just could not do it. Quietly he closed the door in her face and she and her Children slunk away to be lost in the Fog Of Forgotten Stories that make up so much of history.

For a few moments, Frederick stood in the Grand Hallway of his Grand Home and thought maybe, just maybe, he should have forgiven Isobel and taken her in? Perhaps, even at this late stage, they could have built a life together? No, she had been too cruel to him, he had done The Right Thing.

Later that night, Frederick decided to try and improve what had been a bad day by painting one of his Much Desired artworks. Frederick sat in front of a blank canvas. As usual his hands and arms began their work and he lapsed into his familiar trance-like state. And then he awoke. And what was before him was a disaster. The canvas was black, just black, an expanse of flat, dead, emotionless, meaningless black paint. It was a nothingness, bereft of Beauty And Soul. In a fit of panic, Frederick grabbed another blank canvas and tried again. The result was another dead mass of black. He tried again and again, working through the night but nothing changed and by the morning he had accumulated a collection of eight worthless, pointless, lifeless black canvases.

Frederick collapsed to the floor and sobs racked his body. He knew that he had made a bad decision, done the Wrong Thing and that something inside him had died, a thing of Great Beauty had left his life for ever, a Precious Gift had been taken away and would never be returned.

Israel & Gaza: the Impermeability of Bigotry.

bigotAs I’m sure that  you, like me, have been appalled by the current state of affairs in Gaza, in particular the slaughter and mutilation of Palestinian children.

Over the past few days I have tried to salve my feelings of raging impotence, in the face of a mass murder of innocents that our political scum pig class seems determined to ignore (even to give tacit support to) by tweeting about this desperate situation.

Oh dear, silly me. What a bad person I am to oppose child murder.

The twitter abuse I’ve been exposed to for my “anti-Semitic” comments (most of which came not from Jewish people but anti-Muslim, anti-Arab racists) is hilarious, here’s a few examples:

*I’m a fascist and Jew-hater (obviously). The fact my comments were aimed at the state of Israel, not Jewish people, counted for nothing. I’m an anti-Semite, and that’s that. Truth be told I think Jewish people are often smart and funny, and as a general rule they’re no more or less likely to be idiots than the rest of us. Oh, sorry, none of this is about truth.

*My opinion doesn’t matter as I’m a “dirty queer” who will soon be “dead with the aids.” Thanks, but I hope to be around for a few years yet.

*I am being paid by Hamas to tweet anti-Jewish propaganda. I’ll put that down payment on the new yacht then…

*My personal favourite: as I tweet I am sitting there in a Nazi uniform wearing an Adolf Hitler wig. A string of pearls and a nice twin set maybe, but a Hitler wig? No dear, certainly not dear…

*I am a supporter of international terrorism and an “Islamo-fascist.” Ermm..I’m gay.

*People like me deserve to get cancer and die. Yes, obviously.

*I have been reported to UK counter-terrorist police and will be arrested soon. I have packed an overnight bag and I await the knock at the door.

*All the pictures of dead Palestinian children I have tweeted are fakes and have been quickly knocked up by me on Photoshop. Not gracing that with a response.

And this went on, and on, and on. Have these people got nothing better to do? How can anybody be so overwhelmingly consumed with bile and hatred?

What interested me particularly was that my detractors had absolutely NO ISSUE with the rights and wrongs of dropping thousands of tons of high explosives on a densely populated urban area. The Israeli government was right, the Palestinians were wrong. No discussion, no historical or political perspective, nothing. It was a simple fact that all Palestinians, even the children, were terrorists, they’d bought it on themselves, it was their fault they were being killed, they deserved it. The parallels with Nazi Germany are grimly ironic but obvious. Before they embarked on the mass slaughter of Jews, homosexuals, the mentally ill and pretty much anyone else they didn’t like very much, the Nazis first dehumanised them by presenting them, again and again, as “untermensch,” (sub-humans): they recognised it was much easier to kill people if you first strip away their humanity, present them as less than human. And that’s the game my twitter bigot friends are playing. They don’t want the Palestinians seen as people, they’re not, they’re terrorists, they deserve to die. They are less than human. And anyone who dares to challenge that idea must be shut down, because if they’re not then the bigots might have to question their own twisted logic and confront the evil and rottenness in their souls. They might have to think. Hence their bigotry must be completely and utterly impermeable.

Accepting that bigots actually are Teflon when it comes to any idea that challenges their beliefs is not a problem on twitter, you can just block them. But in real life, no such handy block button exist, so then what do you do?

Things the Wealthy & Powerful Get Away With: The “Roasting” & Humiliation of Maggie


Who is The Producer?

Excerpt from my forthcoming book, “I Really, Really Want It,” a black as pitch comedy that uses fictional and composite characters to explore the troubling nature of celebrity.


The Producer is on the phone. And he is not happy. He’s talking with the editor of Britain’s best-selling Sunday tabloid. That dumb cunt who was in his office the other day, the girl whose tits he spunked on, what was her name? Zandra, that was it, the slutty one. Stupid cow has only gone and taken her story to a newspaper! Who does she think she is? Like any paper is going to print something that he doesn’t want printed!

It’s a short conversation, the editor mentions that the girl says she was physically and sexually abused by The Producer. He’s sure there’s nothing in it, that probably she was just bitter and angry and couldn’t take the constructive criticism that The Producer was giving her. Exactly so, says The Producer, the girl was a bit of a nut-job frankly, and by the way would the editor like to run an exclusive on his latest boy-band sensation next week? The editor says he would, that it’s very kind of The Producer to offer, and obviously the girl is psychologically unbalanced and they’ll not be running with anything she has to say.

The Producer hangs up, that’s that sorted, silly bitch. He’s still pissed off, though. Not that the girl went to the press per se. That kind of thing is not a problem to him. He’s pissed off that she should be so ungrateful as to go whingeing to the papers after he invited her to his office to give her, what was it the editor said, oh yeh, constructive advice. Ungrateful slut, skank, whore from hell!

Anyway, he’s got more fun lined up today, so fuck her! Today is a different kind of Fun Day. The Producer doesn’t just get off on sexually abusing the innocents he invites into his lair. Sometimes he finds it just as much fun to vary his routine, to leave the sex bit out and just go in for pure, unadulterated, blistering, nasty as fuck humiliation. Every now and then, instead of a pretty boy or girl a fucking ugly one (a “fugly”) will find his or her way from the “reject” pile to the “see” pile, specifically to be invited in for a “roasting.” The aim of “roasting” is to so humiliate and insult the victim that they are reduced to a quivering, crying wreck, their self-esteem should be left in tatters, any illusions they may have about their talent should be shattered and any hope they have for the future comprehensively extinguished. The victim should be made to feel like the worthless piece of shit that they are. The Producer remembers one girl who actually pissed herself with fear. That was a particularly good roasting, it gave him a stonking hard on and fueled sadistic masturbatory fantasies for weeks afterwards.

That’s why, today, he’s invited Maggie to his office. Maggie is twenty-one and works in a call center, but she want to be famous. He’s seen and heard the material she sent in. Ironically, she’s got a great a voice (not that he’ll tell her that, obviously), but she’s fat, drab and unattractive. All that adds up to a massive no-no in The Producer’s mind. Fat and ugly people do not become famous, they shouldn’t even have careers, period. After all, what is the point of ugly, fat people? The Producer doesn’t know why they think they have a right to exist, let alone to think that they should have even the smallest chance of being famous! They must be punished for such ridiculous aspiration, taught a lesson they won’t forget, be reminded that they are physically repulsive and useless.

The Producer’s P.A. knocks softly on his office door, he calls her to “come,” she opens the door and lets in Maggie. As Maggie walks into his office the door swings quietly shut behind her and The Producer presses that handy button under his desk that locks the door and closes the blinds.
“Hullo, Maggie, how are you?”
“I’m well, sir, very well, I’m so excited to be here, it’s like a dream come true!”
“That’s good, Maggie, love. Please, come forward, stop moving around so much, dear, and stand in the circle, there, in the carpet in front of my desk, that’s it, good girl”

Maggie moves nervously forward. The Producer assesses her coolly. Seeing her in the flesh he’s very, very angry with her. Up close and personal she looks even fatter and uglier than he thought. She is short, about five foot four, she has curly brown hair which is down to her shoulders and badly cut, she has a broad, flat face with small brown eyes, a big nose and narrow lips, she even has acne for fucks sake! Who the fuck does she think she is? Doesn’t she understand that fame is for pretty people?
“Well now,” says The Producer, “I’ve reviewed what you sent in to me and I’ve some comments to make, which I hope you will find enlightening.”
“Thank you sir, any tips or advice you could give me…well…I’d be very grateful…”
“All right then, I’ll bear your request for feedback in mind. First of all I’d like to ask you a question, do you think you can sing?”
“Well, yes, I do sir, I hope so, sir!”
“And do you think that being able to sing is something that can make you a star?”
“I guess it must help, sir…”
“Ah, well that’s where you’re wrong, dear. It’s completely fucking irrelevant, none of my acts can sing, they just speak into a microphone and computer programming does the rest.”
“And that little fact, Maggie, leaves you with a problem, because even if I were to say you had a great voice, which I’m not by the way, that still wouldn’t be enough for you to succeed in this business. The most important factor would be how I chose to market you and at what audience I intend to aim you, and that’s really determined by how good you look. Bearing that in mind I can now give you your feedback… unfortunately for you, Maggie, you don’t look good at all. I’m afraid you’re fat, far too fat. I’m sorry if you don’t like what I’m telling you, but I’m a plain speaking man who says it how it is.”
The Producer is pleased to see that Maggie’s thin little lips are hanging open and that her face has gone red with embarrassment.
“But…but…but I could lose weight!”
“Oh sure, you could lose weight but there would be no point because as well as being fat I’m afraid that you’re also very ugly. Very ugly indeed. Pig fucking ugly, in fact. You’d simply go from looking like a fat, ugly pig to looking like a thin, ugly pig!” The Producer laughs at his own little joke, and continues: “in fact, Maggie, you know what, I’m really fucking annoyed that you’ve come here today, you’re totally wasting my time…I mean look at the state of you, you’ve even got fucking spots for Christ sake!”
“B-b-but…but…you…you a-a-asked me to come” stammers Maggie, who is now crying.
“Shut up, woman, don’t bloody interrupt me…now where was I? Oh yes…you’ve wasted my time today. I mean for fucks sake, take a look in the mirror, girl! You’re an obese, piggy, minger, a fucking charity shag, you’re so fucking ugly that you’d be the fucking booby prize in a fucking “let’s see who can pull the dog” competition. Do you really, really think anybody would pay good money to see you, a performing pig with spots, a bad haircut and saggy tits onstage? You’re fucking deluded, utterly deluded. I mean, what the fuck do you think you have to offer? Look at you, you’re a sad excuse for a woman, you’re as ugly as warthog with smallpox and fat as an obese elephant on a junk food diet! The idea of you ever being famous is ridiculous, fucking ridiculous and the upshot of your delusions is that I, a busy and important man, end up having to waste time on people like you, a fat, ugly, piggy-faced, acne-ridden, drab, no hope, pathetic skank! You, Maggie, are a troll with tits.”
The Producer gets up from his desk and walks over to the circle in the carpet where Maggie, now quaking and crying loudly, is standing. “Now have you got the message, girl, has it drilled through your thick skull to that pea-sized lump of turd that you call a brain? You haven’t got a chance of making it, not a chance. Listen to me, you’re too fat and too ugly to be famous. It ain’t going to happen. Not now, not ever, so go back to your sad little job in your sad little call center and maybe one day you’ll marry a sad little man who’s just as ugly as you and together you’ll breed a deformed brood of sad, no-hope, gut bucket, disgusting looking baby trolls who’ll grow up to be as useless and troll fucking ugly as their parents!”

The Producer is standing just a couple of inches from Maggie, leaning over her, his spit flecks her hair as he rants. He has a hard on. Not because he finds Maggie attractive, obviously not and God forbid, but because he has power over. He has humiliated, destroyed her. He can almost smell her fear, her embarrassment, her pain. He grabs Maggie’s shoulders, spins her round and shouts in her face, “now get out of my sight you ridiculous, worthless, repulsive, tub of lard!” He pushes her roughly towards the door of his office.
Maggie is distraught, she can’t believe this has happened. Poor girl, her dream has turned into a nightmare. She tries to get out of the office, yanking at the door handle, banging her fists against the door, screaming and crying. But the door is still locked and as The Producer watches her frantic and unsuccessful attempts to leave his office, he becomes increasingly aroused by her distress.

He puts a hand down to his crotch and feels his throbbing erection. He decides he’s had enough fun with Maggie and presses his special button to open the office door, Maggie runs out, screaming and hysterical.

The Producer sits back at his desk and laughs and laughs. Oh, what fun he has had! When he’s finished laughing, he replays Maggie’s roasting back through his mind and masturbates enthusiastically, as he feels an orgasm approaching he stands and walks, still wanking, over to the circle in his office carpet and shoots a heavy load of sperm directly on to it.

The Upstanding Lady of Indeterminate Age & a Silence so Loud it was Deafening.

soulfireOnce upon a time in the land of Anywhere, in a world long since forgotten, there lived, in the fine and prosperous city of Anyplace, an Upstanding Lady Of Indeterminate Age. Sitting one day in her neat little home, alone as was normal in these later years of hers, she was deafened by the screaming silence of a house that used to be so busy but that was now so empty. She decided she had to escape this Persistent And Raucous Noise Of Nothingness. She craved the tranquillity of open, green countryside and the possibilities of Broad, Bright Blue Skies. She needed a change from the Numbing And Persistent Progression Of Her Silent Days.

Donning a pair of Sensibly Flat Shoes, the Lady Of Indeterminate Age strode decisively out of her house, heading for the hills outside the city: not those made ugly by the gross mansions of the Greedy And Reprehensible One Percent, but those that are Further On And Further Away.

Her journey was long but uneventful, even though it passed through territory known to be plagued by Fairies and Trolls. Not that this concerned our Lady: like Joan Crawford in your world, she had “been around the block” and there were no longer things in This Life that caused her fear. In fact, one Rheumy Old Troll did spot her but, using that Sixth Sense that Trolls have, he decide she was best left undisturbed for he knew, even if she did not, that this was one Lady who had an Appointment With Destiny.

Presently, the Lady came upon the chain of hills she desired to visit. Setting her sites upon the highest hill in the chain, she began to climb. Up and up, and up until the hill levelled off into a wide and tranquil plateau, carpeted in lush green grass, spotted with beautiful wild flowers, and open to the possibilities of the Broad, Bright, Blue Sky.

Setting foot on the plateau, our Lady became aware that a strong Wind was blowing, but it was a pleasant Wind: fierce, powerful but in some way warm and comforting. And as she walked through the Wind, attracted for some reason she could not fathom towards the centre of the lush greenness before her, it seemed to strip away the everyday physical pain of being of An Indeterminate Age and soon it seemed even her Persistently Aching Knees were young and flexible. Our Lady was even sure that, had she had a mirror, she could have held it up to a face that was no longer wrinkled and saggy but firm and unlined, bejewelled with the bright, hopeful, unclouded Eyes Of Youth. Even more remarkably, she was delighted to discover the wind had also succeeded in blowing away the Cobwebs Of Unhappiness And Loneliness that the capriciously malicious Blind Old Weaver that is fate had woven around the Later Years Of Her Life.

Truth be told, upon reaching the middle of the plateau, our Lady felt quite the Giddy Young Girl again.

And there, in the centre of a green plateau under a Broad, Bright, Blue Sky, she decided to simply stand still and give herself to this Warm And Happy Wind and discover where it would take her.

As she stood, the Wind enfolded her. It wrapped its arms around her and her held her tight like her loving and loved husband, dead these ten years gone, a man who had woven a web beneath her, made of love and gossamer thread, to catch her should she fall. It whispered enjoyable nonsense in her ears, in the endlessly charming voices of children now grown and living lives of their own, and it sensuously caressed her breasts and between her legs like the stunningly handsome younger lover she had taken in middle age, who taught her nothing of love but everything of the pleasures of the body. At some points the wind would grow to an intensity that our Lady was sure would knock her down, but then, instead, it would seem to be holding her up: using its own strange wisdom, the Wind knew never to blow stronger than she could bare.

The Wind became more and more intense, enfolding and absorbing, filling and possessing her consciousness until it felt to our Lady not like air rushing past her, but her life, played out in thoughts, feelings and emotions, a fast-flowing stream of consciousness. It was her story. And it had come full circle, it was finished. Nothing to regret, nothing to fear. The most natural thing in the world. An ending and a beginning.

Now the Wind reaches a new peak of power, stripping away our Lady’s shoes and clothes and scattering them across the plateau. It blows the hair from her head, eyebrows and intimate areas, and as it begins to peel off her skin in great, loose flaps our Lady has a sense of Coming Apart. She feels no pain, no panic, just a sense of freedom.

Next to go were her eyes, the Wind popping them out of their sockets, the brain following closely behind, squeezing out of the spaces where the eyes had been. Cartilage, muscle and internal organs were the last to be blown away and now our Lady was nothing but a skeleton and a Soul, standing there on an open plateau and had you also been there you would have been blinded for the Soul of the Lady burned with the Brightness Of A Thousand Stars, sitting Incandescent inside her ribcage until the Wind embraced it and carried it up higher and higher, speeding it triumphantly across a Broad, Bright, Blue Sky on a Final Exhilarating, Blissful Journey.

Some months later, our Lady’s skeleton was discovered, just a pile of old bones, lying atop that isolated plateau. Nobody could be sure to whom these bones had once belonged and it was assumed that they were the Mortal Remains of some Unfortunate Traveller who had been attacked and eaten by Trolls. Thus the Upstanding  Lady Of An Indeterminate Age slipped silently and unnoticed into the dense fog of Forgotten Stories which makes up so much of history.

The downing of Flight MH17 and the Shaming of Journalism.

Site of a Malaysia Airlines Boeing 777 plane crash is seen in the settlement of Grabovo in the Donetsk regionThis is post is a criticism of journalists. Not all of them, there are some very brave and very honest journalists out there, but far too few…

If you look at the TV news and press this morning then you’ll see that Russia was behind the shooting down of Malaysian Airways flight MH17, or if not Russia then Russian backed separatists using Russian supplied “Buk” missiles.

Okay, that’s a given then, no questions to be asked, case proven.

Not quite. No. There are actually many questions that should be asked in relation to this tragic incident, but it seem that journalists, those brave, unbiased truth-seekers, can’t be bothered to do so.

Why is that? Firstly, it’s because most journalists are lazy and not very bright. Many years ago I worked in PR and I quickly learned that the best way to get a journalist to write what you wanted was as difficult and challenging as giving him/her a well-written press release. You could then rely upon journalistic laziness and lack of desire to work/check the facts to ensure that said press release would be printed or broadcast pretty much word for word. Secondly, it’s because concepts like journalistic “integrity” and “balance” are handy little myths sold to us chavs to keep us quiet and keep us thinking that we live in a functioning democracy supported by a healthy, robust and truth-seeking Fourth Estate. Shit, I’ve just pissed myself laughing….

Truth is, journalists are willing and supportive captives of the media organisation that employs them, which organisation is in turn captive of and facilitator for the political interests of the wealthy and connected. Thus (as examples) those working for the hopeless, bias, smugly middle-class infested BBC say whatever the UK government says they should say, those working for the hate-filled Murdoch organisation spout the Neo-Con line coming out of the US State Department.

And amongst all that bias, there’s no-one to ask the obvious questions about who really shot down flight MH17. So, for all the brain-dead journo’s out there, here a quick Journalism 101 for you:

*How does it serve Russian interests to shoot down a civilian airliner? Why would Russia want more US involvement in Ukraine, more international approbation, more sanctions? How does this incident serve Russia’s interests in way, shape or form?

*Why has America NOT published any satellite photograph evidence from the satellite it had above this area of Ukraine at the time?

*Why has Russian photographic evidence of Buk missile batteries (which would have been capable of targeting and downing Flight MH17) in the Donetsk area not been shown by the Western media?

*Why has Ukraine not explained why one of its fighter jets was flying 5 kilometers behind MH17 before it was shot down?

*The downing of Flight MH17 does, strangely, suit US interests very well. The fascist overthrow of the democratically elected government of the Ukraine was financed, supported and planned by the USA. Working with the Neo-Con nutjobs of the US State Department, the highly unpleasant, blood-stained, JP Morgan quizling, Barack “Drone Killer” Obama hoped to draw Russia into conflict in the Ukraine. The aim: destabilise and weaken Russia, turn it into an international pariah, hit its economy with sanctions and control its gas pipeline network. Fair to say, then, that widening and deepening the Ukraine issue would very much be in the interests of the USA and it does not take a great leap of imagination to view this whole incident as a covert US/Ukrainian government operation.

*Okay, the Russians didn’t do it but Russian supported separatists using Russian supplied weapons did, so Russia is ultimately to blame. That’s an argument. But using the same argument (which, strangely, none of our fearlessly independent journalists have chosen to do, can’t think why…) all those Palestinian children (oh, sorry, dangerous terrorists) blown to pieces by a US financed Israeli army using US supplied weaponry have been killed by America. Russian separatists have claimed that (though it seems nobody is listening or bothering to check the veracity of their statement) whilst they do have Buk missiles they have only the portable “man pad” variant which does not have sufficient range to strike a target flying at 30,000 feet.

*On the other hand, the Ukranian army DOES have full on, ground-launched, central radar controlled Buk missiles batteries, and here’s what the Russian Defense ministry has to say about that and yesterday’s tragic events: “Throughout the day on July 17, Russian means of radar surveillance intercepted the operation of the Buk-M1 battery’s Kupol radar station located in the region of the populated area of Styla [30 kilometers south of Donetsk]. The technical capabilities of the Buk-M1 allow the exchange of data on air targets between batteries of one battalion. Thus, the launch of rockets could have also occurred from any of the batteries deployed in the populated area of Avdeevka [8 kilometers north of Donetsk] or from Gruzsko-Zoryanskoe [25 kilometers east of Donetsk],”

*Why did Ukrainian air traffic control divert flight MH17 to a flight path well north of its intended route, a route already established as being unsafe for air traffic after the destruction of air traffic control facilities in the on-going Ukrainian army/Separatist violence?

*Why has the West been so quick to accept the Ukrainian government “intercepted” conversation between a “Russian Major” and a “Russian separatist” which purports to be a conversation about the shooting down of MH17…this from a government that already has a track record of releasing makey-uppy “intercepted conversations” and why does the version of this conversation uploaded to Youtube have a doctored and erroneous timeline, and why does the video show as having been created the DAY BEFORE flight MH17 was shot down?

*Is it not a rather convenient coincidence that the shooting down of MH17 coincided with Israel’s ground invasion of Gaza? The perfect incident to distract the World’s attention as Israel ups its kill rate of Palestinian children (oh, sorry, I forgot again, terrorists): the perfect gift to America’s favourite ally from its biggest supporter?

In short, the lack of journalistic investigation into this matter, the readiness of journalists to believe what they’re told, to tow the line is shocking and depressing. This is a day that the profession of journalism should hang its (empty) head in collective shame.

Pic: huffingtonpost.co.uk


vodafoneWhat indeed? I hear you ask. Surely I’m stretching things to breaking point with this assertion?

Well, no, I’m not. Bear with me. First let me tell you a true story about the way Vodafone behave and the utter contempt they have for customers.

In 2009 and 2011 I visited Vodafone retail outlets to upgrade my phone. On both occasions I was given a “free” sim to use “if I wanted.” What I wasn’t told was that unless I wrote to Vodafone within 30 days to cancel, the so-called “free” sim would convert into an extra phone line (and line rental charge) on my Vodafone account.

So, without my knowledge or consent and without signing any agreement I ended up with two extra phone lines. Unfortunately, I’m not one of these people that check bills, I just pay them automatically by direct debit, and this matter did not come to my attention until a couple of weeks back when I rang Vodafone to ask why my bill was so high.

All in all, I paid Vodafone an extra 8 years of line rentals, that’s £1026 in total.

As the extra lines I had been paying for were clearly a result of Vodafone’s own misselling and fraud I asked for a full refund of the £1026. Ten days later they offered me a £160 “goodwill payment” as the whole issue was, apparently, my fault for not noticing the extra charges. I should have (as per my contract, I was told) bought the matter to their attention within two weeks, and beyond that two week period they weren’t liable. I explained that you can’t, by the law of the land, add to contracts clauses that limit your liability for your own criminal actions and that, anyway, I had never signed or even seen contracts for the additional lines. To no avail. £160, that’s it, like or lump, now bugger off, lowly serf.

Okay, fair enough, but what’s the link between Vodafone blatantly robbing me and then telling me, “tough luck, sod off” got to do with politicians who sexually abuse children? A corrosive little concept called “that arrogance of power,” that’s what.

Vodafone can treat me like dirt and take my money because they now they’ll get away with it. Simple. After all, this is a business that has UK sales of £5bn and then has discussions with HMRC as to how much corporation tax it might or might not pay, so ripping off one ordinary punter is a very small issue indeed.

I mean, what are my options? I can talk to the “Citizens Advice Bureau” (phone calls charged at up to 40 pence per minute), who’ll then refer me to OFCOM who are supposed to “regulate” companies like Vodafone. What a laugh. Google consumer’s experiences of OFCOM if you like. You’ll rapidly come to the conclusion that OFCOM is about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Could this be that, like all our supposed “regulatory authorities” it’s alleged impartiality has fallen victim to the revolving door between themselves, politicians and the businesses they’re supposed to be overseeing? (A big shout out here to all you ex-politicians and bankers working at the Prudential Regulation Authority, great to know that our financial system is safe in your hands!). To cut a long story short, Vodafone can rest assured that, should my complaint ever actually make it through OFCOM’s Brobdingnagian bureaucracy, it’ll most likely be investigated by one of their mates who used to work for them and be quietly filed under “b” for “bin.”

This is the “arrogance of power,” doing things that you know are wrong because you know you’ll get away with them because you have money, position and influence behind you.

In effect, Vodafone are behaving just like those MPS, celebrities, and other wealthy and powerful individuals who had sex with children in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s (and continuing?). They knew that they could do what they wanted. Children, particularly if poor or mentally vulnerable, are powerless. They knew victim’s complaints would be ignored, they knew investigations (should they occur) would be shelved and files “lost.” They did it because they could. Because they could indulge their sociopathic desire to humiliate and abuse the defenceless and get away with it, and then do it again. And again.

Obviously, me being robbed by Vodafone pales into absolute insignificance when compared to the terrible crimes inflicted upon children by monsters. But the basic principle, the arrogance of power, is the same. And in a world where the wealthy One Percent control the worlds of finance and business and have corrupted/co-opted the political system to serve them and only them, this kind of arrogance (from sexual abuse to systematic bank fraud for which no individuals are ever held responsible, to monopolistic utilities suppliers bleeding consumers dry and on and on…), and its corollaries, corruption, theft and worse, are all too prevalent. Maybe it’s time we told these people where to get off. Or maybe it’d be easier just to watch X-Factor…

For more about The One Percent and the fate that may await them, read my little “parable,” THE GREEDY ONE PERCENT WHO WANTED IT ALL & DESTROYED EVERYTHING.


Exclusively Revealed: Prince Charles’ remarkable “Black Spider” Letter.


Prince Charles’ remarkable letter on immigration, with his characteristic “airplane” folding pattern. (Click to Enlarge).

For many years our esteemed and beloved Prince Charles has been writing to politicians to impart his wisdom with respect to this or that aspect of life in our great country. Because of the style of the Prince’s handwriting, these have become known as his “Black Spider” letters and foolish politicians, jealous of their own role as servants of the public and operating under the entirely foolish belief that a man as obviously wise and as intelligent as Prince Charles should not comment upon the affairs of the state, have refused to release these letters to the press.

I can now lay bare the politicians arrogance and foolishness for, as you can see from the picture accompanying this article, one of the Prince’s letter has been “leaked” to me by a Patriotic and Brave Civil Servant. As one would have expected, it shows His Majesty to be a man with his finger on the pulse of contemporary society, in touch with the everyday issues affecting you ordinary folk and reveals him to be a man who is a master of the English language (to say his abilities in this sphere rival those of Shakespeare is no overstatement) and a man of quite incredible intellect, compassion and understanding. A man who will be a worthy King, a man of such strengths and force of personality that it begs the question “where now for democracy?”

Let me take you step by step through the Prince’s amazing letter for, as befits his high-order intellectual and linguistic abilities, it is written in language so rich in metaphor, allegory and parable that you, as one of the ordinary folk, will find it difficult to understand. However, do not worry, I am a journalist and as such I have the formidable investigative and critical faculties of my ilk. Furthermore I went to Public School and I have a BA (Hons) Eng Lit from Oxford. You can, then, rest assured that I amply qualified tell you what to believe.

First, I will identify the main theme of Charles’s letter. It is quite clearly the controversial subject of immigration. How do I know this? To someone with my skills and training it is perfectly obvious that the “mat” in the letter represents our green and pleasant Homeland. The “cat” is the immigrant, the physical act of the cat “sitting” on the mat is an incredibly clever metaphor for the actual action of people immigrating into our country. But now, in a twist that makes Shakespeare look like a first-time novelist, the Prince uses more complex metaphor and allegory, rolled out in rich linguistic layer upon layer of meaning, to illustrate another point. Remember, immigrants are represented by cats. And what are cats? Cats are cute and fluffy animals that everybody loves. Thus in one stunning, dialectic triumph of the English language the Prince reveals his intention: ordinary folk should not fear the immigrant, should not be distrustful of “the other”. Indeed, in his amazingly moving (yes, at this point your correspondent did indeed shed a tear) admonition to “Janet” to love “John” he reminds us that we (except for his Majesty, obviously) are all the same and that we should in fact embrace “the other” with open arms, that we should all love each other.

And, in one final and stunning literary flourish, Charles, in a nod to T.H White and Arthurian legend, signs off as the “future King,” reminding us in one haiku like soundbite, of the indispensability and continuity of the blessed institution of Monarchy.

Now that I have exclusively revealed the first of Prince Charles’ “Black Spider” letters and shown him to be not so much a man as a demi-God, I appeal to you, the ordinary folk, to rise up and demand of your politicians that they release ALL the Prince’s letters, for in these troubled times we need the wisdom of our Royal friend, protector and undoubted genius more than ever.