KISS IT BETTER by The Suicide Mistress

DNM FICTION®

EDITED BY A.MICHAEL
The Suicide Mistress is Jamelian K’s pseudonym. Her stories include Farewell Sad Life and Please Don’t Go Down Harrower’s Lane. Unbeknown to many more cheerful folk, the female misery genre is actually quite popular. Did the Anne Frank diaries have something to do with that? Jamelia 'Serious' K studied creative writing at Bolton Uni and currently lives in Burtonwood. She is now 23 years old and of ethnic origin.

I feel I have to add an extra note each time I feature Jamelia in DNMF. I think the trick with this one is what she has left out. It’s a read-between-the-lines-er, It’s a fill-the-missing-pieces-in-yourself-er. There is as much going on beyond the text as there is within it. What we see here is only the iceberg tip of what this story has to say, although somehow she has made it complete enough to not warrant a second part (although I insist she follows on!) They do say writers write about what never happened in their lives.
Adrian crept down his carpeted stairs with a baseball bat aimed over his shoulder. His wife was locked in the baby’s bedroom, having already called the police. The sound of smashing glass from downstairs had woken them both.

Whoever had broken into his home would not have the run of the place while he and his family cowered upstairs, waiting politely for them to leave. No sir, not on his watch. He wasn’t afraid of no common burglar.

Why the alarm hadn’t gone off, he had no idea. Perhaps he forgot to set it properly. Nobody ever really expects and much less prepares to hear it one day. Or night. What time was it now, half past one or two in the morning?

He remembered the story of that farmer who had shot burglars. He would have to be careful with the amount of reasonable force he used here. Hopefully there would only be one of them. A desperate drug addict looking for some jewellery or car keys. Cretin.

Navigating the turn in the stairway, Adrian tiptoed the last three steps to enter the hallway, silent in his woollen socks. Whoever had illegally entered his household had turned the living room light on.

He inhaled and exhaled, heartbeat drumming, adrenalin flowing. He was not so much afraid as angry and violated. After counting to three, he jumped through the doorway and shouted at the top of his voice.

The young lady in his living room flinched backwards. She wore army-patterned pants and a light grey hoodie with an orange fringe poking out down to her eyes, cut perfectly flat across the bottom. Her eyes were big and blue on wide, podgy cheeks.

“What the––”

The young woman calmly placed several twenty pound notes on his coffee table, which he had picked up from Ikea just yesterday. “I hope that covers the cost of the window,” she said, “it’s all I have.”

Adrian noticed blood on her sleeve. Probably from climbing in. He recognised her face, but he didn’t know where from. He felt he ought to lower the baseball bat but he still felt threatened. Maybe she had an accomplice.

The young woman detected his anxieties and told him she was alone. It was almost as if she knew him and he had invited her around for a chat.

He suddenly felt awkward and self-conscious in his nightwear. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Don’t you recognise me? It’s Shelly, from the 42 Route. I introduced myself last Wednesday.” She dropped her hood. “I get your bus.”
Ahhh, yes. Nobody could forget that haircut. This was the girl who always had the right change in exactly the same coins, every night of the week at 5.35pm, from Hedge Lane to Wickers Grove.

Adrian found himself speechless. His eyes darted back and to from the money she had laid down, the blood on her sleeve, her orange fringe, and her untied laces. Her hands rested harmlessly by her sides. Her fingernails were goth black.

She gazed back at him, unblinking, features accentuated by badly-applied make-up. It was almost garishly-applied, he thought to himself, like she’d been cast for a gruesome theatre production.

“Adrian?” His wife called from upstairs. “Are you there? Adrian?”

“Why don’t you let yourself out and go,” Adrian said under his breath to the young woman, in as much as an authoritative tone as his dry voice could muster. “I will see you on the bus tomorrow and we’ll talk about it then.”

The young woman unzipped her hoodie to reveal a naked surface of pale white skin from throat to navel. She crossed the short distance between them and peered up into his eyes. Both her hands clasped her heart and tears gushed from both her eyes.
“Will you fix my soul, Adrian? Will you repair me? You are my only chance.”

Adrian’s grip on the bat slackened. His brow creased. His head shook slightly to one side, analysing her from an angle on his canted neck.
“Peck me, here. That’s all you have to do. End my suffering.”
He did so, rather than deliberate on it. Her breastbone was hard and hot on his lips. Then he pushed her away, picking up her money from the table and stuffing it into her pocket. She didn’t resist, zipping herself up and smiling widely, a joyous revel in her beaming eyes, skipping towards the front door and melting into the night like a silver ghoul, sending a whispered thank you from the garden like a musical note on the wind.

“It’s okay,” he called to his wife. “It’s okay, hun.”

Two minutes later he was lying to the old bill as well
TBC......
© Jamelia K 2010Zombie Publications

Climbing into Creamfields

I swear, the stuff I get on here could almost have been written by me. It’s amazing what you find when reading short stories and testimonies from prisoners and patients around the country. It’s almost that time of year again when I get to judge all the KOESTLER entries and this time I’m going to type as many of them as I can up with real identities and names included so their families can see their work online. A.D

To begin with I drove there drunk, which I know is neither funny or smart, but it was daft o’clock in the morning and I’d been up all night shotgunning Lambrini, arguing with a young racist girl from the local juvenile hall. If she hadn’t of been so devilishly handsome I would have turned the other cheek, but instead I had a good ole face-off with her in public and ended up getting both cheeks slapped when my own razor-sharp insults got under her skin, but that’s another post.

I parked my lovely racing-green Vectra in the corner of an empty field and approached the perimeter wall. By jumping up as high as I could I could just about get my fingertips on, but to pull myself up would take a valiant effort. It was a good job then that I saw a ladder lying flat on the grass. It belonged to security. They had a little lookout but nobody was in yet because like I said it was milkman time so I used the ladder to get in and then stashed it in case I needed it later to help some friends in or whatever.

Knackered, I found a tent and had a kip in it.

A few hours later I was sober and blue. People were working all around me, sound technicians and other gob-shites. I was well concealed in the fold of a tent but they must have seen me or at least knew I was there because every now and again something would touch me. They were literally working right around me, within spitting distance. Forget these buggers, I said to myself, and got up to go the bog.

Wouldn’t you be in trouble if one of those portaloo cubicles fell over and landed door-side down with you still in? Just a thought.

I roamed around for a while as everyone set up their gear and tested the speakers in the main tent. Testicles, testicles, one-two-testicles.

Luckily for me I came across a guy unloading many crates of Stella so I helped myself to one. He had a van’s worth and he would have only sold each can for £3 anyway, so don’t feel sorry for the scumball. In fact he was lucky I didn’t bash him about his noggin (nut) with one and take his dusty white transit van (aka gypsy van....someone had written drive carefully, don't kill a child, wait for a lawyer on it's filthy side panel).

I downed 2 of those tinnes like chilled Lilt in the desert (doesn't free stuff taste more livelier?) which got me shit-faced again before making my way back out to my car, which I couldn’t find, getting lost in the surrounding rural wilderness after damn near nearly killing myself falling halfway down the ladder and crushing my ribs on the cans. 2 of em' burst open and I had to do some more downing, which fizz-bombed my brain with alcohol.

I finally emerged from the bushes with what must have been a third of a crate down. I’d been playing Bear I-didn’t-know-he-wrote-books Grylls in the trees on my own like a dunce, walking over planks balanced across brooks and s**t like that. To my delight there was a queue of manic fit women in fluorescent dresses and spotty wellies. I swear, the sun came out just as I laid my eyes on all this juicy colourful totty.

I waded over like Moses parting the Red Sea (was it red?) and thereby attracted the attention of some coppers who not only wanted a look at my ticket but also a peek up my bottom as well, for concealed contraband. FOR REAL BRUV! They wanted me to squat and spread em’ behind their van. As is usual when I’m borderline black-out I can’t remember what I said or did from then onwards (think of sleep-walking with activities).

I remember waking up once on a park bench wondering who had shit in my pants. JOKE. It was on a town bench really. JOKE AGAIN.

I came around in Daresbury holding cells. It’s a brand new facility, very modern, with decent lasagne for dinner. I could actually hear the music from Creamfields inside. They let me out quite late once I’d slept my headache off so I walked back to The Wire, forget going back by this point, and stayed at my mate’s flat, where I could see the festival from his 11th story window. In the darkness, it glowed like an amusement park in the distance. I thought I could still hear the music, all the way back from there.

I’d completely forgotten about my car.

Written in 60 mins
© Toby Thomas MMX
HMP Risley

I Am Cutter

Notice the minute bits of blu-tack used to stick the image. These are pinched off and rolled into worms between the fingertips. They then have to be flicked off and positioned with the blade.

Unless one is inspired, writing most definitely feels like a chore. Staring headlong into the blank white paper or screen and trying to convey thought and ideas into original syntax is not straightforward. The only time it flows effortlessly is when you are writing a diary. Biographically, 1000 words a morning would be absolutely no problem (my record word count in a single day is 6 or 7000, writing Slithering Lake). Writing about writing is much easier than writing, I’ve just realised.

The last time true raw sober inspiration swept over The Blob™, it was here:

http://piebald77.blogspot.com/2010/02/jenny.html

As with most of the best inspiration, it has to do with a woman. A woman, and the sky, and the time of day, and whatever else. I’ve written nothing but short stories for 3 years because they convey emotions instantaneously – they can be in print almost as soon as they are born. Although the concept of a novel may be an inspiration in itself, penning the thing is nothing less than gritty determination through an obstacle course of question marks and barriers. That’s how I see it now, anyway. But don’t take my word for it, because I have only done one proper thick doorstop novel, although I must say that it didn’t seem too bad at all back then. I was 20 and my imagination was still fresh and excited, naïve and daring in its prime.

Now, even typing it up seems like the ball-ache of all ball-aches.
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C U T T I N G, on the other hand, does not leave you gazing off into space. It also involves tools, so makes you feel like you are working a proper job. You can listen to the radio and not be distracted too. I love the tinny pop a new blade makes when its tiny tip stabs the cutting pad. And I love compiling scores of images in polly pockets and cataloguing the polly pockets in those folders and files we used to have at school. I don’t even mind doing a repair job with some sticky tape on a paper rip only 2 millimetres across.

It can be time-consuming, because the smaller images are what it’s all about. The smaller the image, the more precise the cut. But once these are arranged on larger images, which are stuck onto card, then the picture begins to emerge. A4, for me, is the be-all and end all. Why go bigger and have difficulty transferring to a computer? Besides, two A4s make one A3. Fifteen A4s, stuck together on a wall, with common themes running throughout in detailed colourful splendour, make one big kick-ass collage set.

Writing is turd. I' getting pig-sick with it. But somebody in my family has to do it. They say write everyday. I can’t write fiction everyday. It would be about a man sat a desk wondering why he didn’t join the army, picking his nose and itching his crotch when he wasn't up and down like a yo-yo to fetch cups of hot water and bagels from the kitchen. Lately though, I’ve been thinking how bad it would be to have no access to a pen or computer. Because I am compelled to scribble something, even if it is a single note, every single day. I'm not at the stage yet where people are asking me where I get my ideas from, but I already know the answer....TV!

***

I don’t feel compelled to cut. I just enjoy doing it. There are millions of images in magazines, and asserting control over a hand-picked smidgen of them produces immensely satisfying results.

Art Till Death®

See it, cut it, stick it

HOLIDAY BAG by Emily Reed

DNM FICTION® EDITED BY A.MICHAEL
Another from Emily. She’s been busy. Someone has told her it’s the season of sarcasm here at The Blob™. I don’t even remember requesting anything in a sardonic, mocking, pompous, uppity vein. It’s just how she writes super-short topical/popular fiction, I guess. Her father told her to never take life too seriously, and she sticks to it....perhaps more than she should!

You wouldn’t believe how much junk I fitted into my cheap holiday bag! Enough clothes to satisfy the relief effort in poor flooded Pakistan (I heard a tasteless joke just yesterday about how the BNP were making a donation of 1000 crocodiles, but I didn’t laugh coz that’s just not funny). More shoes than Angelina-effing-Jolie, anyway, getting back to me. I will talk to absolutely anybody me, you know, just so long as it’s about me.

I bet my spare jewellery costs more than your house. Never mind all my accessories. Portable Playstations and i-Phones coming outta my ears. And guess what? I lost most of it. Yup, it’s sooo true. Cracked sunglasses and smashed perfumes all over the place. Ah well, hairdryer. Goodbye, Laptop. Farewell, camera. Au revoir, MP3 player. Arriverderci, electric leg shaver.

What a disgraceful holiday bag! Should never ever buy cheaper than the most expensive – always comes back to haunt you. It was all the shop had at the time. I should have gone somewhere else. How can the zipper burst and go spilling all my contents all over the floor like that? So embarrassing it was, having the taxi driver and two passing gentlemen pick it all up for me.

I’m going to sue the idiot makers of that stupid bag and they better not try telling me that I had too much heavy garbage stuffed into it either. That’s what holiday bags are for – filling full of costly shite which you think you might need but know you really don’t. Better to have it and not need it however than to need it and not have it.

Should have bought a suitcase? I have three thanks, loaded. Combined, they probably cost more than your, oh, I don’t know....the most expensive thing in your house. Did I mention house again? You should see mine – the reception room alone would knock your socks off.

I won’t bother telling you the designer brand name of these suitcases because you’ll have never heard of it. Only available in Harrods. You’ve probably never been Harrods. Probably never been London. I always go London. Paris too. And Barcelona. Do you?

I want compensation. I don’t need the money, I just wanna waste someone’s time in the small claims court. I’m like that, me. Nothing else to do. Just sat around all day usually, shopping online. When I’m not on holiday.

© Emily Reed MMX
Zombie Publications

Hypnos

100 Feet (2008)
HP LOVECRAFT (1890-1937)
Sleep paralysis

A.MICHAEL

THE HORROR APPRENTICE

His story Druid's Temple Virgin's Prey may have been very heavily influenced by HP Lovecraft's Hypnos without him even realising it. If not, the similarity and coincidence is remarkable. No one does it better than Lovecraft.

Open about his sleepless nights after having kept a dream journal for many years, my cousin lately claims to have experienced only his second ever "tactile" nightmare. Except it wasn't technically a nightmare because he wasn't fully asleep. The body was alseep, of course....he couldn't move....but his brain was %100 fully conscious.

I myself have the odd lucid dream, wherein I know I am dreaming, but nothing like what A.M tells me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

His first tactile one, about six years ago, felt like a single finger tapping him once on the top of his head. It woke him up from a snooze on his couch.The most recent one was a handshake from the charming bloke in black (top picture). This is a still from the movie 100 Feet, about a woman who cannot leave her house. It has the most truly terrifying ghost in it which totally decimates a young man in one of the most shockingly brutal scenes I have ever seen. Think The Grudge is an angry supernatural flick? You ain't seen nuthin'.

---------------------------------------------------------------

A.Michael has a brief history of prescription drugs to which he attributes a portion of the blame. That, and the fact that he is a self-proclaimed 'sensitive'.

---------------------------------------------------------------

"Dreaming awake is like been caught in a rift between 2 realms," he says. "It's like tripping in a straightjacket. A single crease in the pillow could be a canyon miles deep and somehow you're tumbling down it even though your eyes are wide open and you can see the warddrobe and the window beyond the bed in your peripheral vision. Then you snap out if it. You haven't opened your eyes, because your eyes were already open. You've just twitched a little bit, that's all. The crease is still there, just how it was, but the canyon has gone."

He adds, "The crease is a common one. That's a good title, actually....FACES IN CREASES. They are usually a mixture of all the faces I have seen in movies, moulded into just one by my imagination, especially for me. Designer masks, if you like. These are never pretty, let me tell you. The last one was a young girl with a jaw that hung down to her waist. Another was so folded and mangled it looked like features on a roll of pastry.

--------------------------------------------------------------

"The handshake was by the ghost in 100 Feet. I was having a bit of trouble trying to wake up, hearing and seeing stuff, typical merry-go-round, so seen as though movement usually arrives in the fingertips first, I thought I would slowly reach my hand out when I was able, and dare the zany dream state to play with my actual flesh and blood, instead of my mind, and prove to me that there was something really going on.

"Instantly I saw that guy and felt something flat touch the whole of my palm. I shrieked and pulled away, then put the radio and light on."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I keep telling him to get into the rom-coms. 'My Last 5 Girlfriends' is a good british one.

Hypnogogic hallucinations are visual, tactile, auditory, or other sensory events, usually brief but occasionally prolonged, that occur at the transition from wakefulness to sleep.

The Fly That Wouldn't Die

http://www.redbubble.com/people/piebald77/writing/5760941-the-fly-that-wouldnt-die

Favourite Shots

from top:

SALT (2010)

BEOWULF (2007)

CASSHERN (2004)

The cinematic experience, for me, apart from laughing and crying, is all about the camera work, but the most twisty-panning-zooming-darty shot of the movie may not be what impresses me the most in a film. The Matrix is known for starting off the trendy 360° stuff, but I don't necessarily mean all that overly-funky malarkey, milked to excess as slow-motion bullets leave trails through the air. There ought to be some emotional attachment to the content of the shot as well.

Not all movies even have favourite shots. It can be a task to find one. The shots usually happen at critical times of the movie, if they do. And the camera may not be doing anything. It's personal and subjective. It may be just that moment when your involvement in the experience peaks, the instant when you are realising that you are watching something that is affecting you on a spiritual level, and the on-screen image at that time is stained upon your retina as goosebumps course along the nape of your neck.

Or it may just be an innovative skilful camera move.

There's really no need to explain. A favourite shot is a favourite shot, and only you know why.

FACT: Quentin Tarantino would regularly watch 3 movies a day.

FIREWORKS ON A PLANE by A.J

A man from Ramsbottom who took a box of fireworks onto a plane said he didn’t know what the big deal was. To add insult, he had bangers, sparklers and boxes of matchsticks stuffed into his bulging Firetrap-branded jacket pockets.

He is reported to have said, “Hazardous materials my arse. This is just like the time Phillip Cook the bus driver wouldn’t let me get on the bus because I was carrying a car battery. How else was I supposed to get it home?”

Fireworks, which are gunpowder packed into tubes with a fuse, can cause ‘mayhem’ if ignited in tight confines.

The man was travelling from Basildon to Weston-super-Mare to visit a Star Trek convention where he intended to ‘put a show on’ in the car park.

He said it was too boring to wait at the carousel for suitcases so he decided to include the potentially lethal arsenal in his carry-on luggage.

A spokesman for the airline called him a, “Complete and utter pillock with hair gel for brains.”

The man responded to that by saying he had never known a firework to go off on its own before, without someone lighting it.

No charges are forthcoming.

A.J

ANOTHER ANONYMOUS JOURNALIST BROADCAST courtesy of TELLTALE PRESS®

sent by toshiba satellite laptop 11.21 gmt

I HATE MY BOOK SIGNINGS by Emily Reed

DNM FICTION® EDITED BY A.MICHAEL

Emily Reed is back. The ever-young Lady of Letters sent me this the same afternoon I requested it. As the football season winds back in, Emily groans and reaches for yet more Gerard Butler DVDS from Blockbuster. She would rather listen to the director's commentary on one of his DVDS than watch 23 overpaid wimps chase a bag of air around for 90 minutes.

Don't be shy, give me your cash!

Come buy an over-priced ghost-written chunky hardback from me in person. It will a sincere joy meeting all you constant readers. Thinks me not! For an extra 10 bucks, if you surrender your mailing address, my team will forward you a reproduced Polaroid. If you are not satisfied with the reproduced Polaroid, which captures me in my hay day, then I don't even mind if you pin it up on your dartboard.

Buy my back catalogue of memoirs and I couldn't give a monkeys what you do. Fill your empty shelves, use them as doorstops, or go ahead and give them away to someone else....all fine and dandy with me.

Just so long as you do not expect an autograph or a handshake. My security is vigilant about keeping all my fans at arms length. Some people say I am the luckiest person alive, having my popular chic-lit novels sell the world over. I see it as spoon-feeding drivel to the masses.

I can live without you slobbering all over me at Waterstones. I wish I had a lookalike to fulfil these public appearances.

My husband confessed to attending one of Jordan's book signings just to get a look at her bosom! She revels in attention I detest. The only part of the writing process I crave is your cash at the end of it all.

Preferably from Amazon.

© Emily Reed MMX

Zombie Publications All Rights Reserved

I ROBBED MR BULMAN'S BUTTIES by Donny

The reason, I think perhaps maybe, was because he escorted me out of the common room when I was happily chatting with Catherine Derbyshire....

"Come this way, Andrew," he said.

We went through parts of the school only teachers knew. He didn't say another word. Eventually he led me out onto the car park, where CID were waiting in a dark car. I got in the back seat, super compliant. No cuffs.

They whizzed me up the Rainhill back roads straight to the LOONY BIN.

I am being forgetful here though, and muddled up. I used to attend college in am ambulance, you see, and one time Mr Bulman drove me back in his own car. I get confused....still medicated, occasionally, when I am lucky enough, wink-wink, still having night terrors/nocturnal buzzes....only booze helps....and a tightly-knit bunch of back-in-the-day facebook friends whom I hope to strike an honest cord with...

"Never let the facts get in the way of a good yarn" (Chopper Reid).

Is it fiction? Is it auto-fiction?

One thing I do know for certain, besides being foolish enough to be led astray by several crude designs of the modern world, is the fact that I did indeed, yes sir I doth admit it, crept in to his office and thefted his packed-lunch sandwiches (probably packed-lunched by Mrs Bulman), from his shiny black briefcase. Sometime after he either

a) led me out into the waiting arms of CID, or

b) gave me a lift back to the madhouse

The funny thing is, because I was what they call "easily-led", it was not my idea.

Do you think I had the balls to trespass in Bulldog's office alone? No way! That guy was as strict as the perfect lines of his beard! I was just made up to be in college again after my teenage life was uprooted and relocated in a barmy ward for 6 months. Never would I duh-ream of such a naughty act.

I forget who suggested it. They crept in with me. In fact, they did a recce first.

It's bonkers how you remember random vague things from yesteryear...but I can genuinely not recall who it was who got me in there. I just know who it wasn't. By process of elimination, if I was a gambling man, I would have to say Kevin Nicholls.

Nichollsie.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

He's another story though, aw facking hell....don't go there

HE wiped a crow on the fittest girl in the SCHOOL's arm

SHE was 2 years above us and called Amanda someone, friend of Sarah Lowe.... Amanda....it will come to me, can't think at the moment, concentrating on my last BECKS, but I put a friend request in and she no not reply....

Amanda B?

WRITTEN IN 21 MINUTES DEAD by DONNY (aka CLARENCE)

Glastonbury Officer: Great Days

The event is Glastonbury. Back in our school days. One of your friends is off their rocker smashing all the school windows in on a freshly refurbished office block, namely at our treasured school, St Peter & Paul.

The suspect is a one Dan the Man, who doesn't give a shit about anything other than necking as many bottles of Pulse as he can. He is breaking them windows in like there is no tomorrow. But this is just the night before Glastonbury, so it does not matter that much.

Except it does, because Dan the Man, when the police arrived, run off, hid in a bin with his mastermind accomplice Sonny Bannah, then sneaked back to where the police officers had parked up their van, snuck in, and ROBBED ONE OF THEIR JACKETS from the driver's seat!

He later sold this on to Jay Bourne, who wore it for Glastonbury the very next day. I believe the price was a packet of fags plus an old pair of trainers which Dan the Man found on the buildy. The buildy is an industrial wreck in Widnes where the leg-end Anthony Marsh was found dead with a needle hanging out his arm. Anthony was not a crack/smack head, however....just an exciting character who enjoyed home-made brew and teaching young fellows how to jump over high fences belonging to posh gardens on Coroner's Lane gardens....no offence Victoria Cullen, u sexy beast from juniors!

Any old way, Jay found himself in a mess come the biggest festival going. He didn't go green in a mud valley or trip out in a dance tent....all he did is politely ask for some cannabis. You know, a few spliffs, a little chong. EXCEPT HE ASKED RASTAS WHILE FORGETTING HE WAS WEARING HIS POLICE OFFICER'S JACKET.

He thought he had tucked the Cheshire Constabulary badge in but he hadn't. Either that or he had and it had come out again.

You can just imagine how our coloured brothers from Jamaica reacted to this. They took it as some kind of hard-faced personal insult and chased Jay off site. He legged it like Linford Christie running for the sake of his lunchbox, hearing nothing but the sounds of "jack him!", "shank him!" and "get him!" all the way.

Eventually he made it clear of the perimeter and managed to slide into a corner shop. A MUSLIM corner shop, who hated him upon appearance almost as much as the Jamaican Rasta Men hot on his tail. But Jay used his brains and commandeered the premises with nothing other than instinctive survival logic and the power of his jacket. When the Rastas followed him in, he raised a 14" wok above his head and told them to lay right off because back-up was on the way.

The big black brothers retreated.

In later life Jay would become a real PO in the London Met. One perhaps may dare say this experience was an early omen which influenced his future career decisions. If I myself had to get pulled by a officer of the law, I sure hope it would be Jay. I would recount this tale to him and dare him to charge me with anything.

I am sure that whatever I did, even if he caught me red-handed, there would stand a decent chance that he may let me off. Because of this story.

Jay Bourne, Chelsea.

accounted confidentially on 1st hand advice by alejandro wol donegan

THE WILD WILD WEST by A.J

DAVID CAMERON is on a mission to end "wild west" city centres. 50p pints of liquor from Lidl are simply not on; he has seen more than enough thank you very much. From now onwards, you shall pay by the unit. Local councils will be enforcing this rule quicker than the time it takes for you to turn around.

Supermarche booze is now cheaper than chips. During the World Cup, they were practically giving it away. In Cameron's Great Britain, a crate of ale will retail for 50 bangers. At least. Wine will be flogged at 10 notes a bottle. Even the cheap stuff, which is only good for putting on chips.

Conservatives have no sympathy for lousy no-good drunks when full-employment is on the menu; they couldn't give a feck about rotgut cider-punks watching Jeremy Bile. Or is it Kyle? This violent red-eye drink-binge culture has reached critical mass.

"Pre-loading" means you guzzle incredibly cheap high-strength lagers from corner shops before hitting the town where the price of a round on a works night out will dent your wallet almost as much as a £45 England Replica Jersey T-shirt.

Cameron intends to introduce legislation banning infamous 'snakebite' drinks, which are well-renowned for getting the 50 'fiddy' Cent and Pop Idol generation off their heads; a merger is also planned for Tesco, Sainsburys, and Morrisons. The new conglomeration will be entitled Big Corner Shop, and you can forget about bogof or 6 for a pound deals.

Think more along the lines of a VAT deal, which means you pay 17.5% extra. Only now it has gone up to 110%, meaning you dish out more than twice for whatever you want. And that's without cost of duty and touchscreen electronic point of sale tax (EPOS). Don't forget your identification either. Passports and driving licences are no good. Got to be a special ID card, which has more pointless information about you than Google.

The government senior drinks analyst readily admits that bottled water is more expensive than barrelled alcohol. Getting pissed has long been affordable for everybody, but no longer. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Cigarettes are next as well. Then processed tinned food.

David Cameron's ultimate goal, let slip by the right honourable London Mayor B.J, is to have a one world government with a microchip inside everybody's big toe and a camera up everybody's jumper by the year 2020.

******************************************************************************

quote of the day

i see u dancin like a star....no matter how diff'rent we are

for all this time i been loving u, don't even know your name

"we could be the same" MANGA

Eurovision 2010 2nd place

BLOGGER DIET STATUS: Gregg the bakers sausage rolls and Perlenbacher premium pills

LISTENED TO: Angry kick-off trance metal

VISITED: Bolton, home of Fred Dibnah and Peter Kay, who can be funny reading a shopping list.

WEATHER: Warm, clear

ATTIRE: Jeans, trainers and hoodie

originally written with a hangover in a cafe

A.J ANONYMOUS JOURNALIST

TRENDY ADVICE by Chubby Chaser

6 million of you out there are cuddly babes! China is working its shocking socks off stitching clothes together big enough to fit you beautiful bitches! Plenty of all you delicious British girls out there rock n roll in a size 16 or above.

In some regions of Halton, reports are circulating that size 20s are hitting the streets with a sexy swagger. Well I should be so lucky to see such specimens! Bigger the better if you ask me.

Rounded frames are cherished by skinny guys in particular, and lest you know, I am a skinny guy! And top designers have you in mind too, my dears. Get yourselves down to London fashion week so you can make an impact upon the glitz industry.

You are only as big as your personal vanity size – this is the perceived reflection from any tall narrow mirror. Take no notice of mannequins in shop windows, because they are never less than size 10 minimum. Go shake it.

Love, C.C

Working on a Fridge

NEED PREMISES....OR A STUDY

CANTEEN TABLE, ANYTHING....

A.T.D

If you recognise a spattering of muscle in any collage work most likely it is property of Art Till Death. Art Till Death is establishing its own signature by presiding over images of a cut 'n' stick fashion either scanned or photographed.

In collaboration with

SCHMOE

"Machines that pollute are only half invented"

John Shirley

Single Figure Collage

SNAPSHOTS OF ARTWORK

The bottom image is the reverse of the above image of the figure on a different background, without the flames-from-space element. It can be strange how you are often rewarded with unintended effects on the backs of your cut-outs - sometimes they look quite good. If you cut out 100 people from a newspaper and look on the other sides, for example, you will discover you have rendered other people, from the other sides of pages, unintentionally.

Above bodybuilder is the Freak, the Beast, the German Giant....

MARKUS RUHL, best shoulders on the planet.

ART TILL DEATH

see it, cut, stick it

Evil Reps

WHAT TO THINK WHEN REPPING OUT

by

Nicky "The Resident Slayer" Dumbell.

Nicky draws on a religious background to boost his workouts with psychological fuel

Think of pushing reps as strikes.

You are trying to break out of a web you are trapped in.

You are pushing apart the very fabric of the universe.

You are pushing all the sin out of your body.

When pulling, you are opening huge doors in the underworld for angels to rush out of.

Concentrate on the cables and levers and pulleys you see on the machines.

They are part of you. You are directly attached to your tendons.

This is MUSCLE/MACHINE SYNTHESIS.

This is MUSCLE vs MACHINE.

You are part of each other. A fusion.

Anyway you want it....so let's av' it.

When doing seated cable row take your mind back in time to when your ancestors rowed for their lives at sea.

Every rep has a beginning, middle and end.

Each one is a journey.

Enjoy.

Stop and you die.

Evil dictators have guns to your head.

They whip you with each rep.

But if you stop it's a bullet.

Your life is worthless.

You are cheap and mean nothing.

You are a failure.

Show em' otherwise.

This, the gym, is it.

Shine under the stress.

Flourish as a beast WITHIN the reps.

Your muscles bellies pool with hate with aggression and anger so bomb the steel and give your ego a voice.

Think of inhumanity's shocking inhumanity to man.

Evil, evil, evil stuff.

Unmentionable stuff you don't, you can't even usually consider.

What makes you cry.

What makes you sad.

The shocking horrors of the human race.

Let them live....

Just for the rep.

Channel it, focus it, and use it for good.

*************************************************************************

MORE FROM THE RESIDENT SLAYER

I often hear the word 'boring' banded about when it comes to experienced gym iron-shifters languishing in a plateau. I'm not one of 'em. I disagreed with my current partner when he was rooting for an excuse to try something else, like boxing or martial arts. It's not quite 'in the blood' with him, as it is me. 'Boring' would be the very last word in the whole of the dictionary I would use to describe the local metal gym I attend, actually. The very last.

"But I gotta concede - reps can be repetitive."

I don't pump up while posing in a mirror, like a lot of jerks who hardly break a sweat. You know the drill, every gym has that nice n easy geezer who does single bicep dumbell curls, admiring his own reflection. He's the kind of guy who would make love to himself if he could. He may be well built, and the lazy pace is better than none at all, but he sure doesn't wanna tear the place up and go totally balls to the wall like me. I wanna go beserk every single workout, after an emotionally draining day at work. I build the fire all day and unleash it in the evening.

Reps are the threads you use to stitch your workout together. Every one matters. GET CREATIVE WITH THEM: VISUALISE & IMAGINE

Nicky Dumbell, Hants.