dark am i, yet lovely, a lily among thorns, majestic as stars in procession

dark am i, yet lovely, a lily among thorns, majestic as stars in procession

Tuesday, 30 November 2010

Monday, 29 November 2010

Friday, 26 November 2010

When I laughed, hard: James Noone

We were all walking towards the arty. It was a lovely and bright Friday night. James was the only one riding a bike alongside of us. We were all on the grass in the sunshine. School day weekends, nostalgia...you know the one.

Next thing, we spot a DEAD CAT lying next to the railings. It was massiver than massive - it was mahoosive. Each of us has a quick look and says yuck or whatever, but Liam Everard, an older bruiser from the youth club who never usually hung about with us, picks it up into his arms and CARRIES IT ACROSS HIS CHEST LIKE A BABY.

To a bunch of stoned, pissed teenagers, PICKING UP A DEAD CAT is about as mad and as funny as you can possibly get.

One minute, James is looking over his shoulder, laughing at the disgustingly hilarious Liam Everard along with the rest of us, I mean we are all in stitches, but the next he is PEDALLING FOR HIS LIFE as Liam runs towards him. Seeing someone really drunk trying to chase someone with a heavy dead-weight cat in his arms didn’t and still doesn’t happen every day of the week.

There was no getting away in time and all James could do was try to duck the thing as Liam hurled it with two hands towards him, like a rancid sandbag. James did manage to duck this most unusual of missiles, or at least duck enough so it didn’t hit him square on, but to me it seemed to roll all over his back, neck and head in slow motion, before landing in front of his front wheel, jamming the tyre.

He subsequently did an endo and WENT FLYING over the handlebars.

I can’t remember anything else after that, but one thing is for sure – I was laughing, hard.

Thursday, 25 November 2010

Rebel in A Pin-Striped Suit

© Cam lee
Stay out of his way...
He sat down at the greasy table in the noisy cafeteria like a man being made to perch on a filthy lavatory seat. Scowling, he wiped the surface area with some tissue, doing the cleaners work for them. Too late – his shirt cuffs were already stained with tomato ketchup, and was that chewing gum beneath his bottom? What kind of mindless folk left their chewing gum on a cafeteria seat?

He didn’t even bother to stand up and look. He was fast losing interest in anything and everything happening to him. He was becoming numb. The numbness (occasionally, flittingly) was broken by short manic fits of erratic, barely containable rage.

A radio blared from speakers on the ceiling: Downturn. Deficit. Cuts. Radio 4, early morning, was the undisputed king for ramming the recession down his throat. They would have whole interviews, running concurrently, about nothing else. Other stations, despite having crud music, would at least only vaguely mention the latest belt-tightening Conservative measure in the public sector before jamming some boy band blast from the past.

It’s 7.36am. You’re listening to David Cameron pledging to pull so many umpteen billion from the poor and the destitute. It’s 7.41am. This is John Humphries describing just how bad things are really gunna get. It’s 7.46am…

Why did that buggering Humphries and every other morning ‘DJ’ insist on telling him the goddamn time every couple of minutes? What possible reason warranted such accurate reporting of the clock?

Did they tell him the time when he was tossing and turning in sleepless anxiety, late at night? Of course not. You couldn’t water-board the time out of them, when you were actually curious to know. It was a morning thing. It was a get-yourself-to-work thing.

7.51am. The time is 7.56am.

You never heard the word million anymore. It was all about the billions now. How much was a billion, anyway? Was it a hundred million, or was it a thousand million? Surely nothing in this world could cost thousands of millions, not even a gold-cast of Elvis Presley's didgeridoo. How did anybody keep track of such large sums? Did they keep track?

Downturn. Deficit. Cuts.

He worked too hard, and for too long, yet still he had to think twice about boiling an egg. Were the government transitioning to cheap sandwiches and bus rides? Were they spreading the same wardrobe over a number of seasons? He doubted it.

“You, get me a hot water!” he barked at the nearest waiter, fishing in his breast pocket for sachets of coffee and sugar, stolen from another cafe.

The waiter returned five minutes later to explain that they could no longer give out hot water. He would have to purchase tea or coffee.

“You what?” He went to stand but was slowed by the gum fixing his pants to the chair. “Get me the manager then.”

The waitress suppressed a grin.

She thinks I’m pathetic, he thought, like every other woman.

The manager, a doppelganger for his unpitying bank manager, put him in his place. To add to the humiliation, he was instructed to leave, whether he was willing to purchase a hot drink or not.

He stood, red-faced. Two builders enjoying a full English pointed and chuckled at the chewy on his pants, so he removed them right there on the cafeteria floor, baring his white hairy legs all to see. Enough of this conforming, wearing clothes. Now, from the waist down, he was all Y-fronts, white two-stripe socks, and shiny black winkle picker shoes.

He put his hands up to the manager like a boxer, dancing on his toes. “You want a go, huh? You wanna piece of me? You think re-mortgaging my house makes me a coward?”

The manager shook his head and punched 999 on his mobile.

He waited for the police to arrive before jumping through the wall-to-ceiling cafeteria window, like a stuntman crazy for adrenalin in his spare time. The noise and the mess was incredible. Bloodied-kneed, he dusted himself off and waited by the patrol car.

Criminal damage charges? Big deal. Never mind downturn. It was the downfall that was now well and truly underway.

Cam Lee gets a lot of questions about the women who work in his establishment. Are they his sisters, his cousins, his girlfriends…? “I sell chips,” he says, “not services. The girls are good for business, however. We have a certain number of regular customers who seem to know when the girls are working and always come in at the same time, to chat them up.”

Wednesday, 24 November 2010

Printing the Blog

At some point soon, the blog will cease for a while as most or all of the flash fiction since its conception in Feb 2010 are collected into an anthology. There's no harm in having an endless flow of digital production, but now that the first year is nearly up, efforts will be made to produce some hard copy. There will be a new blog early 2011.
note: DNM stands for 'definitely not mainstream'

Sunday, 21 November 2010

Snow Queen and The Princess

Beauty vs Beauty
Tom sat on his step looking out over the cobblestone street. It was late, and deserted. Full moon above the thatched rooftops. Patchy clouds with stars in between. His parents were tucked up in bed, beneath warm blankets. He should be, too, but he wasn’t. Instead, he looked out over this cobblestone street, yellow with lamplight and white with snow.

The Princess arrived on her gold-plated tandem bicycle. It had two seats and two sets of pedals. It also had a basket on the front with hot soup and rolls in. They had been having an affair for weeks now, ever since their meeting at the village carnival. It wasn’t really an affair, but it was just as risky. Tom would be outcast from society, if found out, or possibly flogged.

She appeared from nowhere, as usual, as knowledgeable of the commoners' backstreets as she was of the royal courtyards. They were at the touching stage now, so greeted each other with a hug and a kiss. The Princess’s lips were so soft that Tom thought they might melt in his own. Her eyes were so deep and sparkling, they reminded him of jewels, floating in pools.

Together they cycled out of the labourers' village towards the restful abandon of the brook. The Princess unravelled a fishing rod with a glow worm on the hook, casting into the smooth silken silvery surface. They laid a mat and sat, one hand around the other and one hand each on the rod. Soon enough they caught a majestic starfish, studying it intently before returning it unharmed.

Comfortably, her in her diamond-studded robes and him in his brown rags, they devised their plan about running away together, across the valley. He would build their home and she would work the land for vegetables. They argued about who was more besotted with who, glad to be away from the world they knew and happy to have some time with themselves. They lay back, relaxed, about to christen their secret relationship by creating love for the first time...

Just then, they noticed a dark spec coming out of the moon. They both sat up, thinking it must be an asteroid. It was actually The Snow Queen, in her flying chariot of ice, driven by six black unicorns with wings. She breezed to earth and landed on the other side of the brook. Tom got to his feet and undressed to his long johns. He was a strong swimmer.

The Princess tugged his arm and begged him to stay put. Tom knew he shouldn’t investigate, but curiosity and excitement got the better of him. The Princess tried to pull him to ground, to ignore the distraction and create love, but Tom was off into the freezing water and splashing his way across.

On the other side, The Snow Queen was waiting for him, off her throne and on her booted feet. She helped him up and touched his fingers to her lips. He caught a glimpse of her sharp, blue tongue. She looked both sexy and cruel in a very deliberate way – something Tom had never encountered before. She was old enough to make The Princess seem like a child in comparison. She had longer legs, a tighter waist, bigger breasts, and firmer flesh. She peered down at him, holding his chin up to her, and smiled the widest, whitest smile he had ever seen, nose and cheekbones above chiselled by a master sculptor.

Her eyes, narrow and dark, burned with a faint shade of crimson. She didn’t lead Tom away, but merely nodded her head towards the ice chariot, and opened one side of her polar bear skin cloak.

Across the brook, The Princess dove into the water in a desperate bid to stop Tom from being taken away from her. She was a weak swimmer and got into trouble halfway, sinking beneath the calm surface into strong currents below. She died crying Tom’s name.

When Tom escaped from the Snow Queen’s Palace several years later, and heard of her fate, he regularly planted flowers at the spot where they had almost created love, and very nearly died himself, from a broken heart.

© Sharon Hood
DNM Fiction
Start to fin in 60 min

Sharon saw an animated version of The Snow Queen one Christmas Eve, and inserts this occasion as a ‘life marker’ in her diary. She says it invigorated and refreshed her and motivated her and inspired her. A truly magical children’s adventure, even better than The Snowman. Because there are so many versions however, she has been unable to acquire it on DVD.

Saturday, 20 November 2010

Tiger Shark

Friday, 19 November 2010

Dead End Corridor

Three kids. One empty school. One dare.

They all entered together, beneath the grinning teeth of a dinosaur-like bulldozer. The demolition men would be back in tomorrow, on Monday morning, to collapse what was left. Only the central main corridor, the spine of the building, remained.

The boys loitering at the entrance didn’t go this school, because it was a senior school, before the council tore it down. They were barely in juniors. From where they stood, they could see right up into the corridor. It seemed to go on for a mile. This was the only way in. Every door along every side was locked, and every window to every room boarded up.

At first they chucked stones in, seeing who could throw the furthest. Then they slowly crept in and leaned their weight against the first classroom door. It creaked and groaned, but didn’t budge.

Zack, the tallest, stood a clear head over Greg and Daz. He regularly insisted they do silly things, like fling banana skins at moving cars and swap classmates’ packed lunch boxes. Because he was a year older, and because he knew boys a year older than him, Greg and Daz usually did whatever he said. Zack had what must be the best bedroom going, too, and invited them both over at least twice a week, and sometimes every single week night. He had internet, videos, books, toys, posters, and even a Superman bedspread.

Zack suggested Greg and Daz race to the very end of the corridor and back. There was light at the bottom, which made it look like they could get out, but they couldn’t; it was just a gaping hole in the ceiling from above. If not for holes in the ceiling, it would have been dark.

“No way,” Greg declared, and no amount of X-Box or Harry Potter would convince him otherwise. Daz felt the same way. There was something about the place that smelled dangerous.

Zack huffed and puffed because he was accustomed to getting his own way, but Greg soon flipped the tables by daring that he run up there, all by himself. “You can race the clock,” Greg put to him, taking off his Casio watch. “I’ll time you.”

“You have 60 seconds to get there and back!” Daz chipped in. Daz sometimes felt like the tag-a-long and thought he had to prove himself to Zack, so it was nice to be able to order him to do something for a change.

Zack looked surprised at first but then he lifted his Nike Air Max and tapped the soles. “No, 60 seconds to get there and 60 seconds to get back.”

“Okay!” Daz said.

“You have 120 seconds then.” Greg pushed his ‘start timer’ button and shouted, “Go!”

Zack sped off up the tunnel. It was more like a tunnel than a corridor. His mates laughed and giggled. They had got one over on Zack. He shrank into the converging lines of the walls, but always remained in plain view. It was a bright day, but not sunny, with church bells ringing in the distance. Early. Peaceful. But quiet. Eerily quiet. Too quiet...

It was just after Zack had passed the halfway point on his way there when a big dark shadow detached itself from a door and took one large step out into the middle of the corridor. It looked like a huge man dressed in black. The man simply stared at Greg and Daz as Zack run on towards the end, where he would be trapped.

Greg and Daz recoiled in fear. Daz tripped over backwards. Greg dropped his stopwatch. They saw Zack reach the end, tap his Nikes again, then head back towards them. When he saw the big man in black, he stopped dead and paused like a rabbit in headlights, frozen stiff. It wasn’t until the man slowly turned around and started walking towards Zack that he started to panic, darting left and right, checking the locked classroom doors for an escape.

They heard him shouting and screaming and crying, but didn’t hang about to see what happened next. Instead, they ran as one, as fast as they could, back to their homes, to tell their mums and dads.

© A.Michael
Blob of Glob
07.30am Fri 19 Nov 2010
(start to fin in 60 min)
Uploaded via mobile web

This is toned down normal version. The 15-rated one involves The man picking up Zack and pinning him against the wall, before doing some bad stuff one need not go into, because nobody (and I repeat nobody) likes children being harmed. Not in stories, not in movies, not anywhere. Kingsley Annaneu (see previous post) has written a story about a child lost in the woods who gets eaten by cannibals. He can't even get it published online anywhere..

Thursday, 18 November 2010

Massacre in Africa


Kingsley hails from Croyden. His trade is computer programming. He knows how to make sense of those gobbledegook c++ textbooks. He’s a good guy. A big screen TV is not on his wish list, now that his first child is born. He says there is a ‘better way’ than living off the state.

His story is not indulging in mindless violence. He merely conveys real life. He is not out to entertain. He admitted to almost having some lions enter the story at the end, to jazz it up, but then it would have been fiction. As it is, it’s factual, based on real atrocities.

Cover by A.T.D

Wednesday, 17 November 2010

Potclays: Poor Man Supplies

Below: A small portion of the available glazes
Below: A few we decided on
(it's like christmas picking new paints)

Monday, 15 November 2010

Wedgewood: Rich Man Pottery

A chinese vase sold for 43m at auction last week.
The vase above is one of Wedgewood's best bargains

Fancy a tea cup? Only 35 quid.

FRAPED by Frank

Don't let it happen to you

A phone call from his best friend Janice wakes him up in the morning.

“Hi Jan. What’s happening girl?”

“Ryan,” she says, “you’ve been fraped.”

“I beg your pardon?”


“What’s that?”

“It means you’ve been raped on Facebook.”


“Someone’s hacked your account.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that?” Ryan reaches for his phone. He will be pulling a sickie today. And having a greasy fry up in bed to make him feel better. “Instead of talking in riddles of cyber lingo gibberish?”

“Pff! Is that the thanks I get for letting you know? I’m trying to do you a favour here. See ya later.”

“No, don’t, stay on the line. Apologies from me. Sorry. Please, elaborate.”

“Everyone’s talking about your statuses. It’s busier than just after X-Factor. Everyone’s commenting and taking the mickey. You better get on and try and sort it out.”

“What do you mean? Why in the name of Herbert Horatio Kitchener would someone want to hack my Facebook account? They can’t extort money from it or anything. I don’t understand.”

“They hack it to post comments. Usually, it’s just light jokes, but the worst case scenario can mean posting embarrassing lies about you in the name of public humiliation. Someone out there really has it in for you.”

“Why? How? What’s been said about me?”

“You better log on and have a look yourself.”

“Ah, hang on. There must be some mistake. It’s impossible. Nobody knows my password.”

“Someone does, Ryan, I’m telling you.”

“It must be one of the Facebook team then.”

“I don’t think so, Ryan. Not unless you’re on personal terms with someone from the Facebook team. Remember, perpetrators of frape, just like rape, are seldom strangers.”

“Okay, okay, I’m checking my phone now.”
Ryan reads the following comments:






“Oh god...” mutters Ryan. “Oh no...”

“Are you alright?” Janice asks.

“I’ve gotta go.”

“Listen to me. They were all posted around 3 in the morning last night. Where were you? Did you leave your phone around anyone?”

“I didn’t even take my phone out with me. I left it at home. I was in The Establishment until about half 2. I’d been drinking all day. I couldn’t walk and needed helping into a cab”

“Okay. Who came back to yours with you?”

“Nobody. I was alone. I got in, started on the whiskey, and... and...”

“And what, Ryan? What happened then?”

Ryan hangs up and holds his head in his hands. “I don’t remember,” he tells himself.

Perpetrators are seldom strangers. In Ryan’s case, it is. It's the stranger who reveals himself whenever Ryan blacks out from excess alcohol intoxication, the stranger who assumes autopilot of his body while the consciousness takes a time out....

Know your limits !!!
© Frank 2010
Substance Scene
FRANK is in his mid-thirties. He slept rough as an addict on the streets of Manchester, shooting speedballs into his groin at every available opportunity, and once threw a bag of drugs out of a bus window to try to quit, only to get off at the next stop and go rooting for it. When he had money he enjoyed scoring in a taxi and going McDonalds drive-thru on the way back to his flat. He has since dried out in clinics and rehabs.

Saturday, 13 November 2010

The Medusa

the best character ever?

Screen Grabs from
Clash of the Titans (2010)

Friday, 12 November 2010

Ugly Duckling Pictures

...take, arrange, rearrange...
see it, cut it, stick it

Thursday, 11 November 2010

The Cowboy Executioner

I was shaking in my boots in the beginning, as if it was me who was going to die. Did you know that when the head flies, the neck is like a red well? That freaked me out. I couldn’t even look at my packed lunch JAM BUTTIES.

Just yesterday, I was swiping off the nut from a criminal who had re-sold his VAT receipts. No joke. Even some SEX ACTS between a happily married couple can warrant the death penalty. I’m the first to admit, this world we live in just ain’t right.

On my first job I was given a CHEAP LUMBERJACK AXE. I received no formal training. The bloke flinched at the last minute because he wasn’t blindfolded and I planted the dodgy blade straight into his mouth. When I retracted it, his lower jaw dropped to his chest. The handle fell off then, so I dropped the axe and asked for a gun. When one was eventually handed to me, I couldn’t get it to work.

The condemned bloke was a dab hand with firearms – reason for execution – and reached for it himself, bleeding all down the front of his robe but still perfectly conscious. In my naivety, and having never fired a gun before, I allowed him to check it out. Sure enough, he flipped the safety catch....but then SHOT ME IN MY ARM.

“You just shot me,” I said to him.

“I know,” he seemed to say, although it was hard to understand him with no jaw. Then he shot me again.

I turned, hands in the air, yelling, “Who the hell’s getting executed here! Me or him!”

I was relieved when my boss ran in and GAROTTED HIM from behind with a length of KETTLE FLEX. I’ve since learned the art of swift single-stroke executions with my own sword, a fifty-quid scimitar.

It was a woman this morning. Only the second all year. An execution’s an execution, but women are different. If an executioner tells you otherwise, they’re either lying, or they’re a woman. This one wanted her neck anesthetizing, so it wouldn’t hurt as much. I explained that we don’t do that, but she insisted that we at least give her SOME PAINKILLERS. I had a couple of PRO PLUS in my back pocket, to keep me going through a long shift of rolling heads, and told her they were IBUPROFEN. She relaxed immediately.

There were SIAMESE TWINS last week, two heads on one body. I asked my boss for double time but he gave me a day in lieu instead.

Did you know that a doctor sews the head back onto the body, after I’m done? Oh yeah. You didn’t know that? He says he gets by by just pretending he is working at MADAME TUSSARDS.

He’s on a bit more than me, I think.

© Blob of Glob MMX

Dog Art

Wednesday, 10 November 2010

Schmoe Images

Pictured: Johnie Jackson

Figure cut from MD magazine
Plate photographed in local gym
Background photographed from flame machine
more schmoe images

Sunday, 7 November 2010

My Movie History

* by host blogger andrew donegan *

I cried to E.T in my auntie’s house. I tried not to let anyone see. Age? I would say around 10.

I watched The Exorcist in my mate’s girlfriend’s house then camped out that very same night. Not a good idea. The scariest thing about that movie is the fact that my mum had to sleep with the light on for years after she watched it, when she was younger.

My R.E teacher said our homework one weekend was to watch True Romance. I had a thing for her, so I knew I would like it. It totally rocked my world. The most significant and meaningful thing in my life, at that time!

Leon was the other big movie to leave an impression in my teenage years.

As an adult, 28 Days Later made a huge impact. I was very vulnerable and receptive at the time, plus I saw it at the pictures. And it was most excellently done. Was, and still may be, my fav.

Donnie Darko had such a feel about it, it was amazing. I watched it alone on a Sunday afternoon.

Vanilla Sky was another complete provocative package of a movie. And Ink, more recently, stirred my soul.

Casshern has the most breathtaking computer-animated action sequence that exists.

The ending to the King Kong remake drew me to the cinema 3 times. The sound of children crying said it all.

Others worth a mention: Gothika, Silent Hill, Nine Miles Down (the song they play to the credits can make a MASSIVE difference), Columbus Day, The Attic, Run Lola Run

There are plenty of movies with excellent bits in them, and even more stinkers, but only a handful really register emotionally, and leave you feeling changed afterwards.

I’ve never watched an adult movie, start to finish. I can’t imagine anyone ever doing that.

When I laughed, hard: Mark Stillings

Working in a warehouse, driving Sidetracker trucks, the boss was stationary, talking to someone else in a truck. The two of them together were blocking off the path of myself and Mark Stillings, a co-worker. The boss and his pal were chatting away, oblivious that we were waiting to drive out of our aisles. Minutes passed. I would have patiently waited all shift, HE WAS THE GODDAMN BOSS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, but Mark Stillings, eventually, just shouted F**KING HELL! at the top of his voice, at the boss. I laughed really hard for ages to myself. All that pent-up aggression, AT the boss.

The next time you are feeling slightly nervous around your boss in the workplace, just imagine shouting F**KING HELL at him (or her) at the top of your voice

Thursday, 4 November 2010


for gym rats
The Biggest and the Best knew from early on that he was destined to achieve. He first started training on a rowing machine donated to him by Big Bob in the local youth club. It's seat was broken so he couldn't slide up and down on it, and it was stiff. All this made him stronger. He also used to shoulder press buckets of water before he could afford the best dumbells money can buy.
My alarm clock goes off at 3am. I smash it against the wall to release some roid rage and reach across for my Monster Maxx high-calorie aspartame-free enzyme-activated easy-mixing diarrhoea-inducing isolate-blend whey protein shake. I drink this without opening my eyes, burp, then roll back over to dreamland. My other alarm clock rings at 7am and gets launched at the wall like the other (I go through, uh, let me add it up....erm, it must be about 14 alarm clocks a week). Endorsement perks.

I get up, stretch naked in my garden, full-body shave, shower, splatter the bog, take about 40 different pills with spring water, then BORE MYSELF TO DEATH on the treadmill for an hour. I then put on some sandals, shorts, and a vest, so I can bust into the local tanning salon for some high-pressure bed cooking. Upon return, I’ll fill my stomach to bursting point with an armload of clean healthy food, then watch my own training DVD for 1 hour while it all settles.

By the time I’ve drove to the gym in my ESCALADE (windows down), the blinders are on and I’m ready for battle by booming and smashing all the dumbbells and barbells all over the place like a true warrior. That’s after signing all my fans autographs who HASSLE ME at the doorway, of course. I train for 4 hours (not including posing practice and shower), and immediately gag on another two handfuls of 40 or so pills which make my muscles soak up all the nutrients.

I’LL SHOW OFF IN THE GROCERY STORE on my way back to show regular shoppers what the human body can really look like in its peak condition and tell some more fans about my diet and training routines, which they can’t get enough of. Three times a week I’ll have a deep tissue massage as well, followed by a hot tub, if I can find one big enough to house my enormous bulk.

In the evening I’ll admire my trophies and check myself out in the bedroom mirror to try and spot if I have any weaknesses in my physique, but I never find any.

After filling my face on dull flavourless food again, I’ll be a husband for a couple of hours and SEE TO THE MISSUS, because she has needs like every other woman.

The Biggest and the Best
© Blob of Glob MMX
another story from TBATB?

Horse Art

Tuesday, 2 November 2010


After a single phone call between him and Gus Kidney, erotica-obsessed Big Don is allowed to submit to The Blob, on the grounds that he tones things down considerably and doesn’t swear. Although this blog does not wish to include adult content, it neither wants to thoroughly ostracise a slight daubing of frisky humour. There has been one or two misunderstandings in the past about content/appropriate age for viewing. 16 is a good marker, although there’s nothing worse at this site than in any 15-rated cinema flick. Big Don says the trouble these days is that some young girls can look anywhere from 13 to 33. Got to be careful who you give out flyers too!

Beard Rash Cream, by Big Don
Kaitlin considered ringing a newspaper or television channel to complain about how long it was taking to get an appointment with her doctor. It was like trying to get into the royal mint! Eventually she gave up and told herself that one weekend, on her way home from a night on the town, she would take a crap on his surgery doorstep. She always walked by that way anyway, and after a skinful of WKD, it would be no great shakes. The ignorant jerk-wit.

The amount those uppity docs earn as well! Pfft!

She gate-crashed the pharmacy instead, in the end.

“I need some beard rash cream,” she blurted to a young BOLLYWOOD QUEEN LOOKALIKE pharmacist behind the front desk.

Shilpa Shetty regarded Kaitlin from below the upper rim of her fashionable specs. “For your boyfriend?”

“It’s because of my boyfriend,” Kaitlin told her. Kaitlin was very upfront with people and not at all self-conscious. In fact, she itched at her crotch without even realising it – this didn’t go unnoticed by the observant pharmacist. “I bought him a shaving kit from Boots and he still didn’t get the message.”

“What seems to be your problem? Have you facial hair concerns?”

“Facial hair concerns? Facial hair concerns?” Kaitlin looked to the pensioner behind her, as if to say GET THIS GIRL. “What, you mean a muzzy?”

“Or a goatee. Plenty of women suffer–-”

Kaitlin burst out giggling. She had a loud, infectious giggle. A minute ago, she’d been thinking of pooing on the doctors – now she was virtually wetting her knickers in the pharmacy. “I’m 21!” she laughed, “not an old granny!”

“Even so….” The pharmacist said.

“It’s downstairs,” Kaitlin sighed, hands on her hips. “Every time my boyfriend ventures south, I feel like I got ants in my pants for three days afterwards. Looks ugly, too.”

There was a long pause. Kaitlin swallowed what little pride she had and admitted that her professional opinion would be greatly appreciated.

“Have you tried opening your legs a little wider?”

After an even longer pause, the smile on Kaitlin’s face vanished. “You serious?”

It was Shilpa Shetty’s turn to laugh now. “Of course not. Let me see what we got….”
© Big Don MMX
Triple featured in Barebackmagazine
Big Don Interview