The Birkenhead Fingernail

What is the best nickname you have ever invented for somebody? Mine has to be THE BIRKENHEAD FINGERNAIL. It rolls off the tongue, like THE SCARLETT PIMPERNEL. I heard THE BIRKENHEAD FINGERNAIL mention THE SCARLETT PIMPERNEL once. He was exactly the kind of guy who talked about musicals.

He was a lanky middle-aged geezer who wore clothes that went out with the arc. His trainers were HI-TEC. I remember them well because I had a pair when I was a nipper, before my pair of blue PONY. They are so old that they have now come back into fashion. The same goes for GOLA and DUNLOP. These brands are back in bid'ness.

When all else fails in life the easiest thing to do is to resort to insulting people’s clothes and hair cuts. I saw a man with the worst spiky dyed-purple hairdo ever last Friday morning. For years I’ve had this joke were if I see someone I know with a new haircut I’ll say, “Who dunnit?” After they tell me, I’ll say, “Don’t worry, I’ll sort them out for you.” But with this guy I was genuinely interested in what careless perpetrator might be responsible.

Correct, I was tempted to ask an outright stranger who had cut his hair, and not in a flattering way. In a very shocked and appalled way. Thinking back, it looked like a DIY jobbie. And he looked like a maniac. One of those maniacs who produce kitchen knives from the inside pockets of CAPRI SKI JACKETS on the street and hack innocent lollypop ladies to pieces.

But let’s not regress from THE BIRKENHEAD FINGERNAIL. For some reason, in protest against his other nine normal fingernails, the pinkie one on his right hand had been left to grow to phenomenal proportions. He had just a single little fingered nail much longer than all the others. Plus, just in case no one noticed, it was black with grimy dirt as well. I recall he used to go out rambling all day. Mainly around Birkenhead, where he hailed from. Hence the nickname.

Oh and by the way, I saw someone dressing absolutely ridiculous in TK MAXX the other day. And I mean ridiculously ridiculous. Here are some of EMINEM’S lyrics, in the song MARSHALL MATHERS (track 11), on the MARSHALL MATHERS album:

Lookin for Big's killers,

dressed in ridiculous blue and red

like I don't see what the big deal is

Ever since I first heard this I associated blue and red (together) as leaning towards the ridiculous side of the spectrum when it comes to wardrobe colour coordination. It seemed to resonate with me during my bookish season when I was maturing from my all-black phase. Don’t hold me to this though. It’s Eminen’s idea, remember. I’m just saying…

This TK MAXX guy would have made EMINEM p*ss his pants. Seriously. He had red pants, blue top, and a bright yellow jacket to remove all doubt. I had to walk towards him head-on and pass him straight-faced. I actually turned around once he’d passed, stopped, pointed at him, and said aloud to myself, “That guy is dressing ridiculous.” I kid you not. He was that ridiculous.

I have a little more to say about yellow jackets, but that can wait till next time. Ciao douches. Donnie.

Womb

Just think, you were here for at least the best part of 9 months. Trippy or what? At what point did you become you? The fact is that whether you remember it or not, it was the same brain in your head which you use to think with today that once formed cell by cell in the snugness of mommy’s womb. There must be some kind of repressed memories, surely. Try to imagine. How can you not remember being in such a place?

The more I think of it, our consciousness is like a stamp onto our physical vessels. At what point we become self-aware, I dread to think. Personally, I can barely recall anything before running out of infant school at the threat of Mr Ellard’s cane.

If there is such a thing as the soul, and the jury is still out on that one, then there must be, in my book, different kinds of soul. Whether your soul was planned since the dawn of creation by God, or whether it just occurred randomly, by accident, hardly undermines the sheer miracle of it either way.

The fact that we have arrived at this moment in time together is against the odds. How many permutations of chance had to happen not only for all our ancestors to meet each other, but to screw around, resulting in our parents, thus making us? All that way back through time…and here we are. Me and you.

Will I live again? Have I lived before? How would I know? Would I be someone else, if I wasn’t me? Am I someone else, when I’m not me? When you turn off a light switch, there is still electric current in the wires.

Buddhism’s reincarnation theory reigns supreme for me, if for no other reason that it’s the most imaginative idea. Call me mad, but I genuinely think it’s possible that I’ve been here before. And that, in the famous words of Arnie…

…I’ll be back.

the longer you sleep the more you dream....i return to the womb every night

Criminal Vortex

Most are the above images are GAVIN KNIGHT’S recommendations for his half of the Stoke Newington literary event poster (previous post). Gavin associates these impressions with his book, HOOD RAT. Once certain images have served their purpose, they can then be mashed-up with others in any way deemed fit.

Shaun Attwood / Gavin Knight

The above poster is for the Stoke Newington literary festival where SHAUN ATTWOOD and GAVIN KNIGHT will be in attendance. Shaun's images where taken from previous compositions before it was worked out how Gavin's side of things would fit in. Gavin's angle is urban thug culture, like dogs, guns, drugs and policemen etc. To see the final version, visit the link below and click to enlarge.

http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/2011/05/upcoming-event-in-stoke-newington-with.html

Both the two school boys and Shaun on the left here were individually cut from small low-resolution photographs. The subtle glow around each of them combined with the cloudy backdrop represents daylight from the perils of incarceration; or a happy ending, if you prefer. The washy reflection business on the right as Shaun talks to the young lad in prison clobber proved to be a particularly smart effect. Sheriff Joe looks out of place on a Union Jack however; the flags need swapping around.

Above is a variant cover of Shaun's e-book, featuring violent jail-house fights to the death. T-Bone is a big, big character with a big, big heart, like me. Available on the Amazon link below.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/T-Bone-Jons-Jail-Journal-ebook/dp/B004V4AHL8

Sheriff Joe is best known for making his prisoners wear pink and feeding them on dead rat stew. Click on the shaun attwood tag underneath for more info, including interview here at Donnie's Dustbin.

Shaun is on the radio and TV and in schools, so best of luck. Keep fighting das good fight!

WIDNES TILL I DIE

The Sweet & The Sour

Get ready to laugh, because I’m about to mention the word “career”. I’m not saying I regret not being a working stiff from the age of sixteen (although I think I am), but if I’d turned up for my work experience placement at Asda then imagine where I might be by now? I’d be able to fill the Citroen C5 boot up with Quaker rolled oats, reduced-fat mayonnaise, Onken Raspberry yogurts, and a whole heap of other codswallop every night, and all for free. The thing is though, I’d still be asking myself the same question, more or less, if I was a Regional Manager in an office equipped with window and mahogany desk: What if I HADN’T turned up for my work experience placement. What then?

It’s all about perspective. You wouldn’t know either way and you can’t settle for anything else other than what you have because the option simply isn’t available to you. It does help to be aware of what path you’re on. You can be on the wide path for forty years and not even know it. External events and internal hang ups can ostracise you from your perception of whatever “the loop” might be for life. The important thing is to either change your direction or lie in the bed you make.

One’s own random writing can be cringeworthy at times (although spitting it raw with no care for self-censorship can, frankly, be disturbing). Because it loses its truth over time. It can lose its meaning the next day. The spirit’s utmost belief one month can be a ton of cow dung the next. A matter of the heart one year can be a matter of pub gossip the next. Words can overcomplicate. They’ll never make up for actions (although they go a great way in explaining them).

We are all works in progress, for the most part, every single day. As wavering as the wind; as fickle as fog. Tumbling our way over pitfalls, setbacks, turnpikes, and greasy rungs; many of our own making. But the cream rises.

If you’re fortunate, someone will see yours.

The True Test of a Sculpture...

is to chuck it down a hill

(Michaelangelo)

The moon and the stars grow dark

The clouds return after the rain

The sound of the grinding fades

But all their songs grow faint

Cedric

Being Seventeen....
GKJKJHGFD

((NON-FICTION))

I was playing pool with some blagger when this dark lad came in. He was short, stocky, and Cuban-looking, with cropped black hair on a round head. He spoke fair English with a French accent. When I potted the black he tried to grab the blagger’s cue but the blagger tried to blag him, saying it was the best of three. GIVE ME F**KING CUE OR I BREAK YOUR HEAD, Cedric said.

This was hardcore flophouse attitude. I liked him already. We would go to the local takeaway where he would order something that took yonks to prepare so he could chat up the young Chinese lady working there. I remember his food being stone cold by the time he eventually left her alone. I think she was as intrigued by him as I was.

He was brutally honest with people. He seemed to be anticipating challenges all the time. No one stepped up.

He showed me photos of himself posing by landmarks from various countries, including the top of the Statue of Liberty. He was a fearless roaming vagabond who was prepared to fight. A true lone wolf.

One day he came in with a packet of bacon. I thought he was ready to slap someone silly with it. We went to his room. He locked the door behind us. He sat on the bed and opened a portfolio. In it were erotic demons and beasts scribbled in pencil. Suddenly, I saw him in a different light.

Here’s the trick though. He opened another portfolio, but this was full of women from dirty magazines, carefully cut out and stuck together like jigsaw pieces. A zany collage of indecency. I’m telling, it was an absolute piece of art that must have took years in the making.

He gripped his crotch and howled, imitating an awesome orgasm. Then he opened his bacon and laid the rashers out in strips over his right hand. YOU GO NOW, ANDY, he said, making a w**king gesture.

I didn’t need asking twice! Fooking hell, Cedric!

The Time I Got Pulled By A Bloke

For some unholy reason I was on the fun bus with a keyboard and this dark skinned Hispanic fellow sat himself next to me on the back seat. He started chatting, and I didn’t know back then that when one human speaks to another, it is the equivalent of apes grooming each other. I learned that in a book called THE NAKED APE. When someone talks to you, that is effectively what they are doing, so it means they like you and are prepared to care for you. Remember this next time you are caught off-guard and start to feel defensive.

He was ever-so very friendly. I thought he was naive because he was foreign but in hindsight I was the naive one. He knew exactly what he was doing from the off. He said he had a house which was on the bus route and only a mile or so before where I lived. It was above THE BALL pub on LIVERPOOL ROAD. He said I was welcome to get off early and stop at his for a bit because he had studio equipment and I would be able to plug my keyboard in and make a professional-sounding song.

It sounds weird agreeing to this with a TOTAL STRANGER only minutes after meeting him, but that’s exactly what I did. As soon as I went in I saw pictures of his friends with (how can I put this?), MALE LOVE JUICE on their chests. Yes, really. Actual printed photographs of sex games pinned up for all to see. That should have set me on my toes right there. I thought an accomplice was going to stick me with a needle and drug me. My eyes were peeled for any SYRINGES that might POP OUT from between the banisters of the stairs. I thought I was meat.

I couldn’t bring myself to flee like a whipped dog. I had to stick it out and be ready to PROTECT MY BOTTOM at all costs.

It was very unnerving for a while, but when I saw his studio I relaxed a little. I started to have a go and realised that he was just watching me, playing with himself inside his pants. He had a PROPER TENT GOING ON with both hands buried inside. When I asked what he was doing he invited me to start playing with myself too. He said COME ON, DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, LET’S JUST HAVE SOME FUN. I kind of laughed his suggestions off and said to myself that it was time to go, all the while being careful that he didn’t BRAIN ME on the way out.

And that, ladies and gents, is the time I got pulled by a bloke.

This is a true life personal account with no added sugar, when I was 24. The man in question reminds me of CEDRIC, who I met when I was 17. Stay tuned to hear all about CEDRIC soon!

CHEMICAL MUSCLE by The Biggest and the Best

A guy once asked me if he could still get insanely huge and big while taking all kinds of serious narcotics. This joker would stay out on all night benders without a single bite from dusk till dawn and wonder why his stems and pipe-cleaners could fit in cat-flaps. I said mate, you can do whatever the hell you please as long as you are eating a meal every 3 hours. In between those 3 hours, you can snort petrol if you so desire. You can chew on raw tabs of MDMA like tic tacs and inhale sludgy herion off a hot black spoon. You can bomb bags of whizz and lick handfuls of acid and neck pints of Sambuca and smoke so much weed that even Snoop Dog will be saying hold up. Those 3 hours are yours to do whatever you want. Insane in the membrane, insane in the brain. Blow out kidda. Knock yourself right out. Rock out with your c**k out.

Eating every 3 hours is guaranteed MASSIVENESS no matter what you are doing in between. But if you miss a meal then you must be prepared to eat 2 meals on the 6^th hour with a penance of 2 mammoth microwaved spuds. That’s how it works. And don’t forget to wash your meals down with six 50g scoop shakes as thick as paint so that all that treacly powder clenches around your heart and makes it pump twice as big with awesome mass.

Forget weights. You don’t need ‘em. Just posing your beefy pecs and traps will pile the size on and enrich your gigantic physique with true pure blood. My calves have never burned as much as when I trained them at home with no weights. I was limping for three days and it wasn’t even funny. It felt like they had been nibbled on by Rottweilers and all I did is do standing calf raises on the carpet with zero added resistance.

So, can you get high and massive at the same time? My answer would have to be yes, because every time I look in the mirror I see an oxo cube staring back at me. I see a brick sh*thouse who once couldn’t pass a drug test to save his skin. Steroids, barbs, PCP, peyote, methylone, you name it and I use to be on it like a tramp on chips.

If I didn’t eat like a dickhead in my younger drug days, I’d be thin as a whip now, but I’m not. I am still unbelievably wide and strong and thick and dense and large. I took Tupperware into clubs and munched on steak and broccoli while busting my moves on the dance floor. I was so into my chow that a bird from Stoke whipped my tackle out and I didn't even realise.

Stay large and in charge brothers and sisters. Over n out.

You have been reading The Biggest and The Best.

P.S (Don't forget them f**king chicken legs)

Supermarket Decapitation

I only nipped in for some garlic bread...

Well what about that poor pensioner who was so grisly beheaded in a Tenerife supermarket? Alarm bells ring back to a similar story of a former mental patient nut here in England who wrote letters to the authorities stating his fantasies and intent to kill a woman. His warnings went ignored and he went on to repeatedly stab an innocent random female – in a supermarket.

If we can hardly believe what we’re reading, imagine the victim’s disbelief as a stranger took it upon his not-so-good self to detach her head at the neck? One minute you are browsing the “whoopsies” in the reduced section, or deliberating the BOGOF deal on pork faggots, and the next all you can see is your own blood.

Remember Derek Bird, that loony sourpuss from the Cumbria shooting rampage last June who went about “blasting” anyone and everyone? Incidentally, news reports used the word “blasting”, which for me glorified it, like he was 50 Cent blastin’ niggaz in the hood. Mums unloading shopping, dog walkers, gardeners – whoever he came across really. Imagine staring down the barrel and not knowing why. That feeling.

Watching CRIMEWATCH doesn’t help when you want to believe it’s a honky-dory world out there. Love thy neighbour? He or she might want to commit the perfect murder on you for no other reason than because he or she wants to.

But back to the most gruesome horror news story since I can remember, anyway. This guy must have been some fruitcake. Talk about voices in his head – he must have had an entire stadium’s worth from the deepest depths of crystal meth hell chattering in tongues via loudspeaker nonstop day and night. Strangely enough, The DAILY MAIL said that he had a “real wild moment”.

Excuse me? A real wild moment? A real wild moment? If he had dropped his shopping and left the store in a panic because the stench of the fresh haddock in the fishmonger’s kiosk was making him queasy – then that would qualify as a real wild moment. Or if he had suddenly burst into frenetic song and dance because his favourite pop number had come on the store radio – that would qualify too. Smashing an aisle to ribbons because they didn’t have the cereal he wanted would also be a real wild moment, or kicking off at the manager because he suspected they suspected he was shoplifting.

Sorry, but decapitating another human being next to shelves of I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER is slightly more than a real wild moment. More like a really wild dose of psychotic insanity.

Also, in the news, it’s reported that one eyewitness said the incident reminded him of THE CLASH OF THE TITANS. And that was it. They left it at that. As if that was all he cared to say. I guess he’s referring to the slaying of Medusa. http://piebald77.blogspot.com/2010/11/medusa-screen-grabs.html One guy sat behind me in the library played the KEN BIGLEY execution on his phone once. The audio alone was truly disturbing in itself, let me assure you. But here we have a witness at the scene who has watched the full living impact of this kinda terror unreel before his very eyes in the flesh with all that blood and shock and adrenaline and squealing – oh Christ the squealing – and all he has to say is that it reminded him of a movie?

Jesus.

http://horrorfanzine.com/more-real-life-horror-british-woman-decapitated-in-supermarket/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=twitter&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+horrorfanzine+%28Horror+Fan+Zine%29&utm_content=Twitter

Passion for Fashion

We all know the public perception of WAGS shopping all day long. I have a pal who admitted to me that their weekly food shop around the supermarket with his girlfriend would take two hours. Not half an hour, not an hour, not even an hour and a half, but TWO WHOLE HOURS. That’s hilarious, but understandable, if you are hunting through every bargain in every aisle, analysing comparative prices, and deciding upon what meals you want while you are actually purchasing the ingredients.

But the issue here is clothes shopping. No wonder those WAGS need a whole day. Men in general, and especially those who despise lounging around the vegetable sections in supermarkets, will probably recoil in dread at the thought of touring high street apparel outlets, and even more so in a big city where they are spread apart by miles.

Personally, if you have the funds and the time, I don’t see how anyone can not like it. Popping tags – buying new clothes – is scientifically proven to make you feel better about yourself, hence the term retail therapy. The problem, apart from funds and time, obviously, is finding your size, brand, and colour.

The likelihood of all these probabilities coinciding (funds, time, size, brand and colour) is exceedingly rare, in my part of the world. Yeah, I know, you DREAMED of a cardboard box. But tooting hell, why do all manufacturers only cater for large boys?

Whatever you want, they ain’t got it. Well they have, they have exactly what you want, but not in your size. Or they have your size, but not your colour. And the quality’s dreadful. It’s either crinkly or shiny or bobbly or flappy or tight. If it looks like it needs ironing before it’s even left the shop then run a mile. The really cheap stuff looks like it was made from spare tent canvas.

Supposing my 6 numbers come up. You think I’m paying over the odds for designer? Huh. MASSIVE PRICES – TINY SIZES. 50 spuds for a t-shirt? I could have 150 Snickers ice creams for that! As for high street goods, I get the feeling everything gets made in the same eastern factory and then the different labels are stuck on later, like tuna, or beans. Mainstream brands have bottomed out. You’ll be lucky to get an elastic waist or a zipper on your pocket now. Hey, if you’re not gonna put an effing zip on the effing pocket, don’t even bother making the chuffing thing in the first place!

Who can afford to carry cash or cards or keys in a sh*tty little shallow pocket that doesn’t even have a zip? F*ck me man. It’s disgraceful. Not so long ago, attire featured intricate sewing work on proud emblems and badges. Now they are glue-gunned on. XL meant enough room for 2 pairs of bollocks and at least three buttocks. Now, if they even have it, you can’t get a leg in.

Wadda’ya reckon. Do the clothes make the man, or do they just keep us warm?

When you check yourself out in the mirror (don't deny it), what do you see? Gentleman, or wasteman? Have you ever spilled some Lloyd GROSSMAN Thai Curry sauce and Wall's mint choc chip over anything new?

http://piebald77.blogspot.com/2010/06/shopping-assistant-by-cam-lee.html

Ego-Maniacal Self-Obsession

Chewed Up, Spat Out. You ever felt this way? I didn’t have the words for this emotion until recently, but they’re perfect. Chewed up, and spat out. Ha. Awesome.

You ever get sick of I? I did this and I did that? It’s so obvious sometimes it’s painful. It’s that guy who spends an hour giving you a personal tour of his mansion and insisting you sit in his hummer without a single HOW ARE YOU DOING? I myself am guilty by association. Guilty of trying to shout from the highest hilltop LOOK AT HOW F*CKING GOOD I AM. JUST LOOK AT HOW F*CKING GOOD I AM.

The “stars” in pop music videos are the worst perpetrators of this (fine if they can actually walk the walk), but the tinterweb is also rife with twits clambering over each other for attention. Be damned if I’m another. If you are selling something, which really is f*cking good, then you may be excused, but otherwise, what’s the point, what’s the message, apart impressing upon me how f*cking good you are? Change the record why don’t’cha? You’re not good, as a matter of fact. You’re NO good. You’re bum.

Twitter is best for blowing your own trumpet. Facebook is best for stalking and slobbering over your friends. This blogging concept is headed for a brick wall. It’d be best suited for journalistic reporting. Otherwise, it’s the epitome of solitary self-expression for any berk with an IP address, and the standards are so low they’re bottomless.

Where do you draw the line at what you think might be interesting, without crawling so far up your own ass pipe that you need a flashlight to find your way back out? The impulse to take a picture of everything and share everything and give a title to everything...aw hell, enough. You just know that someone somewhere (Ron Todd) is posting pictures of their turds in the bog – maybe even a thumbs-up beside their own bonk-on. Always someone, somewhere...

Forget cleanliness: It is consistency that is next to godliness. One slip and it’s over. Finito. Gone.