Siberia, Sober

I was in the pub the other day, and I consumed 5 bottles of non-alcoholic beverages. Since putting the booze down, it’s been my go-to thing. Never have I been so disappointed, however. It looked like a beer, it tasted like a beer, it cost the same as a beer…and I was in a pub, which is all about beer. Except that I wasn’t pissed. I was bloated though, it was terribly gassy, so much so that I felt quite ill. I had severe acid reflux later that evening.

What happened? I had a mini blowout without substances. That’s me off that shite now, it’s bollocks, honestly. I’d rather sip blackcurrant soda waters. The coffee in the pub is awful too, I call it steamboat fuel. I’m just sober and natural and high on life. Don’t get me wrong, the real thing (alcohol), has been calling my name over and over. I almost had an encounter with a beautiful pint of Kronenbourg. It looked me up and down and demanded I buy it for leisurely comfort. The first step in AA is admitting that we are powerless over alcohol. When you readily accept this into your heart, it can be quite weakening. How can a pint of beer be more powerful than me and all that I stand for? That’s impossible. With sex and cocaine, I have no problem relenting my position, but I’m not having a seedy pint of lager getting one over on me like that.

I thought of nature, and the cosmos, and my higher power, and how I used to have friends and a job and a family and a social network, and I summoned all my love into one healthy bundle, and I told that beautiful pint of Kronenbourg to sling its hook. Well not quite. I didn’t have to go that far. But you know what I mean.

And it’s the same with pathetic scumbags who won’t leave your life alone. You just simply ignore them. They start to panic when they are ignored, and cling to any portion of your attention desperately. The truth is, despite not being massively important government assassins and weapons of war, they are tiny insignificant criminal wannabes who crave attention because nobody loves them. My hatred of them used to be monumental. Now I actually feel a bit of pity for them. They hate each other and life itself because the devil they serve has banned them from joy. They are not allowed to smile or laugh. That’s why they cannot bear me joking to myself all the time. I must drive them equally crazy as they drive me. The only time they feel any emotion is when they have me crying on my bed at home, unable to venture outside. I promise, I am never letting the toerags seeing me down again. The less said about them the better. They don’t deserve any limelight here at the hotspot.

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HER [SIB]ERIA IS wipe out

Sorry, I’m just referring to a teacher I used to know. She was my first crush. I thought I’d fallen in love with her. Every sunset on the horizon reminded me of her smile. She was all that mattered in life. She said that I inspired her to be a writer, because of my dazzling fiction, which was based on her. I written about us on a bus out of control, it was called Tragic Unity, and later went on to become the Hollywood blockbuster Speed (1994). This is not the first time I have seen my work ripped off by Hollywood. They read the chip implant in my brain and steal all of my best ideas. They don’t even try to hide this, it’s the perfect crime. Tom Cruise even thanks me for them in a downloaded sound file. He says thanks buddy, keep up the good work. They reward me by not cancelling my security benefits.

Anyway, this teacher writes about a mental hospital in the fabric of her created reality, called Siberia. It’s a futuristic hospital. Straight up there are similarities between my work because my first novel was about a mental hospital too. Mine was called Jazat. Yeah, she has a better title, so what. But she puts me right in there, in her hospital, under a different name, but it’s me, I recognise myself in a myriad of forms. I can’t believe what I’m reading, it’s a signed copy from a private bash at Waterstones. Her main character even has the same name as my girl at the time. Her hospital is new age and ethical, they are trying freshly sanctioned schemes to engage criminals in compassion, mainly by showing them re-enactions of their crimes and administering special empathic drugs.

Loads of strange psychic events happen when I’m reading my special teacher’s book, too strange too mention like, they’re like a million to one chancey. One thing she relates her creativity to is bubble gum. She told me this in person before starting the book. She says that writing is like chewing bubble gum. Conrad Williams says that writing is like drinking water. I call it ‘wrangling’. Some call it ‘going. Anyway, I’m right at the end of her novel and bubble gum comes into my mind for some reason. I remember her quote. Then, two lines later, one of her characters is chewing bubble gum. Then I see a vision of her, an implanted vision, in my head, of her blowing a bubble. Via the chip implant.

Later she starts taking me to her hospital in modulated dream technology, deep in Siberia, where I meet several of her other ‘fav’ pupils from school, and various other randomers immersed in the detritus of my memory. I once read up that to fight invasive mind control methods like chip implants, the only defence is to turn to God and love in order to avoid becoming brimmed with hatred, which is the purpose of it. But how could I use my teacher’s grade-A fondness if she was one of the controllers of the evil program wreaking havoc in my grey matter?

I complained to her literary agent, implying her in remote neural monitoring and cyber harassment, but she just simply had me locked up because of my long steeped history in madness. Nobody believes a word I say. So, no wonder, when I start dishing the dirt back out to where it belongs and emanates from, it comes back to stick. Now I really am locked up in a real institution, going to her make believe institution in my dreams, and still rereading her stupid dumb bestseller book about me.

Her evil is Siberia. Her Siberia is wipe out. And her first crushy face is lodged all over my chip implant. They do say nothing can hurt you like love can. All the people I used to love are now my enemies, in this WAR ON JOY currently going on in my life. In Christ, it’s perfectly acceptable to show love towards your enemies. That’s what he advocated.

Today, instead of being an embittered old croak without pleasure in my life, hating all around me and wishing harm outward, I will be a shining exemplary beacon of love and friendliness to all I encompass. Please bless this vision, Lord, and help it to be true.

THIS IS HOW I WANT TO BE. IN CHRIST. WITH MY MAIDEN (ANGEL).

 

 

Priceless Intellectual Property

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Out Of It - Where Did You Come From?

So it’s once more into the fray then, in this 3^rd World War battle for the human mind. I could think of other things I’d rather be doing. I’m taking it all in my stride to be perfectly honest. I know who I am, I know what I own, and I know what they want from me. It may sound naïve, but I’ve never been aware of info like this. I’m starting to begin to accept how important we all are in this melodrama. They’ve spent millions keeping you from the truth.

I remember opening up the bible and being reduced to tears by the first psalm I read. I started seeing childlike images of a cartoonish nature behind the fading, smeary text. My tears were making the words drool and slip and slide off the page, revealing colourful depictions underneath. It was all very life affirming. I believe that revelations like this are scarce and mighty, and that somebody out there didn’t ever want me reading the bible for this reason. They call it the Living Word and I trust in that. Once, when I was reading it while homeless on the streets of Liverpool, I could hear a man deep in my subconscious roaring out the print with me. I wouldn’t say he was God but I’d be surprised if he didn’t think he was. He was a character in my schizo circle who would then become known as The Father. He has several brothers. Sometime the other year I counted all the personalities in my schizo circle, and the full house totalled 30-odd. I hereby trust none of them at all wholeheartedly and remain standing alone. I know a girlfriend who also concurs that all of her angels shat on her as well. That’s just life. Those evil spirits are forever mimicking pleasant presences. But you work them out eventually. They’d con you for all time if able.

I’ve seen evil spirits in their natural form. They look like big black and hairy caricatures of comic sketches resembling oversized creatures with silly expressions. They like to assimilate themselves into people close and familiar to you. They love to look like your partner or your best friend, even when everyone knows that they’re not. I got told, by an evil spirit incidentally, that my interracial pornography use attracted so many into my life. Apparently, sex between members of different races is like a red rag to a bull to them, they can’t ignore it. Good job I haven’t watched it in over a year then. I swear, I’ve seen enough tits n arse to last me ten lifetimes.

Imagine if you’re an evil spirit and you’ve been summoned by the dark manager back to Earth for a simple assignment of possession. You think to yourself wow, what could this be, is it a mass ritual of carnage on an Indian burial site? No, it’s just a man tossing off in a council flat to Barely Legal 18. He’s looping the money shot and sticking his tongue out for some mad reason. Plus he keeps swapping his hands and speeding up. And he keeps looking around the room, as if he’s expectant of company. Maybe his other half is due back from the salon or something. Perhaps she can catch him mid-whack and nip his disgusting habit in the bud, because he’s a filthy fapper who can’t stop playing with itself and doesn’t wash its own hands before he stops to raid the fridge.

I remember many times when I was in the shameful habit of self-abuse, lost in deep dark torrents of XXX material. I’d be out of it on Class As, in a sexual euphoric cloud of delinquency, watching hardcore this and hardcore that over and over again, in a proper trance like, slobbering and everything, when I’d take a glance upwards and notice someone in the room with me. Instead of reacting with shock and horror, I’d simply look away from them and turn back to my restricted exploits on screen. I didn’t care about my perps getting ‘extremely’ close to me. My condition was so out of it that I made it fantastically easy for them. One perp in particular said he was going to appear from behind the settee and pull my underpants down. He said the last bloke he did this to killed himself inside 45 minutes. I told him that I wasn’t settling for that happy-crappy, my underpants were already down, and I was ringing the police. He had no idea that I never get the police involved, because all they ever comment on is my medication. He didn’t appear from behind the settee to try and pull my already-down underpants down, but he did smash one of my mirrors when I was sleeping. I left him some flowers one morning, as a joke.

Yeah, mid-wank, in a trance from drugs…some very weird things happen indeed. I once looked up and saw a giant rat hanging upside down from a chair looking straight at me in fascination. Then it waddled over to me and pissed down my bell end. Serioiusly. Truthfully. Honestly. No lies here. And that’s nothing, compared to other stuff what happens in that state, all alone in the apartment, which is swarming with hateful perps and their booby traps. I am more often than not too frozen with panic to react.

My perps, when I am wiped-out on harmful brain-numbing poisons, simply open the front door and pile animals into my home. No shit. It’s dark, and too late to do anything about it by the time I realise what is going on. It’s the way the animals move, all stealthy and creepy, above the periphery of my f**ked up lowered eyes. I often have strange creatures engineered in laboratories surrounding me in my own darkened home. I’m off my nut listening to female satanic mantra, chugging my bishop sinfully, so what chance do I have with all of my attention distracted. My brains are all blown out everywhere with hundreds of pounds worth of nasty narcotics, albeit terminating my brain chemistry. Things slither all over me and even lay eggs and stuff in my mouth. Parasites in my stomach have audible conversations with one and other.

Then, when they admit me to hospital for ‘neglect’, all they do is inject me with wood polish against my will and tell me I have an overactive imagination. And why the hell can I hear moans and groans of pain all around the building? Isn’t this supposed to be a safe environment? Sounds of torment follow me around, and everyone looks terrified that a goon squad might jump out from around the corner with a machete and start cutting everyone’s ears off. Honestly, ever since I watched that movie Hostel (2005), about a network of torturers, I’ve never felt safe anywhere I go. Thanks for that one, Eli. But in hospital!? Anywhere, mate, anywhere.

I was in a general ward one time when they were all making calls (the nurses and staff) selling me on to other hate breeds around the region. My net worth shot up to £3million. This was for the purposes of pain infliction. Apparently I am very popular and sought after because of my appallingly low pain threshold. I can’t state it to the rooftops high enough that I am surrounded knees deep in sado masochists who wish me great harm around my lawless neighbourhood. All the authorities are in on it and only Christ and his angel ilk are keeping me afloat. If you feel like you are on a hopeless plain then keep in touch for help and support. I live day to day on the edge of my survival wits but am happy and proud to be a soldier who is hard at work fighting for tomorrow’s children not to be unwitting victims of horrible mind control, which is a genuine threat to all humanity.

What if I give up and the next soldier, my replacement, is not as strong as I am, then what chance will he have? I’ve been up against the invisible soldier and the porous soldier, all with his incredible array of weaponry, and I am still here engaged in glorious combat with him and his numbered foes. I’ve held my own against half a dozen assassins in my home, and still sleep next to the window with no curtains bathed in candlelight, with nothing to hide.

I am unashamed, and ready for the oncoming battle. Of the mind. Here’s to it, Amigos.

When Harry Doesn't Want You To Meet Sally

So this is it then, eh, what being free and liberated is all about, being able to speak one’s mind across all the platforms? Having a safe soapbox from which to vent, only to understand, that once you have cleared your throat, there’s very little to say. Just as I start to cherish this public podium, I realise that my words have all but dried up. I think there may have been one or two attempts to have it removed. I even got it into my head that this site might be protected from such attacks. The truth is that I don’t know what’s going on. I just keep turning up and running out of things to say.

One thing I can comment on is the discussion we’re just had in SMART recovery group. We were talking about our thoughts and how they influence our decision making process. The woman sat next to me rather surprisingly stated that our thoughts are not our own. Well whose are they then? Someone replied. I chuckled wryly. Come on then, if they’re not your own, somebody quipped in. Then where the bloody hell do they come from? Mental health, the lady answered. She thought that thoughts ringing around in your head which do not originate from you come from mental health. As if mental health is a general ‘thought policing’ board which meets daily in the town square and assigns clouds of unwanted cognitions into people’s heads.

One guy, a paranoid schizophrenic and proud of it, said that he controls the voices in his head with benefits. Vodka and cannabis, to be precise. I would have thought that that would make them worse. He said his day begins with a glass of vodka on his bedside cabinet. Before his feet have touched the floor he’s rolling his first spliff. He maintains that every single morning starts like this one, and always has done, apart from when he went two weeks clean several years ago. Something to do with the birth of a daughter long ago cast off into the care of social services or something. Keep at it. You’ll get there.

Some of the groups I attend have a strange chemistry. I’m becoming increasingly aware that there may be one or two ‘community based operatives’ in them. Their primary function is to talk over me, or to keep me quiet. I can’t prove any of this of course, but certain people in the fellowships I attend around the town seem to be either butting in ahead of me or interrupting me when I open my mouth. There’s not a lot to be done about this, I can’t go letting allegations fly out at them, so I kind of simply sit back calmly and try and pick my moments and just get on with it. It just lets me know for certain that my input is valuable. You never know who might be down in the dumps one weeknight evening and in need of lifting up spiritually. I’m not saying that I’m the best mood bender in the west, but we never do truly see or understand our own power, do we? Maybe other people do see and understand it, and take great lengths trying to stop it.

As if I haven’t got enough problems, without Harry trying his damnedest to prevent me from speaking to Sally. It’s a peculiar sensation, when you first become aware that this strange phenomenon may be happening to you: People keeping you from people. It’s hard to gage the correctly measured response. It’s also hard to accept. Why the hell would Harry suddenly appear in the high street and start rabbiting on about codswallop for five minutes, practically holding me hostage, knowing I am far too polite to wave him away. Well, because I was about to bump into Sally, that’s why. Nah, you think, stuff like that doesn’t happen, surely…

What bad can occur from two people simply ‘meeting’ each other? Well, I’m fairly certain I’ve cracked the answer to this one. Do you want to know what it is? It’s JOY, between those two people. Nothing more, nothing less. They merely like being with each other. Hard to believe, I know, that others would wish to spoil this, but I have it on first-hand experience that this is indeed the case.

The Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies and all the low-level perps who follow me around on foot all day have my JOY on their wish list. Their mind control operations create a negative reaction for every happy thought I have. Only since becoming aware of the WAR ON JOY have I began to feel it so abundantly for the first few times in my life, and also really been aware and present of it, like you know. I’ve been sat there p*ssing myself to daft YouTube videos, more noticeably the Rocky fights, lol! They try and tell me differently, saying it’s not real joy, but they’d urinate on my head and tell me it was raining if they could get away with it. But enough about them already, because they’re too depressing!

I’d just like to give thanks for having the opportunity to spill my guts here. The way my life is at the moment, it’s over and back on from one minute to the next. I’m either totally down and out or raging to go. I’m prepared to mount a challenge for my joy, and keep it very precious and valued and close to my heart. I’m aware that once you lose your ability to feel joy, life is almost not worth living. I’ve been very close to it on occasion more than once over the period of the last few months. Finding it, giving it up, being entrusted with it once more…this time I hope and pray that I will never throw anything so cherished away ever again.

They call me ‘The Angel Maker’ in certain circles. This is because, when, in times of great crisis and despair, I always make a little girl or two to symbolize my holy aspirations for fairness and justice. I just need a real human face to embody the sentiment of my love, is all. I take these faces from some very remarkable places, including flyers and posters from years and years ago. I enflesh them in my mind and embody them in my psyche until wouldn’t you know it they become almost semi-real in my subconscious.

Would you believe me if I told you that the terrorists and spies clone these girls from their appearance in my mind into physical bodies and have them fight me on the streets of England, as sworn enemies? That is the level of degeneracy which I am up against. They take my allies, and make them hate me too. From my mind to the world. But every now and again, like last night for example, I get a nice message in a dream. From my angels. Who tell me to keep going…AND NEVER GIVE UP!

Last House On The Left

When I’m not flying, when I’m not soaring, when I’m not buzzing…which can’t be all the time, obviously…life is just about hanging in. I wish I was constantly a barrel of laughs. I wish I could get dosed off pregabalin 24/7, and drink until the cows come home. But that would be perpetual drug misuse. Not only is that illegal, it’s wrong too. At the moment, soberness is like a natural high. I’m sat in the boozer as is per usual but I’m supping blackcurrant and soda water with ice instead of alcohol. Do I fancy a pint? Erm, kind of…4 or 5 maybe, with a couple of smokes. But once the first one is in then its open flood gates, and in the morning I’ll be huffing and puffing having an asthma attack in an A&E doorway. Who knows? I might enter ‘blackout’ mode and start climbing into other people’s houses uninvited. Hey, it’s all happened before.

It was one starless and blurry evening when I got my sister’s house mixed up. I went round the back, like I normally did, let myself in through the patio, like I normally did, and sat on the sofa watching the TV, like I normally did. Except nobody welcomed me, because it wasn’t my family, and it wasn’t my family’s house.

They were all next door. I’d entered the wrong house. This was the Phillips residence, and they swiftly informed the law. I was so out of it that I didn’t know who I was with or what I was doing or saying. The scene, in retrospective, feels like a weird Mad Hatter’s tea party aboard an alien spacecraft. There were no drugs involved on that occasion – and that would be odd, wouldn’t it, a time when yours truly had decided NOT to blast his own brains out? Who needs drugs with whisky anyway? That wouldn’t have been fair to anyone concerned.

Fortunately, I didn’t get arrested, proceeding rather back on next door into the correct family household, where my sister was being prostituted in her bedroom by a meth abuser. I could hear them groaning and moaning in sensual pleasure. The kids were out. Everywhere was a mess. The television was broken and lying on its side on the floor. No wonder I had wandered into the wrong house, because the wrong house was a far sight better than this dumpster.

I could hardly interrupt them, but I thought it was likely they had heard me come in. After all, the stiff jamb on the back door had cracked loudly like usual. I plopped down on the springless settee and inhaled a large breath of funky stale cannabis air. There was half a doobie in the ashtray so I lit it up, unlike me, and started to toke away. When in Rome, I thought. My spirits had been ambushed by too much booze so I gathered that a little relaxation with weed wouldn’t hurt me too much. I was just feeling at my wit’s end. Something in me knew it shouldn’t be drinking neat spirits and I was paying for it. Probably now, with a tad of psychoactive influence, I would start mildly hallucinating as well. My sister’s house wasn’t the place for that. It was covered in an ultraprecise flimsy layer of dusty grime.

My phone rang then. It was my probation worker. He wanted to know if I was available on Tuesday to complete a safety assessment with a lady called Helen Flanagan. Of course I’d be there, I told him. That is, if my bubbling excitement could hold out.

I tried the hi-fi player, one of only several things unbusted in the house. It would probably be porned down Cash Generators within the week, for more meth, by one of those horny gangbangers upstairs beneath the sheets. A decent tune cackled into focus through the static. It reminded me of the millennium at Wigan Pier, when life was all about ecstasy tablets, pulling girls, and computer bugs. A simpler time, methinks of it. Bit of few quid in the back burner, bellyful of Hooch, and a fondle behind the bins at three am. What could be easier? One weekend after the other. Ticking them off the calendar. Until we arrive here…

In a kinda of limbo land really, because the need still exists to get high. And strangely, it doesn’t. I don’t know what I want actually. Just a pub lunch and a good book to read perhaps. I’m thankful I was able to write something today, and give praise upon high that I am able to keep active and motivated and my float above water.

From here on in I just want to keep going without feeling desperate or fed up. I keep trusting In Christ. I maintain an attitude of ignoring negativity. I pray to God for a bolt of humour to raise my spirits and give me a right good ole giggle up, if possible. The other day I was storming around laffing at practically anything. Everything looked funny to me. I know it will again if I drink. But I don’t want to drink. Hopefully I won’t. but hey, it’s not the end of the world if I do.

Lefty Loosey: Righty Tighty

There is a fairly ominous omen intent on wining me off from my battle station, which is this blog. I fear, that if I take my eye off the ball, I may be permanently isolated away from social encounters and unable to be capable of willing the brave guts and efforts it sometimes takes to make strides forward by going public and typing posts like this. I face a lot of antagonism when I try to express myself lately. The best nugget of advice I received recently was, ‘Never Let The Bast*rds See You Down.’ I believe it. Always try and cheer yourself up with something funny. Humour is a blessing, one of our greatest strengths.

This is remarkably easy to do for me if I say ‘Sod it’ and start to get drunk. Then I just tip back can after can into my gob and start singing half-naked on the lawn. Job’s a Damned Good’un and there’s not a lot of anything in particular anyone can ever do about it. Apart from police riot vans, that is, and doctors on the doorstep at barmy o’clock. The problem is, there are always consequences, like aching hangovers full of shame and regret. It’s a escape route, but it’s not thee escape route.

I enjoy the challenge of saying sober because once I start it’ll speedily become an entrenched long-lasting life behaviour. I must stop drinking non-alcoholic beverages too, because the five I had yesterday gave me chronic gas reflex bordering on projectile vomiting. Someone talk me out of writing a letter of complaint to the stinking rotten brewery responsible because I’m already half-inclined to verbalizing my disgust, as if they don’t know already what they’re lining up in the fridges behind the bars inside the pubs and clubs of this country. Tastes like carbonated liposuction.

And of course, with a bevvy, in then steps the common old house fag, 40 on a bad day, which simply adores any old drink in the right hand to burn down alongside with. I can’t be fully ‘In Christ’ if I am dying in a hospice with lung cancer, can I? Well maybe I can be, but it won’t be for long. First things first, just stay the hell alive chum. Keep breathing, for one, and we’ll sort out everything else later. Got it? Okay.

Today was a day I could quite have easily remained in Cloud Nine of The Cosy Corner and weighed up my sorrows in two heavy hands, if not slightly wetted by a tear or two. I would have been there all day though, and where would it have led? Imagine weeping with the prospect of facing the morning, unable to stand to two feet and go out into the sweeping breeze to surmise any challenges, not even an easy one for starters such as purchasing a pint of milk for coffee? The world is sometimes itching to treat you like a doormat.

One day, unholy of unholies, this possibility might not be far off. Wow! Whatever would I do then, without this small breadth of text styling to extoll my higher virtues? Whatever happens, come snow rain or shine, I should be here. I didn’t know how magnificent life could be, you know, until I thought that magnificent was normal. Then I was threatened with having no platform, and much worse besides, in which to vent my wraths, furies, heartaches, joys, successes and thrills. It’s not just this blog up for grabs, it’s my ability to write in its entirety. Every couple of months my head keeps falling off, and I lose the plot. At the moment I’m currently re-screwing it back on. Hopefully a lot more tightly than ever before. 

Weird Encounter

I remember a good old tussle I had with a woman in an erotic psychic realm some years back. It took place within the repetitive footage of a pornographic DVD. We were fighting over my ejaculate. She said she was my dead mother who I had Oedipus complex over, and had made the tape to enslave my love over eternity before committing suicide. It was all a weird experience. I didn’t know what was going on. The ‘star’ kept talking to me as if it were Facebook live, giving me instructions on which part of her body to look at. She insisted on maintaining eye contact a lot. Whenever I did so I felt myself growing more and more excited, and she knew this. She looked nothing like my mother, but because of the drugs I was on, and the state I was in, I kind of half-believed everything she was saying. She was high as a kite herself, rambling on about reincarnation and shape-shifting and intimate ideologies from the womb.

I felt very drawn into something occultish and supernatural. I only hasten to mention this because I feel like I have just met her again at an AA meeting, in a different person. How can porn stars be family members from different timelines reappearing in various embodiments, you ask? Dunno the answer to that one is my best guess.

I was unable to stop what I was doing because I was ‘off my chops’ and deeply involved within the sensuality of the woman. It was a terrifically strong-contented DVD, not extreme or deviant but better than what I was used to, so my socks were sort of blown away a bit by the novelty of it, and especially with the pseudo-motherly connexion. I couldn’t quite seem to wrench my eyes away from the screen, even though what the so-called ‘actress’ was saying was hurtful and shocking. She was opening up holes of disbelief and numbness all over me. This footage had planted a portal in my head and swept me to a different dominion. She was screaming for my ejaculate.

This woman in the meeting earlier wasn’t exactly doing that, but she looked super sexy like that broad in the video. I was peering at her from the corner of my eye and in the sunlight-affected periphery she could have passed for any glamorous star of the silver screen on Earth. I wouldn’t fancy another tussle with her. That’s why I gave up the porn, and hopefully will never return to it. It’s because of my conditioning since being a young boy: The women are too hot to handle. Especially when they usurp the powerful bonding of a parental influence. Their sexual advantage over a young passionate gentleman can be vastly unfair. And vice versa, I imagine. I can only speak from experience.

It was all a mad melee of sex, drugs and schizo stuff gone awry. Now, before dipping into the pleasure dome, I have to check that my sanity will still remain intact before arising back out from it. Odds are it won’t, and I’ll be a depressed nervous wreck. The good old days were decent, I could spend all weekend steeped in debauchery and exit the other side with nothing more than a wee dose of insomnia, fixable with a handful of sleepers from an under the counter chemist. Now, jeez, I’m running round the woods half-naked, chased by terrorists and spies. It’s always about this time when the doctor shows up with his pink Section papers.

High Beams Visible

It’s one of those days when the words are proving hard to come by. I’ve no shortage of ideas when it comes to writing, just a question of where those ideas belong. I’m not sure about putting everything here on the blogspot. One look around this ill manor and I feel you know me well enough. I’m merely another bohemian with problems. Who isn’t? I’m unashamed to call myself a free thinking creative. Indeed, this is why I have issues looming in from exterior parties. Don’t worry, I’m capable of looking after myself. Just. As long as I stay In Christ. I’m becoming steeped in wisdom with every passing season, it seems, with my hairline and my belly and my beard. I’m trying to smarten up my lifestyle a bit. One eye on the diet, one eye on the future. Futures are not guaranteed. Futures are amazing, priceless, and, for us struggling/recovering addicts, rare.

There’s only so much I can write about this state of being. I’m thinking of a private volume of fiction at home, unpublished online. This is for me only, as it’s important that one is one’s own biggest fan. I get a lot of mental strength from my own literary efforts. Some folk might call this power. It breeds more toil. I’ll be calling this oncoming body of work The Museless, if it ever appears, as I believed I lost my muse late last summer. Fortunately, gladly, luckily, it has returned. Not so long ago, even the thought of this I’m doing at the moment, being sat here typing about not much at all, seemed farfetched. Writing about ‘anything’ is an accomplishment, either when facing the block or losing the muse. Seriously. That’s why I’m currently quite proud of myself.

What’s the alternative, being sat back in the council box climbing the walls? Without booze or smokes, that possibility sounds like a chilling prospect. Nah. None of it. Get yourself before the keyboard and share your feelings with the world, methinks. Others disagree. One friend told me I was ‘off my chops’ to share anything personal with a stranger on the web. Strangely enough, he was a stranger on the web himself.

In a way, this blog has been based on falsehood, as I’ve written about relationships which were fake in the past. Now I’m all strung out alone with nothing but a handful of hugs and kisses in my heart. The hard macho image is over. I mistakenly presupposed that I was walking with a convoy of Angels. These so-called loving beings turned out to be Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies. Such a con is easy to fall for if you’ve been targeted since birth. I’m a nice regular stand-up guy who sees the best in everyone. But now the gloves are off. Each night I now sweep the flat of negative energies by going around and whacking empty air with a broomstick. This lets the invisible black-ops know that I’m not falling for their love bombs anymore. Sometimes I spray fire their way, from a homemade blowtorch. To the layman/observer, this behaviour looks totally nuts. And you wonder why I’m in and out of hospital every five minutes. But I swear, Your Honour, I can FEEL someone with me. Who else floods the sink and robs my odd socks!?

I know another victim/target/sufferer (I identify as victor) who said that everyone thought she was making up the story about her harassers, until one evening a brick came through the window and clocked her on the forehead. Then they still didn’t believe her. They thought the brick was in her imagination. So too the smashed window pane and resulting concussion in hospital. An imagination like that, and yet still no insight. Only stranger things happen at sea. And also, of course, on the hit series, Stranger Things. I only saw the first season of that Netflix caper. Something about sensory deprivation and aliens behind wallpaper. Bit strange to say the least. Winona Ryder kept me captivated. What a babe. Just my type. Wondering…has she ever let a sex tape leak? Quite a fair few of these raunchy celebrities have, haven’t they? Would I break my abstinence from self-induced pleasure to view it? Oh go on, I think we’ll make an exception. Bollox. I wouldn’t break my no-fap spree for an orgy with Little Mix.

I’ve just met a guy in group who is 134 days clean. He was supported by his mum, who was ever-so proud of him. There were smiles all-round from people doing well, including myself. The world is so much more bearable with everyone wearing beaming grins. When you live above a dungeon of blood drinkers for a living, you appreciate little spectacles like this. Such as a room of people laughing. As usually it’s just me, climbing those chilling council four walls, smoking and supping, viens and arteries snagged with the remnants of cocaine, hanging over tipping point beyond the comedown, wishing ever so politely that I were brown bread. I warned the 134 day man about this, should he relapse. DON’T DO IT!

There was even some happy-clappy brunette fresh meat there who identified with herself as, aside from a reasonable narcotics apologist, a ‘Dark Empath’. No, she didn’t have vampiric makeup on, before you ask. She had Uggs, scars and a Farmer Giles accent. If not for the off-putting dialect, I might have had to smuggle her away behind the bins and insert my breadstick into her cookie jar. If you know what I mean. I think you know exactly what I mean. Just my kind of lass. But better with the makeup on.

I had quite a puff of an anxiety attack yesterday, I get them often because of constant scrutiny from my mentally handicapped harassers, and I would have done anything for a caring mother to call and speak to for comfort on the blower. I had a peculiar sensibility that there was God, no Heavenly Provider, no Safety in Faith, no Holy Spirit…and I felt quite desolate, to stipulate it in lesser terms. Thankfully I get over these distressing bouts of conscientiousness in several hours or so and emerge the other side feeling relieved and stronger. I could be getting attacked by a mind weapon for all I know, from a drone or something, for Chris’sakes it wouldn’t be the first time. Who knows where all our doomsday emotions come from? Not from the Lord, that’s for damn sure.

I’ll be fine, so long as that pesky FEAR keeps away. Last time I felt real fear I was running round the woods semi-naked holding an armload of clothing pegs, for some mad reason. I was trying to blag my pursuers into thinking that I had an imaginary assortment of semtex on me. Made sense to me at the time.

I just feel so alone when these pockets of negativity strike, I don’t know who to turn to or think of. I tend to look inside myself. I see a lot of swirling conflictions within. My addictions are ugly and hard to swallow. I find it difficult to accept what floats my boat. Any kind of sunny path ahead is equally tough to visualise with schizophrenic voices hissing their usual hatred. I’m trying to focus on that handful of hugs and kisses I mentioned, that which separates me from ogre. The hard macho man goes out the window. I just want to be a likeable dude with a dollop of love in the marrow of his bones. A big softie, like, ya know. The gates are open: I simply have to walk through. 

Remaining In Christ

The battle against the flesh is going very satisfactorily. Despite other long-lasting horrors going on in my life, this is perhaps the most important issue I have. I’m realising what is important and what isn’t. Shocking mental health traumas, although unpleasant, are not the most crucial perils I endure. I can get through it all, so long as I remain In Christ, our merciful and mighty saviour. I’m always talking about Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies here at the blogspot, but even their persistent harassment is nothing compared to the absence of God. When I pick up the substances, I feel slightly distant from all things holy. So it’s vital I remain In Christ, His one and only son, for as long as possible, preferably for the rest of all time. It’s an eternal deal, making a pact with the Lord, and not one to be swapped for cheap counterfeit sexual pleasure.

Before dabbling with wicked women, I fear I might pick up the cigarettes and alcohol, or, if I don’t beforehand, I definitely will afterwards. For the last ten years solid, ever since I nearly jumped off a high bridge to my death, a fag and a can have never been far from my hand. I derived immense comfort from gurgling lager and toking on smokes. I thought of myself as Cracker, the famous TV detective, who was always at it while solving his cases. He had a ‘burning self-destruct’ button which I both shared and admired. Towards the end though, I started to enjoy it less and less. I was regularly throwing up and wheezing. Not only was it blowing a hole in my pocket, it was also killing me.

I’m aware now that if I return to the booze and ciggies, I may never get over them again. It will be too late. They might usher me to the grave. That’s a scary thought. And it starts with the first one. I’ll never forget it. It’ll stick in my head worse than any voice or hallucination. Many bad things happen to us Children of God outside of our control and they can’t be helped, but what we can limit, like smoking and drinking, shouldn’t be given licence to assist in shackling us. Not by our own hand, surely. We should be looking after the Holy Temple of our body, not filling it with pollutants.

It’s tough though isn’t it, on a daily basis? Personally, I sometimes long to give up the struggle and kick back doing what I’m used to. Part of me says so what, Christ has paid the price, I can do what I want apart from massive sin, there’s no great harm being done, we are submissive in the flesh. As long as I am buggering off to Heaven at the end of it all to escape my oppressors, I don’t really care about a fag or a beer. They’re just fags and beers. They don’t make me a bad person. You know?

The women however come with substance abuse and that’s even worse than smokes and alcohol. Should all three occur I’ll be in a potent relapse and that’s when the demons come out to play with me. They’re completely obsessed about every fibre of my psyche. I’m not sure how many chances I have left. I have another relapse left in my fleshy members, but not another recovery left in my spiritual parts. I’ve always pulled myself back in the past, but this time I don’t want to insult Christ, and knowingly walk out of his presence.

So I’m going to try and remain with him, in Brotherhood. YEAH!

The Surreal Special Makeup Canteen

There is one morning from the days I was employed which stands out in my diaries. I was getting ferried along in a car pool to a makeup factory across the district. The chauffeur was Mike, he was a recruitment consultant who’d drop us off at the job site. He was a chirpy no nonsense kinda guy who would take his daily wash in the toilet sink. He called this a ‘quick swill’. I call it ‘blessing up’. Hygiene is so important. You realise this when your life capsizes suddenly and the wheels fall off, due to whatever reason. A quick swill or a bless up is better than nothing at all.

I remember the leaves on the trees as they blurred by at high speed. They were golden and sun-dappled and dropping randomly, as if plucked and blown by unseen palms. Eminen’s latest offering was blasting from the stereo. I approved of his music back then, it was ballsy and inspiring and motivating I believed. He was singing about his celebrity all or nothing high life being ‘close to post-mortem’. I felt the same, because of the drugs I was consuming. Despite the differences in our public status, I felt like I shared a common bond with him. He was rich, I was poor, but I felt that, like him, I was talented, and, like him, I burned the candle at both ends when I leaned heavily on that self-destruct button. We were both having a similar reaction to society. A dangerous one.

It was a bit of a life marker, that journey. Early in the morning, back in on the job front, comedown, getting chaperoned at speed, autumn in full fall, cool music blaring…close to post-mortem.

The makeup factory, as you’d expect, was mostly full of girls and women. At that age, it was hard to tell the difference what separated girls from women. Now I know that one of the main things that does so is makeup. And piercings. And tattoos. And, of course, fashion. Not to mention hairstyling. The list goes on and on, doesn’t it? Losing of the virginity is a big one. So too childbirth.

Girls are young women who have not had sex yet. This is what I told myself. And Women are old girls who are experienced in sexual matters. That was the main contrariness.

They segregated me alone on a workstation and had me packing box after box of makeup. It was a brightly-lit factory full of colour and other visual stimulus and I just got along with it listening to the radio. Then I emptied a truck with a team leader who said that my farts (from protein shakes) smelled like actual crap. His actual wording was, “Go and f**k off round the corner and die, with that sh*tty arse of yours, you f**king minging tw*t.”

Later I mucked in with all the other general females on the assembly line. But what I’m here to write about is my dinner one afternoon.

It was with a Chinese girl, and a South African woman. It was just the three of us in a weirdly mediocre canteen. I had the assumption I was on a TV show. Something felt staged and surreal, as if forces had being operative in the background, trying to prevent us from meeting each other, yet had failed in doing so. Our encountering of one another should have taken place on a blazing mountaintop, or on the summit of a volcano, rather than in a quaint little nondescript cafeteria. Everything was so unglamorous. But their infectious smiles were monumental.  

I was bang into the gym at that point so was loading up on meat and spuds. The Chinese girl was eating a turkey satay and the South African woman was eating some homemade fruit loaf. The day had being fraught with tension, as I had probably been up all night watching dirty videos as usual which are degrading to women across the board and distort a young man’s ideals about the opposite sex over time. To have them gathered all around me on the spur of the moment the next morning was awkward to say the least. I felt like a rapist in the dock. They were all just objects to me: Objectified, Dehumanized, Pornolized, Desensitized. Especially with makeup on.

Nothing but painted dolls to slobber over, and watch be abused on Restricted 18 certification labels, which I unashamedly adored. I didn’t have the internet back then, so all the content I watched, purchased legally from retail outlets for around 40 quid a disc, was kosher. The same couldn’t be said for downloads from The Pirate Bay, years later, when uncensored viewing led me down some very twitchy avenues. I couldn’t be sure that the girls weren’t boys, and I couldn’t be sure that the boys weren’t donkeys.

At the time of writing, it must be roughly some time like around an entire full year since I’ve consumed any kind of pornographic material whatsoever with my mince pies (eyes). I’m absolutely delighted about this fact. I now class myself as ‘off it’. You know, no longer an addict. But if I act stupidly and watch some, then all bets no longer apply, and I am a slovenly deviant all over again. It’s an incredibly fine line to tread, with one wrong step leading you at back at Ground Zero of Porn Addiction, Day 1, where all kinds of other mostly drug-induced problems wreak havoc as well. Think shame. Think remourse. Think psychosis.

Sat at that dinner table, with what felt like nobility, I was able to relate to these two working females with something unrelated to fleshy yearning for a change. I understood that they were beautiful without being flirtatious on a movie set. I realised that I preferred them not being carnal during fake performances. It was sweet relief to enjoy their company without perving over every inch of their naked flesh.

I perceived them as intelligent, independent individuals who ate their meals politely and could hold a conversation. You know, manners and personality. It was all very prim and proper. I hadn’t sat with two females since being back at school and it was a major cultural event for me. Plus, the girls I knew from school were all Caucasian: Being with other minorities set me at an instant natural ease and tinted everything in a jolly, gratifying light. It was a profoundly legendary dinner, in the simplest of circumstances. They might have been Angels from Heaven I got to thinking, so weighty was their influential gravitas on my aura. My brain chemicals soared. Like gaseous rice krispies crackling and popping between my ears. I didn’t feel horny at all, and neither of them would have gotten switched off if they’d have popped up in an explicit DVD scene at home behind the curtains in a weak halogen glow. I just felt accepted and welcome and honoured and privileged. We were all so chatty together. It was what I would call a calm blast. That canteen was like an oasis. I was like a genial host. I remember it to this day, all these years later.

Hope they’re still active, and doing okay. This is kinda how I see women now.

Beware That Succubus!

Another day to get through here. Not a problem with a true and pure attitude. I’m almost too busy not smoking to concentrate on my character defects. I’m trying to rectify myself one fault at a time. I’ve been distracted by the accusations of a false schizophrenic reality for far too long now to pay heed the real issues in my own personality. All that crazy psychotic jibber-jabber has origins in fear, whereas I now reside in a peaceful and stately mindset free of danger from creatures under the bed and suchlike. Truth be told, I threw my bed away into the communal garden. The neighbours complained about this and later accused me of setting fire to it, in order to have me sectioned, which worked. I have to be on my best behaviour at all times, and even then I take the brunt of someone’s blag every so often.

But if I am to suffer on, then I insist I do so with righteous correction, instilled by a loving Father. I’ve realized today that I do not need a weapon to defend myself from constant psychic onslaught: I AM a weapon. I’ve cleaned up my diet (a work in progress), I’m doing a bit of exercise, I’ve dropped the substances, so on and so forth. Big deal, isn’t every one doing this in the New Year, you ask? Well, I’m proud of myself. Because just several weeks ago I was on the streets with only a single backpack to my name. My home had become an unbearable Golgotha which needed fleeing from. Public hatred of me had grown so intense that the local chippy poisoned me with hallucinogenic toxins. Secret society members were releasing lab rats around the places I was sleeping, to deter me from getting comfortable. When I came across an inviting doorway, a construction team would suddenly appear and insist I move on. Operatives were walking past me with growling attack dogs. Compared to the devastation waged against me my whole life, little hindrances like this are now a joke to me. But everything still hurts a bit, because I am a very sensitive individual. I have the skin of a Rhino, you require one to write, as one troll comment can dismantle you, but underneath I am as soft and gentle as memory foam Butterfly slippers. An old woman called me an Angel the other day. She was the nicest person I’ve met all year. It was probably a windup to cheer me up before a fall.

Yeah, I’m attempting to better myself. This is done in the face of The Power Of The Public House. I still frequent ale houses to watch the sports, but alcohol is currently off the menu. One pint of premium lager and then I’m smoking and taking drugs and womanising, in that order. Maybe it might stretch that far, maybe it might not, but that’s the embroidering nature of polysubstance misuse; they all cross-stitch into one another and form skilful interwoven strongholds to render you nuked and puked and down and out for the count. No, you won’t be washed, dressed and active tomorrow. You’ll be riddled with psychosis in bed, getting stabbed by invisible demons who are not really there. If they’re not really there, then why is it hurting? Oh forget it. Let’s go back to the pub. If we can drag our arse away from bed.

Except everyone in the pub is now talking about you, and the demons have followed you there. Not to mention the Chinese Terrorists. Don’t forget the Russian Spies. And the seductive painted harlots who wait with sharpened n varnished claws. Wouldn’t it be nice to F**k The Pain Away? Like Peaches Geldof. R.I.P by the way. Another drug-related death, while we’re on the subject, and a star extinguished too soon. That’ll be me if I’m not careful, straight up. My dealer has now started trying to kill me with product that is nothing like cocaine. Like a fool I still keep going back to him on occasion, because of my lingering death-wish from multiple suicide attempts. He’s a smiling assassin. If my destiny whimpers out without a battle cry, I’d prefer to be taken out of the game by him.

I think he secretly makes his murderous powder with a mixture of homemade products such as creatine/arginine/glutamine (that’s the safe stuff) plus extra more exotic and dangerous ingredients from the dark web, which come under the generic label of ‘Killer’. People say, “What effects doth killer wreak?’ I reply that it does what it says on the tin – totally wipes out all mental processes, so that you’re just a sexual ‘thing’ with a hard-on. Thoughts and sentience flood down the drain. You’re merely carnal instinct, like an animal. This could be why I attract strange-looking creatures! In the grip of an evil spirit masquerading as your most titillating fantasy, one has to be vigilant. Especially on payday, after a spate of bad luck, when one feels under the weather, and sharing intimate affinity with a she-devil seems like a snazzy idea. And this is a wizened G-Unit preaching. What chance have the up and coming insecure mummies boys got? Against cosmetically-enhanced witches in make up? Twice their age, doubly streetwise, and sly enough to wean them off the Narrow Path? With lust, with desire, with cunning, with charm, with the Dark One?

God’s Armour Needed.

Urgently. Seriously, Put It On Now.

Don’t Waste A Moment.

There are some Cruellas out there who will whisk away your children and then come back for their toys. More disturbing is the fact that you might condone their actions in the mad passionate spirit. It happens in a blink, cloaked by the thirst of the libido. A sneaky succubus will wipe the memory of your children before pleasuring you, and as soon as the passion is concluded you will hear the tears of your firstborn as it wails in the moonlight from the unguarded bedroom. Then the succubus will unfurl her wings (which she stole from an Angel) and fly away with your offspring to some creepy cavern closer than you think, for harmful deeds best remaining undisclosed.

Remain Vigilant Against Succubus!

Pura Vida

This is a surfing term meaning ‘staying with rapture.’ If you adopt this deep-meaning philosophy into your personal life, you may likely merit attention from the thought police, who will use desperate measures to eradicate it from you, once they’ve falsely imprisoned you for nish. They’re grossed out by anything noble or true, by the looks of it. I’ve never been surfing in my life, nor am I ever likely to, but I do appreciate this tenet very dearly. I’ve wrote it on my calendar in big letters, and sprayed it on my wall. I’m just waiting for the tattoo.

Together, along with finding my love again, and also being ‘In Christ’, I am able to stand again without needing a heart of ice. My heart has been torn from my chest plate, yet now, with this system, I am able to feel joy again. Love and joy, you won’t need lecturing about, are priceless commodities. Very highly treasured indeed. Owning any of these stocks can land you in extremely serious trouble in my experience. They automatically make you a target for the enemy who delights in trying to remove earnest inheritances from other people’s lives.

Morbid and bland sadomasochists would sell their own grandmothers for a cookie of joy. They wouldn’t think twice about breaking into your home and hurting your pet to remove happiness from you. They cannot bear to tolerate it for a moment as similarly as ‘us good guys’ cannot tolerate innocent bloodshed. I’m beginning to wonder that pleasant feelings of glee physically upset the vibrational frequency of these harsh sinners.

Unlucky as it might be, I’ve had my brain hooked up and connected to a network of lowly felons, and it just so happens that every time I manage to engineer a happy feeling in the face of their merciless wrath, they all lose their minds and start freaking out in anger. After trying for years to kidnap me, and assassinate me, they have finally had to settle for being nothing more than annoying nuisances who chat repetitive bubbles about kidnap and assassination all day long for no other reason than to stop me thinking freely. I don’t know what danger my thoughts pose to anybody, but these complete rags of filth seem allergic to them. Fancy heterodyning (frequency cloning) your brain to another whose you are allergic to. Their fretting is because I didn’t commit suicide like they expected. Instead I rose up and starting spreading the gospel over their lies, abuse and slander. Their tongues are like sharpened vipers, whereas mine is holy like a prophet of the Most High. That’s the difference between myself and them, crucially, outnumbered and surrounded and stalked and tracked and harassed 24/7 or not outnumbered and surrounded and stalked and tracked and harassed 24/7.

I am a Child Of The Lord. They drink blood underneath my feet. Ends.

Pura Vida allows me to be brave and write like this instead of begging the mental health authorities to save me from them, which they don’t, because they conspire with them. I hate to write negatively, I had other topics outlined for today, involving angels and princesses, but these sick puppies need to hear the truth whether they can stomach it or not. Lately, the mind control being used against me is gunning for forced suicide. The never-ending pettiness of it sometimes has me lining up a razor blade, I’ll be honest about it. Then I snap out of it and realise what is happening:

Basically, it’s just an outsider crime group of lonely sad gits with no morals who find it impossible to live with themselves talking claptrap to me over and over via illegal subliminal methods. I tell myself that this is deserving of pity, not suicide.

I had nothing several months ago, apart from screams of agony ringing in my ear canals. My fatherhood and vocation and mission were in the gutter. I was wandering around city blocks in the middle of the night, like a figment of my own imagination in some bizarre tetris-shaped dreamscape. All the hotels had their lights off, as if Corona virus had wiped out the masses. I returned from my pilgrimage full of wonder and hope yet critically deflated and downtrodden. The following weeks were pain.

Then God stepped in, and now I presently face the day without fear or depression. I have never been attacked so forcefully as I am today. It feels like every man and his dog are waiting around the next corner with a booby trap. That’s without ancient supernatural forces getting involved, levelling me with spells and curses. Not to mention my own flaws, failures and faults in the guise of messy addictions related to the pleasures of the flesh. Then you have the rigours of everyday life. All in all, I’m up against it, and times are hard. This is half of the reason why I relapse. I just give up and press the (FIB) f**k it button. Or reach for a lager and a fag. While you’re at it, pass me a kebab. Then it’s chasing a bag or two of Charlie, and getting wiped out by a sexy woman. Who happens to have me on her murder list. Fun while it’s occurring, but impossible to describe for the next few days. I always drag myself back out of the scummy puddle somehow, eventually, I’m like a Phoenix from the Ashes every time, but there’s never any guarantee. Things are getting worse, man, before they’re getting better. How many chances does a sinner deserve? Let’s ask Christ, who I reside in. Only messing, he’s busy hand-washing the net curtains from the utility room. We’ll ask him when he’s finished. If he ever gets the job done. Ta’ra for now.

Let Me Into That Goddamn Funeral To Let Me Tell Some Jokes!

I’ve just paid my respects to a Brother in Christ, at a special memorial service. It was held in a local pub which I was barred from. I had to get verbally persuasive with the bouncer so I could gain entry. The bouncer, believe it or not, was a young girl hired especially to stop me coming in. My mission was to say something nice to the daughter of the deceased, as I had a premonition that she would be attacked by negative forces who wished not solely to amplify her grief but make fun of it also. I felt I had to share with her a wee word from the gospel.

Before we continue, I hasten to add that I completed my assignment. I touched the bereaved daughter on the shoulder and told her that her father was looking down from Heaven. Slightly cliché, don’t you think, as every well-wisher says that. What she might or might not have known was that her old man also believed in Buddhism too. So I added that if he wasn’t in Heaven, he was climbing a tree as a Leopard with a Buffalo hanging from his jaws on the Serengeti, reincarnated for his troubles as one of God’s most powerful creatures. Or Buddha’s most powerful creatures, if you suspect he preferred the East. They have a more sophisticated worldview, in my opinion, compared to our all-consuming appetite for cheap plastic nonreturnable goods from China. Materialistic consumerism vs bohemian karma. Know which one I prefer.

The Hotpoint ‘freestanding’ washing machine, in case it needs stating, obviously. Freestanding because it stands up by itself. Forget the 10kg loading capacity. Forget the 1400 spin. For over 700 notes, I expect it to be upright at least. My dad sold domestic appliances for a living, so I know what I’m [tork](kin) about. *Talking about* I’ve never shared about all the antics me and his dodgy employees got up to selling 2^nd hand washers, cookers and fridges. It was absolutely gleeful. Really fond memories, like. I haven’t the time to delve into all those prized recollections presently, because my head is still arse over elbow at the funeral procession I’ve just attended.

It was a wild heated debate with that kiddy female bouncer. She was ferociously awesome. I had to rely on Christ to get past her. I was plopping my pants. How can a child be a doorman? With long blonde hair? She almost had me retreating with my tail between my legs. I was all psyched up for three hurly-burly meathead bouncers. Johnie ‘Kick Doors Down’ Lang, Gunner ‘Double Biceps’ Sinnot, and Anthony ‘Rowdy In The Jungle’ Marsh, for example. They would have posed me no problemo, as I’m back in the gym leg pressing instead of belly building. I’ve been belly building for the last decade watching Vera on the sofa, but now I am active again with a bit of light jogging and resistance training.

She said her name was a~s~T~R~I~d, 4 and a half feet tall. A pocket dynamo rocket, she pinned me against the wall! I said I was spreading the gospel, and the fallen needed to hear. She said now sling your hook lad, coz you’re not having a biere!

I’m mediocre at best when it comes to public speaking engagements, but that doesn’t stop me from trying my best to motivate the relatives of those who have passed away. I learned this by being thrown in at the deep end at my brother’s final ceremony. I wrote a novella about the experience of losing him in the public eye. It was another George Floyd case of Black Lives Matter, unfortunately. He was killed by police and they put it on the news.

This is the 77 blogspot.

The funeral belonged in a touching movie. Funerals scenes are popular cinematically, most notably in the Rocky franchise. The sorrow in the atmosphere is magnetic. The weather is usually unforgettable. It’s something about the importance of the day which registers with us. The last time I was in a graveyard, I saw 14 Cherubs, 2 Angels, and several million Orbs. I KID YOU NOT. I’D TESTIFY THIS IN A COURT OF LAW. Not to mention a beautiful statue of the Hail Mary. No, she wasn’t crying blood. Why would she be!? When I returned home, armed with holiness, I frequented the demonic realm chaperoned by a Sharma and slayed countless legions of super furry animals with a Samurai sword forged by Hattori Hanzo.

During my spoken eulogy speech, I added enough humour from my brother’s life that several mourners were unable to suppress their chuckles. The sound of weeping becoming laughter is a truly, undoubted, joyous sound. One moment everybody is in dire straights, despair even, and then, with a simple funny commemorative gag, people’s ribs are tickled up.

Sorry, been suddenly disturbed by The Muslim. Have to go.

White Tunnel Reach Out

My old man died of blood cancer in Liverpool Royal Infirmary. I was avoiding the discomforting awkwardness of his passing big time. I delayed visiting him until the very end. When I arrived, the ward was gifted with a high rise, breathtaking view of the city. It reminded me of Dignitas, the setting for my next story. That’s something I’ll get around to after a field research trip to The Priory. I need booking in for ketamine misuse. I’m in more K-holes lately than a space cadet.

When it comes to tragedy at the moment, I’m all over it. I’m not saying I enjoy it, but I know it. I wouldn’t mind, but I was no big fan of Romeo & Juliet, or Tristan & Isolde, or any other epic romantic coupling (apart from Bonnie & Clyde, of course, but they’re different). I don’t need nobody else’s idea of a partner in crime, or a soulmate, or a brother in arms, or a love buddy, or a side kick, or a friend with benefits, as I have my own. Along with me over the span of the years has always existed someone special, whether it be a child walking into a bookstore to be given one of my self-pubbed testimonies, the spirit of an Indian chief genie bottled up in a suicidal cat on the motorway, or a Flicker Of Recognition caught within briefly held eye contact from a passing transsexual postman. I never fail to recognise/realise likeminded kin across the time frame of my plight throughout life. I’ve had some marvellous visitations from supreme beings, shall we say, although truth be told, in all honesty, I am mostly kept busily distracted by pesky Chinese Terrorists and irksome Russian spies from the observation base next door to my flat. Instead of daffodils and buttercups, or strawberries and ice cream, its blunt force trauma, mashed up blood and guts, paralysed dreams, and stolen brain fluid. Lucky me, eh. What’s a man to do? Just this – talk to you about it.

Yeah, I always have someone to love in my life, fortunately, to brunt the burden of the pain. They come and go like Santa’s carriages, silhouetted by cheesy blue moons with flying pigs. My neighbour once said, on the subject of the Silver Jubilee marriage anniversary…”Why would anyone want to lick the same carcass for 25 years?” Funnily enough, he swaps girlfriends like underpants. He believes in the old rule of “Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen.” That’s Section 18 kinda mean. Smacked with an iron kinda mean. This opinion is cointradictory to mine, for I believe in regarding them all like Princesses. Unless they are a stern fire-breathing dominatrix in skintight leather barking out instructions, in which case you bend over, beg her to be gentle, and repeat her double-barrelled surname over and over. But that’s only down the local parlour, at weekends, for £180 per hour. I haven’t been there since I spelled her Welsh safe word incorrectly last summer, and got into trouble with the wrong end of a feather duster. Sorry Desdemona, promise it won’t happen again. Currently doing English G.C.S.E at night school. Spelling’s coming on fine. But the names of these Welsh train stations are proving a problem. No, I don’t know the sixth letter of Aberystwyth. Love it really. Wink-nudge-wink-nudge x

You can’t be loving a dominatrix though, can you? They might prefer other more weakling clients over you (or other more bulletproof clients over you, for that matter). Who knows how many corporate bankers who like to be referred to as ‘Babycakes’ while crawling on the end of a dog lead she bosses about daily? Who knows how far she goes with them? I know of a gentleman who divorced his wife and forsaken his children to be ‘at one’ with his dominatrix. She still beats him black and blue to this day. He can’t get out of it. I’d pray on his behalf to the treasured Saints to send him an Angel but he would sacrifice it at her heeled feet, pledging further allegiance to her House Of Wax face for more to do the same to make her happy. The beginning of the end becomes the end of the beginning of the end when you keep returning to those breast rooms and lose sight of what is precious to you in the oncoming headlights of deviant diabolic sexual kinky kicks.

I’ve never heard of a dominatrix appearing in the light of a white tunnel. It’s usually Jesus or your deceased loved ones. They call the process of looking for characters to trust in on your deathbed a ‘Reach Out’. This is because patients often sit up straight and hug nothing in particular when on Death’s Door. I had mine all planned out, with the terrorists and spies in invisible suits (if you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em), but instead of promising narrow cloudy chutes to Heaven, and foot massages with Camomile tea, they’re obsessed with Life Extension below the surface in some dingy dungeon of the Hades realm. Draining blood, as is per usual. Drinking blood, as is per usual. And chatting bubbles, as is per usual. While you wonder what could have possibly separated you from your Angel. The answer is so simple even the impossible refuses to believe it: Desdemona’s Crayola makeup. Couple of quid from Asda.

I gave up on a Reach Out when I was in danger of losing my love temporarily. I was in the wilderness for an era with only unbroken twilight to cloak the monsters, soothing my wounds with sarcastic humour. I refused and denied loss. I clung to hope and then ripped that in half too. My faith in humanity went out of the window with it. I was left with ideas of fondness and protection, which ushered in me a rebuild of what I’d left to depreciate. I couldn’t give up on Heaven, I couldn’t walk away from a brighter future one day. I still can’t, yet the temptation to collapse and lie riddled with failure and disappointment in the rubble never goes away. This niggling preoccupation to combust in my own funk is fueled by something so simple (like Desdemona’s Crayola makeup) as a pint of beer, which leads to nicotine, then fast food, then a downturn in mentality towards harder caches of pleasure. And before one knows it, accidents with feather dusters are reoccurring.