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 a 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 way 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.

While You're Down There

[-1-]There was a time I was fully engaged with soliciting women. I was preoccupied with them all of the time, like. I blame it on being mobile (having wheels). I was late to driving, compared to my school chums, about 23, and hadn’t seen any bird action since losing my virginity at 19, which was a frankly a rather unenjoyable popping of my cherry. A rather porky girl pulled me in a nightclub I didn’t want to be in. I didn’t fancy her to begin with, I wanted her friend. Not for the first time in my life, I was to be seduced by the mystifying power of the opposite sex. There wasn’t anything much I could do. She pulled me out into a waiting taxi and before you knew it we were in bed together. She did something to my bottom which will remain undiscussed.

To any young male sex addicts out there, I wish you the very best of luck, because you just might be needing it. If any of the women I have endured (and survived, by the skin of my teeth) get a grip of you then your life will definitely be over. I have almost sacrificed the heavenly realms of my preordained eternity to share the knotty safeguarding mindset of an earthly woman. They can annihilate your soul with reckless sexual appetite, if you get involved with the wrong one. I recommend you seek Christ first, and ask him to let you consult the Hail Mary. She’s a cracking woman who would never lead you down the wrong path.

I went on a soul-searching pilgrimage recently and found a statue of the Hail Mary in the middle of nowhere. I was in dire extremis at the time, hunting for a destination called Angel Gardens without a map. I bowed on bended knee and sought her for assistance. The experience was both miraculous and horrible in beauty and terror, with good and evil forces clashing prophetically over all areas of the province in which I journeyed. It was like being in a Dan Brown movie. I returned simultaneously inspired and crushed, but safe to arrive home in one piece to get my building blocks on and try again in the face of heartless oppression and chanceless angst.

As of today I have picked myself up and plan to return to Angel Gardens. This time, with an Angel. They’ve been coming and going lately like buses.

[-2-]So the first thing I did when I got my whip was head on down to the red light district in the city, to where all the hookers hung out. It was so exciting, driving around suburbia in the evening, under the sinking sun, on a secret sexual mission to find a partner in high heels on a corner under a streetlamp. It was far less traumatic than any pilgrimage. Their painted faces smiled back at me from dipped headlights in the mist. I was armed with a week’s wage packet but all it would take was a twenty pound note to entice one of them into my car.

I engaged in this behaviour every weekend for a year. I knew virtually every cranny of the city where they hung out. Their landscape was just as fascinating to me as Lord Of The Rings was. University campuses, industrial estates, stately parks, long winding lanes, dodgy car parks, the lot. One of them even wanted dropping off in a tunnel under the water at one point. Hold up, declaration here: My name is Andrew, and I have thoroughly explored an English city! It mixed up adrenalin and curiousity and sex, it was bare mint. I had some close scrapes with the po po, and the criminal underworld, as I am able to bet you can readily imagine. When I wasn’t having fellatio with women, I was watching fellatio videos back at home, on DVD. One of my favourite girls was a black woman named Candy Apples.

I could never admit this sinful immorality to any future wives, that’s for sure. I’m not proud of it, but I did enjoy it, so I’m not sure how I’m supposed to process that one. No, I wouldn’t do it all again, I’d go around with bottles of water and cigarettes for them, like some kind of philanthropic street patroller, because I care about them. It was all harmless, gentle titillation. I don’t drive at the present time, and I miss ‘The Run’ as I called it. I would like to do it again one day, without the temptation of oral sex hanging over me. I’ll never get bored of cruising around cities in motor vehicles. Lol. Once or twice, when I wasn’t driving, I even asked them into the bushes with me. They call this ‘fronting on foot’. Pants down in the dark for a fiver, swapping juices near the nettles!

[-3-] A few years later I found myself in prison, and it is here where I want to get to the point of the blogspot. The heart of the matter is how, after so many women being perched below me, I encountered a nurse doing exactly the same as she tended my sprained ankle on the hospital wing. She was down there, like all the others, but instead of being a lowly addled tart, she was a self-respecting orderly aid, healing my injury. I couldn’t take my eyes of her. She was a different breed. She was so tired, doing her special job, and the idea of paying her a folded note so I had permission to insert my pink thermometer into her throat repulsed me. I would never do such a thing to this saintly helper. I was in complete awe of her. My ankle was super delicate. She treated it like a glassy liquid which, if spilled, might result in the end of the whale.

I almost fell in love with her. It was just the two of us in the clinic. It was very intimate. It was very quiet. It was very cool. Nothing but our breath and the hum of a fridge. Time seemed to partition itself with every unravelling wrap of the bandage. I studied her compassionate weary face and I wanted her caring mend to last a lot longer than it currently was. I wanted both my ankles to be sprained. My wrists, my neck, anything. Thanks, Nurse.

S.H.I.T

Reporting mainly good news on this glorious day. I am away from the pleasures of the flesh by quite a stretch. There’s an awful lot of tract between us. I have entered a place beyond the physical, a mental place, where I have rarely trodden before. Adult movies have been kicked into distant dust. This is embarrassing to mention online, I know, but I hope to have stopped indulging in selfish sexual pleasure for good. I am looking at women and the world in general completely differently. My perception, since dropping the Class A psychotropic substances, is at its all-time best. Perception is so important to me. In the past, when on a doomsday comedown and surrounded by bored stalkers, I considered the world to be so bleak and barren I could barely function in within it. They often used to gang up on me after poisoning my drugs and scare me witless throughout the night. I’d be running away from their sophisticated brain weaponry half-naked in the bushes, clutching a knife for self-defence. Rambo had nothing on me.

Because I am making such positive progress, and am now firmly representing the seraphic higher vaults and chambers of Heaven with my divine calling throughout the mire of this at times truly dismal planet, the kingdom of Hell is all in a flutter around me. If you think you are having a tough time, then you should try being me for one single hour. My head is constantly picked at and nibbled away by a relentless onslaught of schizophrenic voices. Far from being a natural mental disease, the voices are actually real sadistic people who are dashing for the finish line in order to make me so depressed by their negative presence that I give up on the Lord and commit suicide to get away from them. A short time with them can be psychological agony.

To anyone out there going through the stresses and strains of Hell on Earth as I am, then know what I am with you in thoughts and prayer. If I wasn’t a man of faith then I would want to burn all of this perishing world with uranium bombs and strangle every last survivor with my bare hands, so depressing can its dark agents be. They never ruddy bloody leave me alone for a minute of the day. As it is, however, I am strutting around the battlefield with a smirk on my face, ever the optimist, largely due to my buoyant spirits being a born-again Christian and brother in Christ. This dude simply batters all evil put in front of him. Amen to the Lord. Peace beyond Him.

For years I was getting deceived by individuals using my wide spreading love against me. Now that they have been cast aside, they are showing their true colours with nothing of any value other than bitterness and hatred. Because I have been rescued from the pit by God’s unfailing love, they want my undivided attention to plough doubt into my soul about my inherited destiny. Their usual pipeline of chatting bubbles has been cut off with my newfound grace. I am so indebted to the Creator’s mercy at the moment. He has lifted me up to present glory and I am outwitting demons which formerly had me sprinting for the hills. In the middle of the night. Only half-dressed. With a knife. Rambo had nothing on me.

I finally understand why my terrible life is happening to me, at the hands of cruel unseen handlers. It is because of my kraft and my creativity. So I am now proud and happy about my kraft and creativity. It is sincerely despised around these parts. Complete strangers who I have never met declare spells on me to undo my giftings. This they do from beneath my floorboards, where they lurk around the sanctuary of a seedy lair, drinking each other’s blood. Seriously! In case you’re wondering, I live on the ground floor, so that property is illegal. Never mind the goings on in there. I am thinking of ringing the Anti-Terrorism hotline and giving them a few names, to see if it helps level out my mind, knowing that I am doing something productive to help.

Not long ago, while sussing out other similar ‘seedy lairs’ for the Lord, hidden in various locations around the town, I became enwrapped by a little web of sadomasochists. They were repeatedly entering my property late at night cloaked in invisibility serum, armed to the teeth, but in Christ I was far too strong for them, politely asking them to leave and shut the door as they buggered off away. The official term is S.H.I.T (Serial Home Invasion Torture). It’s bloody terrifying if you’re enfeebled from pornography, cocaine and masturbation. Funny as anything if you’re protected by a heavenly father. Those cowards only pick on the vulnerable. One of the cheeky toerags lived in my cupboard for a week and he didn’t pay me a penny rent. What’s more he was helping himself to my water.

These days, this kind of desperate folk lives with me 24/7. And they still don’t chip in for the rent. Or stop helping themselves to my water. If you suspect that presences are harassing you then simply try and ignore them. They require constant attention from their victims so don’t give it to them. Tell them, politely as you are able, to sling their hook.

Toni

I remember a girl I met while hanging around outside of a nightclub after closing time, when all the revellers reach a new natural high from the fresh air after being enclosed on hot stuffy dance floors for hours on end. She reminds me of another girl called Toni so I’ll just call her Toni. She was really friendly and sweet and we hit it off instantly. There was nothing two-faced or vulgar about her. She reminded me of a devout catholic with a humorous side. Decent, like, you know, someone you could trust. I could tell all of this by the way we bonded immediately. It was as though we’d grown up together in the same school or something. I felt relaxed and comfortable in her presence. She felt like a genuine friend.

At this point, aged only nineteen, I’d never had an actual girlfriend, although I’d just gotten into hardcore sex movies, so I knew what to do with them. Toni reminded me of none of the harlots I was viewing in secret however. The most I wanted to do with Toni was maybe sit on a park bench with her and lick a twin corneto. She was that kind of girl. I imagined inflating bouncy castles in gardens with her and erecting trampolines in youth clubs…seemingly typical activities which reeked of harmless fun. I don’t know why, but a series of commonplace scenarios flooded my mind. I thought of us working in a night shelter together, dispensing hot soup to the shivering homeless, and litter picking in the graveyard, making the headstones respectable again. It was weird. She made me want to be a better man. I didn’t quite see us as OAPs in matching unisex kagoules, but the stirring medley of less than conventional fantasies concerning the both of us wasn’t far off.

We lost each other in the crowd. It wouldn’t surprise me if I we were split up on purpose by covert community based operatives. Their interference of my life stems well back. I ended up getting pulled by a couple of ugly slags instead, and decided to go with them rather than retrace my steps and find her.

I never saw Toni again :-(

The pair of ugly slags had plans for me. They schemed my taxi-ferried course to their squalid home in the arse end of nowhere and plied me with 60% rum. I remember glugging it from the bottle greedily, eager to get psyched up so I could invade both sets of knickers. The idea of a threesome made me feel happier than a professional footballer scoring the winning goal in a World Cup Final. The more rum I consumed, the less they looked like a couple of witches in garishly applied cheap makeup. I was starting to get excited. Toni was a distant memory.

The next thing I remember is getting continually assaulted by the ugly slags and a couple of lads as well, who had appeared from an upstairs bedroom. I was on my knees vomiting from the rum and all of them were taking cheap shots with their boots, one after the other, kicking me in the jaw. I was too wasted to offer any resistance, crawling towards the door to get away from them. My shirt was torn open, buttons ripped off, and my gold chain, a birthday gift from my newly-acquired father, had been detached from around my neck. The filthy beggars had even removed my shoes. Lacoste, as a matter of fact, over a hundred notes brand new. I staggered out of there in the early hours of the morning, lost in a strange town, half naked, battered and bruised, wondering what the heck I was gunna do about it. Luckily, there was a garage nearby, where I was able to phone a friend for a lift back to the local den we often crashed out at.

That was the start to a bad day which included more ale, a heap of cannabis, and the advent of crucial hardcore sex movies which ushered in with their portentous arrival gobs of character ideation and compulsive obsessions as my elasticated brain was still evolving to work out what kinds of perversions my psyche was most primed for taking to. Big boobs and pop shots, it would appear to be.

The lads were all watching a particular video which showed some ‘adult actors’ flaunting their wares on a leather sofa. It was a threesome, if you’re interested. You got it bang right – two ugly slags with makeup on. And a fella who was no doubt feeling how I’d almost felt several hours earlier – that World Cup Final thing – except he was living out the dream for real and also, most noticeably, aside from getting paid, he wasn’t getting kicked in the face by them while he was doing it. I severely doubted they were gunna turf him out on his ear as well, to find his own way home in just his socks.

The male’s ‘money shot’ was a blinder. Quite literally. Just what I had had in mind before my mugging. I should know, for I sneaked it out of the video recorder once the movie was finished and shuttled it away back to my unfurnished council flat, where it was to be viewed time and time again in solitude for a multiple of shameful years to come, until both sides of the tape were worn out. Then I bought it on DVD, once that technology arrived on the scene! You might be relieved to know that I do not still own a copy of it now, on any format…

That was to become a trait of mine, stealing/owning/repurchasing the same adult movie more than once or twice. I had one flick on video, then DVD, then a download. Although, in my defence, I have never ever watched a smutty film on a smartphone. Probably because I have never owned a smartphone, for just that reason.

Why oh why didn’t I go back to Toni’s, for coffee and hot cross buns in front of the fire? We might still be together now, at this present day, if I had, because the more I think about her now, the more angelically paramount she assumes to be in my 3^rd eye. Compared to that experience, and the life that has followed it, who wouldn’t be perfect? Who knows what might have proceeded from that not-to-be fateful meet? Like Lauren from yesterday, Toni is remembered into the special shrine of my reminiscences.

Lord, I sincerely regret choosing those tarts over Toni, and subsequently becoming infatuated with that consequential adult reel of tape.

I am sorry. Love 2 Toni <3

I pray that I will never again make such a poor decision, should I ever get another chance at fellowship with an important angel of sorts, even if it means not clinching the deciding goal. You know, in that World Cup Final thing.

Lauren

I remember being in the pub one time, it was way across town, hanging out with so-called mates who weren’t really my mates anymore. I was drinking Guiness with a straw because my teeth were sensitive. There was this barmaid behind the bar called Lauren, wearing a short-sleeved chequered shirt, I think it was green and yellow. She was the only good thing about the occasion. In a way, she looked slightly masculine, ever so slightly boyish, but this might just have been her hairstyle. However, I approved of her appearance considerably. She was so attractive to the perception of my eye, it was unbelievable. On a sombre, boring evening, in the middle of a dull grey September, she was star of the show.

I can imagine saying a few words to her, like asking her how things were going for example, as I have always been as shy as wallpaper when it comes to social interactions, and especially with the opposite sex, but I cannot envisage me walking her home, which is exactly what I did.

I couldn’t repeat this feat now, with a strange barmaid who I don’t know, but I did it then. I must have been confident after a couple of beers. I waited until she finished her shift and said goodbye to my fake friends. The weird thing is, I can’t remember any of it. It’s so unlike me, this behaviour, that my memory doubts it. More than that, actually – there’s nothing there for my memory to doubt. I recall seeing her behind the bar in that unusual pub I didn’t usually frequent, and I recollect kissing her outside her house on the roughest estate in town, but the middle part, me walking her home, is entirely missing.

Anyway, the idea of me kissing a svelte young barmaid outside of her rundown home is a very treasurable memory in this landscape of kooky mind control that includes thought deletion, and I just thought I’d write it up to share and promote and preserve here on the blogspot.

Dogs were barking in the distance, and sirens could be heard swirling around each other in electric currents atop of the gusty, almost stormy wind. Winter had decided to bite. There was a light, feathery, almost imperceptible drizzle of rain spatter. A chill was picking up. A couple of cider punks on mountain bikes rode past us doing wheelies, blazing joints full of drugs which had probably been procured via an anonymous dealer’s QR code sticker on a lamppost. One of them commented on Lauren’s bum, where my hands were narrowly encircled just above, around the small of her waist. I didn’t grope her bottom, as I imagined that she would see that as tacky.

We didn’t use tongues in our kiss, just lips, but we did it for several moments, rather than it just being one single peck. Single pecks on the cheek are nice but kisses on the lips with no tongues are better. My gran used to say that if you use your tongues when kissing you are practically having oral sex with one another. I didn’t want sex with Lauren, she was too special for that.

The last time I’d had sex with a woman, there was blood on the sheets, and afterwards we disliked one another. It proved to be nothing but a shallow and superficial thick-skinned exchange in a cheap hotel. I hated everything about it, including what a savage carnal animal it made me feel like. With Lauren, holding her there in my hands beneath the fuzzy coronas of the streetlamps, which might have belonged in some magical fictitious urban setting befitting an utmost centre stage in a Hollywood blockbuster based on some colossal fantasy novel, I felt tender and gentle, like a Shakespearian prince.

Think of Running Scared (2006) meets Love Actually (2003). These are two movies which speak of reflective, wistful slums and elegant, polished sidewalks. Lauren was above her environment, in a way; her features sang of noble maidenhood on litter-strewn cobblestones, of tomboyish folklore on rolling green Irish hills, of artisan porcelain in burnt-out emporiums. To look upon her face in that dreamy shade of honeyed yellow from the overhead halogens made me think of yesteryear poets and nostalgic playwrights and portrait painters. It affected me so much that I felt compelled just to upload a few words this present day.

Because, all being said, this was over twenty years ago. If you are still at large out there, Lauren, I hope that some gentleman has made an honest woman out of you. I hope that someone has killed for you, died for you, and lost for you. I hope they have faintly shifted the Earth minutely off its axis for you. For you have touched me dearly. I hope someone touches you dearly in return. Shame it can’t be me! x

The Slimiest Of All Teenage Girls

I remember one particular vision I had when I looked across the local park into the window of a battered wives hostel. The sun was reflecting in the glass, a gleaming coin balanced lowly on the horizon. My mind entered the room and I saw an angel slaying a ring of demon with a glowing sword. The whole room was ablaze with sparkling fiery light in fact, apart from the demonic figures, which were cast in black, motionless in slaughter, offering no resistance.

I felt that the ‘vision’ had something to do with my mental state at the time. From that point onwards, I began to feel slightly better about myself. I’d been feeling especially low up to that moment, encroached in ghostly activity around my home. A few years back, I mistakenly believed that a slovenly gaggle of gang-stalkers represented demonic activity. These were actually low level community-based operatives trying to come between me and my love. There’s a movie based on the principle of nosey, interfering outsiders/intruders called The Adjustment Bureau (2011). They stage accidents and stuff when you are on your way to a date. Anything to rob your joy, because they have none themselves. Those hellbound vermin! Those wastes of life! They have nothing of note and worth to do but stick their dirty oars into other people’s waters.

I want to write about Slime Girl, a teenager I bumped into right after this vision, but my aversion to these rotten and impossible rogue riffraff is blocking my inspirational trueness for this young sweetheart. I mustn’t let them achieve this, as that is the entire point of bland, macabre, heartless perpetrator – they want your undivided attention so you can’t contemplate the finer things in life, such as jolly, motivating, uplifting, enriching serenely transient figurines such as the one and only Slime Girl.

I call her Slime Girl, incidentally, because the first time I saw her, she was playing with a tub of slime in the street. Slime kits are available in some thrift stores over here. What a wondrous little tiny sighting of youthful innocence and wonder. Aw, she was so cute! I wanted to cover her in slime and take some pictures! It’s as puppy lovey as a boy with a soccer ball or a remote control car, is, a girl with a packet of slime.

Please excuse my childlike regard. I am aware how this may come across. For your assurance and peace of mind, I wouldn’t go Googling ‘slimy young girls’ on the interweb. I had a similar problem with a footballing interest, when I searched the term ‘dribbling skills’. Yuck. Some other minds out there just don’t work the same as ours. I’m surprised the Thought Police are allowing me to express my very palatable opinions on the subject of any young girl whatsoever, to be frank with you.

After my vision, she was older and teenager and more womanly and mature, as if she had gone through similar developmental phases as myself. Tough, character-defining phases of development, although nothing quite so stringent as the toils of my dastardly plight, with demons and devils and assassins and gang-stalking perpetrator and Chinese terrorist and Russian spy and all the rest of that complete utter nonsense. Just leave me alone for two minutes of the day why don’t you so I can take a normal breath inwards and forget you lot exist for a moment.

The rigours of adolescence were drawn into her handsome features. She appeared as the same soft butterfly of a girl, yet slightly more roasted by the charcoaling of a hard graft life, a stronger and recently updated future model of herself.

Our passing, our crossing of paths, our synchronous divided junction…was preordained, I felt, orchestrated by the heavens, because I felt wonderful after casting eyes upon her countenance. It was such a relief to cogitate someone I had forgotten, coinciding with my vision. She gave me just as much kraft, in the blink of one single eye, than years of sharing floor-space with countless other friends, family and colleagues ever had.

Had can strangers be so meaningful? How can they matter so much and assist you so divinely along the way? And how can other people who are so heavily and dependently entwined in your affairs matter not one jot?

I’m surrounded by hatred

While love sits idly

Beyond the horizon

How can this be?

External, exterior love that is, maybe. The love of a sexy partner, lol. Don’t fret, I still have love in thine own heart. It’s the safest place for it. Nobody can wrench it from me. Nothing can make it jobless or kidnap it. I believe that it has to be given away, or forsaken, and that nothing can steal it willy-nilly. I should know, because I almost swapped mine for a cheap counterfeit. That cheap counterfeit was sinful lustful sexual pleasure. Maniacal addiction almost robbed me of my love also. Desire may shepard us from death, but that death inevitable can lead us to damnation. I read about it in Buddhism. Hardly fair, is it? The mere act of coveting the flesh of the opposite sex can detach us from our destiny. Over time, unshackled.

They don’t teach us about love in school. Listen, I’m a tall heavy full-blown G-Unit ugly strapped hard-ass criminal townie, so talking about love is soppy. But I’m also a gentle giant who collects childish sentimental memorabilia such as unicorns and teddy bears, so don’t be alarmed when I say that I refute all things satanic and pray to a forgiving Lord in Heaven. For years now I’m been led astray by painted women shall we call them so it’s about time I worked out my eternity and made my peace with God. It’s either squishy slime with sugary dollops of love up there in the clouds…or depressing blood-spatter in Hell with perpetrator.

You decide. I know I already have. 

Dying In A Wet War With No Evil Bonk

Yesterday I talked about ice cream carts and barbershops. That Chinese girl who cut my hair reminds me of my misspent childhood. Why she would tell me a story while she was giving me a budget trim is wildly above my rationale. She was so generous and welcoming, so polite and chatty and warm, I keep praying to a Higher Power of my understanding to let me share a dream with her, as, I feel, halving an allocation of my ambient rapid-eye slumber time is the only realistic way I’ll ever get to see her again. She is more than cordially wanted upon the 3D, multicolour, premium filament of my nightscape/mindscape/landscape. I pray she appears.

Until then, I often drive by the old enchanting neighbourhood where the Barbershop Quartet used to be. Don’t ask me why I call it a quartet. It just reminds me of something abundant with musicality, which is of course the personification of language with sounds. I almost feel prone to saying noises, music is the personification of language with noises, but only trashy beats and dancy donks such as slash metal and happy hardcore can be described as noisy. There’s a difference between a sound and a noise. A slamming barn door in a gale force wind is a noise. The scratchy scraping grate of glass on chalkboard is a disreputable noise. The exposure to children crying I would say is more like a sound, although it can be very upsetting. Bawling babies I found frankly disturbing.

I must say though, at this point, that when I watched King Kong fall off the skyscraper in the cinema some years back, I was surrounded by a theatre-full of preteens weeping. I was close to weeping myself, to be dreadfully honest. It was the saddest scene I have ever been involved in during my whole life. Seriously, dreary bleak funerals have nothing on it. This is why it is one of my favourite films, because of the emotional hook it had embedded verily deep within my sensitive, susceptible members. I was practically choked up with all the kiddies alongside me in that dark & spectral movie room. The poignantly forlorn melodrama, combined with the big time stage craft and heart-wrenching tragedy, has me unashamedly and unregrettably setting that experience aside as a historic life marker.

You know what life markers are. Not just births, deaths and marriages, but sentimental occasions specifically momentous to yourself. It might be a time when you needed a bag of frozen peas to soothe a swollen ankle, for example. They do say that there is nothing bigger than the little things. Another favourite life marker of mine is strolling around a city whilst holding hands with an African girl. I chatted her up in the public library (where I am now) and walked her home through the precincts of the metropolis. Her name was Dikonka. We didn’t kiss at the pinnacle of our touring together, something that I regret painfully. I wonder if she remembers me. We met just the once. The strange thing is, I didn’t really fancy her physically. I simply had a fixation on any and most girls of colour at the time. Meeting Dikonka landed centre-splat in the middle of writing my [Misery Memoirs], as a young man growing up in fearlessness with the full particulars of the written word. Typing wishy-washy prose about the relationship between myself and an estranged half-sibling I entitled the Twisted Sister Trilogy. Honestly man, it reeks of Kleenex and Prozac. Think of Mills & Boon meets Quentin Tarantino. Think depression, violence and sexual frustration. They’re currently available on Amazon Kindle. Banishment Pictures, Glimpses Gone, and Exploitation, all at discount prices. Their virtual shelf life is eternal, so I believe, so there’s no rush for you to get stuck in. One of them actually got refunded, is how badly they are written. BULLSH*T! They’re masterpieces. It’s just that one reader couldn’t get his fat head around the fact that someone out there is brave enough to write about a paedophile.

What was I rabbitting on about, was it the China Shop Barber Quartet? That place is now a Kebab shop. Instead of a beautiful lady from the Orient who entertained my notions of love and romance right up until this very day, instilling and filling me with a ferocious holy light which glimmers beyond my criminality and working-class status, adorning me with compassion and empathy far above any gangster label, I am now greeted by an ugly male version of a dinner lady who has no idea how to administer his very own salt and vinegar. He spits on my food, addresses me in Turkish, and probably keeps my former princess, along with Dikonka, caged up in his underground dungeon. Makes me wonder, what egg-sackly am I eating? Apparently, the establishment made the local press when an 18ct white gold engagement ring was shockingly discovered in one of his Shawarma marinaded meat wraps. The menu says shish and kofte. My eyes (not to mention my taste buds) say rat and pigeon. I reluctantly frequent his premises regularly, as the unruly rise of the foreign takeaway continues to demolish the very British institution of our homegrown chip shops. Indeed, do we have a single English chippie left standing?

# Singing aye aye yippie, ze Germans bombed our chippy #

I mostly upchuck the grub after consummation. Especially when I mix it with lager.

 

 

A Very Large Number of Goblets Containing Nuclear Reactor Fuel, Please Bartender

There is something transcendentally evocative about dreamy barmaids. I call them dreamy barmaids because they make me feel dreamy. It works better if the bar is empty, and it’s just the two of you. If they ever ask you out on a date, reply with the phrase, “Sounds dreamy…” You may suggest going to the local carnival together and sharing candy floss while perusing which riveting, adrenaline-pumping rides to go on. If I were you, accompanied by a beautiful barmaid, who has fallen for your chat-up lines with a one-of-a-kind warm-hearted and loving reciprocal energy transferral, I suggest the Ghost Train.

Then, once admittance is granted, you can try and spook each other for laughs and giggles. Again, this works better if it’s just solely the pair of you. At the end of the experience, you may want to share a picnic on a comfortable grassy knoll, watching the theatrical bulbs of the funfair shine up to full intensity against the darkening wild Sailor’s Delight yonder above, watching the gypsies and their streetwise whippersnappers phasing out their hissing hydraulics, taking notice of other couples and families traipsing towards the exit, homeward bound for nourishing suppers of stock-infused broth from tin bowls and wooden spoons in front of flickering open hearth fireplaces.

You may want to kiss your partner on the lips. Or peck her on the cheek. You may also wish to document this eventful exchange in a journal when you split paths and return inland to your boring, lonely abode, where the memory of her might make you feel light-headed and giddy inside, as if she has left a coronet of exceptionality adorning your napper; indeed, as if she, of the higher and more joyfully-enhanced realms, has breathed a sample of her gladdened aura into your belly, which now, after having encountered someone who is worth a kingdom more than your equal, flows with divinely radiant rivers of life.

I derived this fondness of barmaids from an ice cream cart, in my hazy, fuzzy, smog-filled (I lived next to a power plant) youthful heyday. It started with a haircut in a Chinese hairdresser’s. I’d just taxed a drug dealer to the tune of £180, before I went in for my short back and sides, for 2 grams of Charlie. Instead of cash pound notes, I handed him toilet paper. This was a symbolic declaration of what I thought about him. The cheeky, daring scallywag pulled a switchblade on me, taking a dangerous swipe at my face. If my instincts weren’t tiptop like a fighter pilot’s, when I pulled back out of the way and skilfully dodged his maddened attempt at opening my cheek, he’d have landed me in A&E overnight.

Being a hopelessly addicted teenybopper at that time, I think it was the Indian Summer of 1992, I was bang-into getting high at every available opportunity, although, being perilously perched at such a young age in life, I could ill afford the workable waging funds to properly afford enough gear in ‘da hood to sustain this hedonistic penchant.

The woman in the hairdressers was vaping constantly as she buzz-cutted my ketwig. I was convinced the vapour was handing me out a nice little popcorn lung by the minute as I sat there a complete and totalled bag of nerves but I wouldn’t have changed anything about her for the world. I remember how deft and responsive her fingers were to the barbering instrument and its relational synergy with my head; they left me wondering about heady topics such as physical properties and interacting matter principles and scientific experiments about how flesh could be so beguiling and mesmerising, all when she was performing such a simple and commonly familiar ritual, which she most like performed to the same ability each and every day, and had done so for umpteen years to boot.

The woman told me a story of an ice cream cart which bonded two hardcore cultish dissident Rebellions-Aflame™ sweethearts into one exemplary amorous unison predisposed to both anarchy and generosity in equivalent measurement, when they both shared frozen Feasts and Twisters from its icy shelves of chilled confections which resulted in ecstatic jubilations on the taste buds. There was sweets, there was candy, there was sugar and sweetener, but then there was ICE CREAM.

Ice cream bonded the sweethearts in the story. The story bonds me to the hairdresser. The hairdresser bonds my out-of-control drug addiction to pretty ladies working behind bars. ENDS OF.

* STAY DREAMY *

Resident A

 (cont’d)

Considering that one or two of my invisible friends are representing my salvation, ergo exoneration from hellfire, it seems cruel to tear them away from me. The lead personalities are very special beings who I visualise alongside me almost everywhere I go. I found them on various JPEGs throughout my travels on Earth. One of them is a baker. One of them is a nightclub bouncer. Yet another likes to pretend to be the Terminator. I like to observe them because they are beautiful.

The next time I encounter heartache, this blog might well be over. I’ve hauled myself up from the Grimstone to head towards the everlasting rainbows, where the Son of the Sun and the Phoenix are shining fair. There are no sociopaths, no lunatics, no maniacs, no thieves or liars or fornicators upon these blissfully tranquil and pleasingly revolutionary beachfronts. There is no typical grime from adulthood, only the fresh reinvigorating flair and flavour of the youthful. The youthfully naïve, to watch over, the youthfully gullible, to protect; embellished with the kraft of the bold and the wisdom of the brave.

I stand as an Appropriate Adult to my children, as they are Holy Spirit to me. We all dance along to what you might consider the dumbed-down, cheesy, jarring, tuneless brainwash of illuminati chart music, as we believe that the Holy Spirit is manifest in the cheery singsong of old. Don’t forget the Gospel, too. I’m all about the Gospel, and its fantastic revelatory message for good living.

We add our own dollop of magic (we call magic ‘bubblegum’) to our favourite movies by watching them with torchlights and magnifying glasses aimed at the screen to highlight the best action bits. This falling in love with The Arts all over again is made possible by the substantial joy I feel in getting over my frightening mini-episode of anhedonia (the inability to experience pleasure). Now, I don’t even mind watching Cricket! And did I disclose my newfound interest in the piano?

See, life is lightening up. I’ve nearly finished, and I haven’t mention Chinese terrorists or Russian spies once. Oops!

All things against joy and pleasure get slammed into Room 101 pronto! That means practically the entirety of my meddlesome social circle!

Incidentally, I’ve realised recently that a secretive and more local network of people have been ‘hard at work’ trying to keep me apart from those I love. The term ‘perpetrator’ or ‘gangstalker’ doesn’t cut the mustard with these impossibly negative folk. It wouldn’t surprise me if they staged a car accident to stop me saying hi to a girl I fancy. They are petty in magnificent ways. They are obsessed with taking photos of me in my pyjamas on the cheese run.

I have regressive past-life fantasies about the Salem Witch Trials. During the morbid Inquisitions, I put my life on the line to defend several of them. I wrote about it in a haunting story entitled The Torturous Confession Of A Heretical Whore in 2015. It included depictions of torture techniques which I regretted researching, the phenomena of suspended animation, and abounding love trysts across timelines. Rather spookily, I read it out aloud along with a real present day Satanist, when she worked as rule-breaking nurse in an asylum I was in, and offered me sweet delights beneath the sheets as soon as the bulbs were dimmed (I was described as Resident A when she was disqualified after our kinky exploits made the local rag). You’ll know her as the woman with the scary mantra who feeds on and steals my inner-force life energies. More at the links below, if you're into a powerful & wicked dominatrix picking on a vulnerable enfeebled man.

https://piebald77.blogspot.com/2025/03/what-dwells-within-dk-wants.html

https://piebald77.blogspot.com/2025/02/enslaved-by-dk.html

The Inquisitors, in one of my previous lives, killed me as well as them, hence my shameful and thankfully finished involvement with Satanists during this term, and here I am, reincarnated again, and still banging on about my unfailing love for those I tried to save*:

x Morgan, Willow, Minerva, Wanda, Tabitha, Mathilda x

These names are very special to me. I have to also admit here that my doings with witches have led to me losing an angel. My life and eternity were ended overnight in her passing, or my forsaking of her, leading to a grave and long-lasting bottomless depression. So now you’ll understand why I am so buoyant, because dear precious Abihail, who is mentioned in the Bible, has been replaced, if that is not too cold a word. I HAVE ANOTHER ANGEL! WELL, TWO OR THREE ACTUALLY! Amen and amen if ya know wadda mean!

*Not all witches are satanists

Spokesperson Of A Concealed Panel, Surviving The Kingdom

[mun] (DAY) 29 {DEE-sember}

twenny twenny 5

I may be due home in two days. It looks like I’ve survived the ‘Neuromodulation Suite.’ Knowing my luck, there may be one last final curveball hurdle to surmount. With the Devil and his horny mean-spirited fellowship perched securely on my shoulder, I wouldn’t be surprised if an obstacle crossed my path with one of my legs practically over the finish line.

The authorities are persistently playing tricks on me. I’ve had to box very clever as usual in order to procure the successful conclusion of my release date. Usually they just ask me about drugs. With a chequered history of setting my own mum on fire while she was barricaded in the cubby hole, shooting up my siblings at point blank range with a 4.5mm, urinating all over a marble statue of Jesus outside my local parish, and many other distinguished acts of G-Unit criminality, drugs is all they appear to be interested in. Mainly because that’s all they amount to, at the end of the day, a gang of Big Pharma drug pushers disguised in labelled smocks. “There’s a lot more to me than just drugs,” I feel like telling them. “I once represented England Homeless football team and played at several Premier League training facilities, if you’re interested in hearing about what a joy that was.”

But no, for the most part. All they care about are potential ‘risks’. Now if you would like to please just bend over and receive this boring/debilitating/toxic drug in your buttocks…

Incidentally, the last time I was injected, lying sideward on my bed midway through a thoroughly enjoyable snooze, the guy with the syringe left me there to ponder what he had just administered me with whilst wearing a holier-than-thou SMUG expression on his face, as if to say: “HAVE THAT ONE, YOU DEMENTED IMBECILE PATIENT DOUCHEBAG.”

“Thanks,” I muttered under my breath. At the time of writing, I intend to refuse their pinpoint narcotics on the basis of a needle phobia, and move on to optional oral pills.

You might think I’ve been busy ringing my solicitor and the like. None of it. My battle is spiritual. No university grad in a suit and tie from River Island can help me. My armour comes from God, I hope, and my weaponry is simple intellectual property, aka creative concepts in the brain. Stephen King calls this the ‘shining’. I call it ‘acuity’. He said it’s like having a movie camera inside your head, and I tend to agree with him on that. I believe my acuity is the grounds on which I was arrested, by the thought police, whose physical representation dragged me out of bed in the early morning. The plan was to wipe my brain clean of anything which motivates and inspires. They’re particularly kind to minorities here in England, aren’t they? In contradiction, when facing their hostility on their own turf, behind lock and key and drugged, I have only instead managed to accrue more intellectual property.

For some insane reason, I seem to be locked in a process of attracting (and simultaneously losing, on occasion), powerful invisible presences. When all thirty-odd or so are present with me, I call it a Full House. We sit and chew the cud with each other all day long. This drives the doctors completely barmy. There’s no way they’ll ever be convinced that I am sane. They’ve dumped me in the decompression chamber in the past, in order to drive them out. Better than a drilled hole in the head, I suppose! They’ll be swimmin’ me like a bitchy witch next!

Some of the ‘beings’ around me are allies, and we dream of alternative heavenly plains with one another: Others want me down in eternal hellfire. You can imagine the chemistry as we all engage in humorous sardonic banter together. This makes the professionals responsible for analysing my mental state fervently envious, listening to me laugh to myself in an empty room all day long; they are always vowing to relive me of my company, to take ‘my unseen companions’ away from me. They would rather see me catatonic, with nobody to talk to, crying in a ball. In fact, this is their plain objective/major imperative, for detention. And they call this treatment. It irritates me no end, I have to be completely honest with you.

Q. What’s worse than being fussed over by a throng of ghosts?

A. Being fussed over by a flock of psychiatrists as well as a throng of ghosts!

Hope to speak soon, take it easy and goodbye x