Honesty Rant

Hello there, I pray that this reaches you in decent spirits today. I apologise for the six day hiatus, I hope that time spent away from you, my oh so precious White Voider, is minimised in the future.

          Now, what is there to say, apart an open display of honesty? I really am glad to be with you again, because I’ve just splurged all of my finances on a hedonistic bender! I feel abso-bloody-lutely rotten empty and hollow! As always, however, I’ll pull myself back into something that resembles a normal level of functioning. By the grace of God, understand…

          As is per usual when I am trying to bounce back from a spiritual clothesline (that stiff arm wrestling move), words are proving a struggle to come by. I just want to curl into a ball and pour my soul out in a tearful lament. But moping gets you nowhere. What does 50cent do, when times get hard for him? He doesn’t whinge and ball. He gets more G-Unit. When the going gets tough, and all that…

          I’m almost sure you’re not interested in all the saddening dreary dismal minutiae of a life not lived. You’re probably like me, someone who clings to the positive. I attend a weekly therapy group called Positive Thoughts each week. It’s led by a woman named Sue. She comes across as such a strong and happy woman that it is almost scary. I sure wouldn’t like to cross her. She has some very decent ground rules for the group which everyone respects. I know of other groups where people are playing on their mobile phones while people are talking.

          It is a small pipe dream of mine to perhaps run my own group one day, because I’ve been going along to them for so many years now. I think it would have to be based around psychosis. I’ve lined up the perfect partner to co-facilitate it with me. She’s only a young girl but she knows what she’s talking about and she has a heart of gold.

          We’d discuss fracturing of the mind and things like that, go all Mk-Ultra and Spirit Realm-y. If other young people attended with real problems it would be exceptionally therapeutic for all concerned. I know a guy named Duncan who suffers from Health Anxiety who started his own group off. He said it sank like a lead welly but at least he gave it a go.

          Duncan complains at lengths about things like moles and boils. Like me you might find this…what is the word here…irrelevant? Insignificant? I can’t quite think of the word I’m looking for. Anyway, to him, Health Anxiety means constantly overthinking about morbid thoughts relating to death. When he put it like that, I gained a newfound respect for his condition.

          G-Unit has no time for depression.

          To give Duncan credit, he always does something to act on any new fears which might arise, like booking online visits to health clinics after googling the ins-and-outs of what he’s worried about. That’s half of the problem, he admits. Usually, men don’t want to talk about any physical ailments they might be harbouring. When I got involved in a ruckus at my mate’s 18^th Birthday Party, my nose got broken. It has been partially crooked ever since, but I hardly ever even think about it, not even when I’m looking at it shaving in the mirror. We’ll talk about anything but the crux of the problem, as this blog demonstrates.

          I could go into the severe stresses of life I face on a daily basis, but I’m a man, and men don’t talk. Not unless they are lucky enough to have a personal online White Voider, who listens to everything they have to say. Yippee!

          My new literary recruit Amber (11 year old neighbour), is still pumping me for ideas. She wants something of merit to put on her future blog. I’ve suggested she get a picture of herself with her English teacher or something. I recommend she get herself into fishing so she can get herself a fishing photo too. They’re so mantelpiece-y, fishing photos. I have one myself, holding my first fish. A 12-pounder, I think. Maybe I’ll let you see it one day. x   

Amber's 1st Pamp

I don’t think you know but by now I’ve written about twenty three pamphlets (pamp) of fiction at around 20,000 words in length, novella. They’re little books which are stapled together instead of having a spine. They look great, handy-sized ( A5) and tidy.

 Yesterday my neighbour, 11 year old Amber (she calls her dad The Crumpet Manager), said she’d been writing, and she wanted to follow in my footsteps by producing her 1^st pamp. So far she’s got 12 pieces of flash fiction she started in school last year and she plans to release them in an anthology. We talked all day about pamp and I gave her all my insider tips and techniques. She later wrote all evening, doing 12 different character bios for her stories. She has agreed to be my recruit and I’ve agreed to be her mentor.

 Mostly we talked about the front and the back matter at the beginning and end of pamp. I think these two sections of a book are very important. If I’m skimming through and over books I have no intention of reading, I’ll always read the front and the back matter first, before any italics I can find. We talked about sleeve design, stickers, signing and numbering, 2^nd editions, illustrations, forewords, afterwords, and loads of interesting other stuff. It was a truly fantastic day being in such close contact with a young keen eager child who already is good with word. I gave her absolutely everything I had to know and didn’t hold back on a single thing. People were jealous of our conversation as we discussed pamp, pamp and pamp!

 I read her an old story called Nanny’s Cooker and she loved it. She’s promised me a copy of her 1^st pamp in return. I can’t wait to see how creative and talented she is.

Perturbator

 This is how I would like to be able to draw like.

The goal to aim for.

Still Dreaming!

The Latest Images I Have To Offer

 

Hello there. I hope you are viewing this artwork in a positive frame of mind today. I myself feel fresh and excited about posting it. Some of it I did just yesterday in a 2-hour class, deciding to try to be brave with the pens again. I was inspired in part by a schizophrenic artist by the name of Rosalie Schweiker who makes greetings cards. They are very pleasant and appealing but they didn’t knock my socks off in a jaw-dropping manner so I thought I would have a go myself. I’ve always postulated that I can’t draw for love nor money but I don’t let that fact stop me from having a stab at it. Nor should you, if you are artistically challenged like me. Just step into that courageous furnace and fashion out some fiery hot rods of original concept artwork. The rewards are great.

My goal on a few were to be as cheap, cheery and colourful as I could with the limited range of materials at my disposal. Others I wanted a bit more complex. Complexity is a big thing for me – I like my intricate doodles. None of this is anything like the grand scale work I would be capable of if I had my own studio, but again, I don’t let the lack of a studio prevent me from having a jolly old bash at producing something fun and entertaining.

I had a project including photography and canvasses which unfortunately didn’t come to pass because I lost all my canvasses when I cleared out all the possessions in my flat because I felt God telling me to do so. I don’t think he was the real God, just a spirit impersonating him, but his instruction worked. I emptied everything which wasn’t tied down and then had a disastrous flood from my washing machine just to make sure that whatever survived my initial clearance got ruined to boot. (I actually got sectioned for this flood, but that’s another story.) Anyway, the result was starting my materialistic life all over again. Not a bad thing if you’re part of a minimalistic religious sect, but not the best if you’re an original gangster who has a penchant for gold.

The project was basically a lot of abstract canvasses in acrylic paint with wordart in Scrabble letters stuck over the top. I was going to use these as backgrounds for toy models to pose in front of such as Ironman or whoever and take photographs. So essentially, instead of a Marvel hero poised in front of a sunset, they would be stood in front of one of my abstract wordart canvasses. The effect would have been awesome – please forgive me for not describing it too eloquently. Artwork tends to be like that (hard to describe). Just imagine putting a teddy bear in front of a painting and taking a picture of it and you are somewhere along the right track of where I was heading with the project. It was in the making for several years so very sad to see go, along with my university portfolios of course. I haven’t been to university but I was thinking about it.

The images here are in my rawest capability, without Photoshop. Without that program, I really am quite hapless as you can tell. I have got hopes of soon returning to Photoshop however, so these images will be a good start when I get going on it again. Any image can be vastly improved on Photoshop, I think it is a miraculous piece of technology. Messing around with the effects kit on some images or photographs is a rich and fruitful enterprise which ticks the time away in hurried enjoyable chunks.

With Art, I want to be reckless and heroic, like a child. No child is scared of drawing and nor should you be. Just accept that you aren’t the best but remember your passion for the subject and your determination to have your efforts visible and available for criticism. The only way to improve is to have a go.

Vaping

 The head of the NHS has deemed that the modern equivalent of the Pakistani corner shop stop hospitalizing our youngsters. Can we call them ‘paki’ shops anymore? Probably not. I wouldn’t want to, because they’re just honest business people clocking in for work every day. No need to insult them. What’s the main difference between a Turk and a Muslim by the way? Don’t worry, it isn’t a joke, it’s just that there are so many different nationalities of colour around my back yard these days that it becomes hard knowing how to refer to them each individually – the dirty ripping paki bast*rds.

Amanda Hitchmoore, chief executive, described the rising numbers of admissions as a ‘load of f**king bullsh*t’. She also attacked Best One Convenience Store on Station Road in Oldham for their overwhelming and ‘quite unnecessary’ over-the-top selection of vapes from most of the major companies, saying that it looked like a giant had eaten too many packets of Skittles and chucked up over the back wall. Is Skittles a flavour yet? If not, give it time. Bacon, Dill Pickle and Buttered Popcorn (related to Popcorn lung) are already on the menu. What recommendations might you have in your locker? Chicken & Waffles – already on the menu. Personally, I’d like to see a Sunday Brunch E-liquid appear. All the trimmings please but easy on the apple sauce, merci very much.

Speaking at an NHS expo in sunny Manchester, she said there were far too many admissions for vaping-induced f**ked-up lungs in patients forming the age range of Ibiza Club 18-30. There were fourteen sh*tloads in June, up by 70.526 percentages, which she maintains is far too many. The most common condition is ‘wet lung’, where your lungs get sopping wet and water starts filling up your mouth, hindering speech, eating and drinking. It can be known to cause panic in the individual. This is succeeded by ‘wet brain’, where E-liquid starts dribbling from your nose and one cannot think clearly. Who needs mind control when the youth of today, far be it from riding bicycles and climbing trees, are inducing ‘wet brain’ upon themselves for the princely price of £5.99. When I was a youngster I bombed acid and played Call Of Duty, and that wasn’t even the weekend. Forget the asthma.

Her remarks come after the Royal College of Paediatrics & Child Health warned that all our kids will be dead by the turn of the next Harvest Moon, adding that nobody knows anything about the chemicals therein them.

Vape takes you away from the ciggie: But what takes you away from the vape? Deep.

A spokesperson said: “This is all cobblers, they’re safe. We’re just making too much money coz it’s a brill invention and every brethren is insane jealous. What’s cooler than a bright electric fag with a light on it? They only taste like hot hoover bag dust at the bottom, and none that I know of have ever exploded in my head. I feel like a dragon when I’m exhaling my ELF bars. And all the fancy packaging and colour is nothing but sexy. If you don’t like it, go and smoke a tarry cancer stick. Those cheap ones from under the counter should see you off in a couple of months. I’m living. I’m vaping. I’m happy.”

 

 © The Anonymous Journalist 2023

Garden Batter

 

Police have banged to rights a crazed loon who battered a young boy in Devon. Joseph Love, 54, was a recluse who never left his home, the kind of person who kept his giro payment dates post-it noted on the fridge. Incidentally, he is in receipt of Employment Support Allowance and has been for well over a decade, since he lost his job as professional paint drying watcher (this is a real vacancy which supervises painted rooms). He had a stained duvet nailed to the inside of his front living room window. Although it’s hard to believe, he has a previous conviction for suffocating rabbits in a DVD player loading tray. Not to mention his conviction for causing actual bodily harm by throwing biscuits. The judge described Love’s heart as a ‘holed out star’.

            The young boy was in tears when he was getting battered by Love, reported to have happened because the boy’s football smashed the window in question. Roland Maran was only 15 years old at the time of beating.

            Love has a habit of battering young boys. He escaped court on a technicality last time after someone retrieving a ball from his garden crushed his flowers. He lives on a corner house by a park and sees a lot of ‘ball activity’.

            The first victim got leathered, wasted and pasted before he got battered. His dad, who hadn’t been tall enough to lean over the fence and witness proceedings, shouted above the howls of pain: “Take your stinking paws off of my son!” The lad had been so traumatised that he developed a speech impediment, started wetting his own undies, refused to answer his phone, and didn’t want to play out anymore. The father insists it has ruined his son’s childhood, and that he can give evidence of past history against Love for Mr. Maran Senior.

            Love’s strange wife was charged with complicity for holding down the young boy as Love battered him. She possessed a cricket bat and a sharpened iron file. It is noted that Lizabeth Love (without the E) often laid booby traps in the garden for kids who were looking for balls to fall prey to. One neighbour said that one night, glinting in the moonlight, she perceived a giant man-sized mousetrap, a lasso hanging from a tree, and a hole in the earth covered up with tarpaulin.

The couple have both been detained in the same mixed prison. Lizabeth has gone on record saying that she is ‘ecstatic’ at this close connection to her husband, saying that now she doesn’t have to write long distance letters to communicate with the felon.

“I might even bump into him in the chapel,” she adds. “Then we will be free to talk as man and wife without getting persecuted by the British press for doing nothing more than reacting to horrible little nippers who keep trespassing on our property. They don’t listen to conventional means and there’s only one way to deal with them: Batter, batter, and batter.”

Length of detention: 2 years 6 months

© The Anonymous Journalist 2023

Lippy

 Skelmersdale-based Jan Balonky’s lippy pout is unmissable. She practises pouting every single day without fail, usually while the rice and vegetables are cooking. At its heaviest weight, her acid filler was about the same weight as her downstairs bottomless rejuvenated clunge (vagina). She said, “At one point I couldn’t stop injecting botox into my boater.” (Boat race – face…cockney rhyming slang.) And she adds, “I just love the feeling of making my cake hole bigger. It’s the first thing I notice about a person. I show it off by sitting next to the workies on their lunch break by the scaffolding and sucking on a Rowntrees’ lollipop stick. I judge the day’s success by how many whistles I get. I do have other assets, such as boob implants, but that’s another story.”

            One recent survey done at ten to five on a Friday afternoon by half a dozen anti-surgery university graduates declared that all enhancement procedures from apprentice scheme cowboy practitioners should only be labelled as deformed bullshit.

            Jan Balonky started dissolving her massive laughing tackle at home using a DIY BOGOF product from Wilko’s. She claimed it was easier to use than the higher-priced alternative in Superdrug. Still, she claims that 70.5% of the solution is cheap quality garbage manufactured in Bangladeshi, and that she tops it up with a her own concoction of coconut oil and honey which she buys from the Asda up road. Once, when she was off her head on benzos, she inserted a male steroid she purchased from the local hard-knock gym. She said it stung for two days solid and she couldn’t eat crisps or other foodstuff with sharp edges because of ulcers.

            Every time she performs treatment on herself, she calls it a ‘lip challenge’. Usually, there is at least half a bottle of wine involved. Jan used to have a cocaine addiction when she was a footballer’s wife but beat her demons when her partner, who she names ‘Goldenballs’, got ‘relegated’ to the ‘reserves’ and split from her. He was generally a bad influence who failed to share her passion with lip enhancement. Plus he couldn’t even have a shandy because of team commitments. Jan comments that the surgeries and alcoholism go hand-in-hand although she never has more than two bottles of wine on one occasion, only except when she’s bonding with her local jigsaw club and they turn it into an all-day party.

            Ever a glutton for punishment, Jan sucks on boiled eggs and batteries to bruise the area before posting photographic evidence in the form of close-up selfies online to millions of followers. One of the most common thread of enquiry is what would a blow-job feel like from her. She said further details of anything resembling a sexual nature can be discovered through her private webcast, where she peels bananas sexually, licks on lolly ices, and gets double-anally penetrated by a couple of horny big buck black dudes (only 30 pounds a month).

            Her favourite shade of lipstick is maroon.

            (That’s mine too.)

© The Anonymous Journalist 2023

Thank you

 

It looks like I am finally attracting some visitor numbers to my blog, after noticing a definite spike in the tally. I’ve never paid much attention to visitor numbers; I’m not interested in the demographics of the people who might be reading. I’m sure there’s a way to do it, like Google, who know everything about everyone, but that’s not for me.

I don’t know the first thing about you, reading this. You could be anyone or anything. Moreover, I’ve no wish to know the first or second or even last thing. The only thing I care about is readership. To writers, that’s as important as the noughts in their bank account. Or so I’ve heard.

I’ve lived in the shadows for years and years, all of my life. The only thing that can jockey with a regularly read blog is a publication I had in a magazine in my late twenties. That had a 'circa' of 750. I’m not sure if the magazine went into 750 institutions or there were only actually 750 copies of the magazine going into less institutions. In any case, I was chuffed, and manifestly proud of the story. Being reasonably appeased with having gutted out yet another story is one thing, but being manifestly proud is another.

The last thing I want to do at the moment is share some fiction with anyone who might be roused by what I suddenly have to say. Some people think that it’s made-up baloney, and not intellectual. Hear, hear – everyone’s entitled to an opinion, even though I disagree wholeheartedly. I think its sheer magic, what you can do with it.

I’m deciding whether to finish my latest book, HEADSWAP, or keep it going. Plenty of existential transgression and head-hopping contained within, although I am getting bored of typing it up. Typing up cursive is slow. I’m trying to look at the page, the screen and the keyboard all at the same time. It detracts from your focus. Typing this, straight out of the head, is no problem.

I’m struggling today. I just wanted to say thanks for reading, it means a mighty lot. You’ve granted me an extra motivation to drag myself to the library and use their computers. I’d be lost without it. I went to a poetry gig they hold here once a month, but numbers had dropped since the last time I went and the content wasn’t really stimulating enough. No offence, it’s just that the women there are mostly older, spitting about tulips and daisies in fanciful weather (done extremely well, it has to be said), while I’m fresh outta Compton and wanna rap about paranoid 32-legged monsters in the Seventh Circle. Just a pinch of difference there. Still, it was nice to show my face.

I left after ten minutes. If I can’t maintain a hunger for the spoken word, what chance has anything else got? Household chores, for example? I feel for those with ADHD. It must be terribly hard to hold a persuasion for anything at all. If you have it, then I insist you allow me to buy you a drink while you tell me all about it, only if you want to of course. After 5 minutes, I’m bored of everything, apart from sex. Don’t worry, I’m not about to expose my sex life here! You’d similarly be bored in minutes. That’s all it lasts.

Be back bigger and better soon. Really have got a hurting, wounded, lonely soul at the moment. In a few days I’ll be right as rain and enjoying talking with you again. Don’t worry if you’re a stranger, I’ll always think the best of you. It’s better this way. Writing is a psychic link. Think yourself lucky it’s one-sided, and you can now be you, and remain you, watching me go. Love, A x

Fapping, Origins

How much more have I got to talk about here on the blog? Well, I’ve got to get FAPPING out of my system. FAPPING is MASTURBATION and it’s bloody well embarrassing. That’s why I’ve got to get it out of my system. Because it doesn’t really belong in the life of a true original G (gangster), does it? Or does it? This is the type of question which arises immediately after bringing the subject up. How many more whopping questions will follow?

I need my matey Subject A for this one. He’s been around every block there is (even Jenny L’s) and he’s also DEAD DEAD HONEST to boot, much more DEAD DEAD HONEST than I’ll ever be. He can talk about anything to anyone. The guy has no shame.

“I never met a soul who wants to be a public fapper. Every dog is ashamed of it lad. I was chewed up by guilt for years over my fapping. I started out my first ever fap when I found a naughty playing card. It was the ❺ of clubs and it had a Chinese woman dribbling you know what down her chin with a big willy resting on her lips. I took it to the safety of a school roof next to the chimney (I sprained my ankle on the way back down) and fapped to it. Awesome, at the time, as a young boy who had never seen images.”

Can you still buy those porno playing crads? I wouldn’t mind a packet for the next poker session with the lads. Subject A’s second fap was a little less obvious.

“My second ever fap, and this is far harder to admit than that ❺ of clubs Chinese broad, was to Jamie Lee Curtis, the American actor. It was the bit in True Lies (1994) when she was posing in a very tight black dress with heels on. I fapped, coz I recall this very lucidly, for around a full 45 minutes. That seemed a long time back then, until I set my record fapping time at 54 hours many years later in adulthood.”

Hold up – You pulled the head of it for 54 hours solid? Straight up? Pardon me, but that’s bullshit.

“You might think so. I wish it was. But I’m just describing the facts. There was a whole lifetime of mechanical gears in operation to arrive at 54 hours though. That kind of thing doesn’t just happen overnight. I had learned behaviours entrenched deep within the members of my psyche – that’s the only and best way I know how to put it.”

What was your third fap to? Confess to piebald77 or die!

“That one’s easy. It was to a real hardcore pornographic film. My mate put it on (it belonged to his parents) one day in his house after we’d all gotten in from a night out. I’d just been battered and mugged by a couple of hooligans while almost out for the count on 60% proof rum, so I accepted the film differently because I was in a sensitive condition and in desperate need of a spiritual cocktail, if you will, to make me feel better about myself again. That explicit sexual imagery was like warm cockles on my soul, it made me not give a total sh*t about getting battered or mugged. The world could batter me and mug me all it wanted so long as I had a movie like this to watch. I’d take that deal any time of the day.”

What was it called, this movie?

“It was a rip-off of Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange (1971), entitled A Clockwork Orgy. The blonde bimbo, Olivia, was stunning, with a giant set of implanted knockers and a really cruel expression on her red lips, as she took willy and sucked willy and got spurted on by willy and all that. The money shot actually blew my socks off at the time. The idea of discharging a heavenly spritz over a bare naked woman was something new, fresh, titillating and powerful. The male actor must have been drinking liquidated egg whites for a week.”

Have to check it out. I know a site that does retro vids. We’ll leave it there because I need to do something else. Come back in a few days if you want, coz I know you got lots to say about what you call your ‘Life In Porn’. You up for it?

“All day. I’d just like to express, before I go, my sincere compassion to anyone going through this fapping guilt business. It’s a nightmare, but I can help.”

 

White Void; Back In The Day

Image: The legend that is Victoria Climbie.

The wonderful thing about blogging (or White Voiding) is that one can sit down at the ‘personal PC computer cryptic workstation’ and just peruse: What the dickens am I gunna write today? What is there to write about? Or not write about? Nothing. There’s nothing to not write about. Apart from politics, religion, and science. You want to read something boring, go and check out The Financial Times, The Independent, or The Daily Mail. You want to read something free and off the hook (can I describe myself that way?), then stick around here.

            The White Void on 'the cryptic' (PC) is not any longer actually a white void, because I change the colour of the screen whenever I type on Microsoft Word these days (still on Word, I know). It’s a cool feature, a great compliment to the brightness/contrast controls. Between them, you can get the screen glowing with just the right amount of ‘starkiness’ in a colour scheme of your preferred choice. Excellent late at night when the lights are down. Right now I’ve got the screen in a popular shade of charcoal grey (not that it matters), but you have to be careful, because, depending on the heaviness of the colour of the screen, it can make the flashing cursor difficult or impossible to see. Not that any of this matters. I’m just saying. About the White Void. On paper, White Void is White Void, because I don’t know any writers who print on coloured paper. I have wrote on teabag-stained paper though before, I hasten to admit. Isn’t it great, that teabag-staining trick? Probably the best cheap gimmick in art that I know of.

Do you know what I’m on about, or do I have to explain it? Just in case you’re thick, all you do is stain a piece of paper with a half-damp used teabag to create an old timeworn yellow effect. I do it all the time (going one step further to carefully burn the edges of the paper with a lighter to up the overall crispy blackened-edge worse for wear look – what’s that White Void you’re on about?).

Is that enough about the White Void? It’s never enough about the White Void. It’s like totally interesting, dude. Like how you dip your feet in, fall into it, then batter it. ATM (at the moment), I’m fairing terrifically well against this charcoal grey affair. Again, not that it matters. I’m just writing without a cause. A rebel without a gauze.

Do you remember gauzes? Way back when, doing a bit of weed? The very first store-bought cannabis pipe under the bridge maybe, or next to the bins, or behind the shed? Those days were good. The taste of the resin was timeless. The fact that it got you off your head was secondary, it was just the cool chic thing to do back then. Now it would affect me differently; I’d be too paranoid to enjoy the benefits (if there are any, apart from hearing music better). Perhaps you’re a blazer who loves his chong, and I say fair play to you. Wouldn’t it be nice for you to try my drug of choice for a bit, while I try yours? Cocaine, if you must know. Loads of drug rehab and therapy, it’s an awful long story…I even wrote a poem about it…

Since I left school from the age of 16 to early twenties I did nothing but blaze, buying ounces of resin (it was mostly resin back then) with my giro once every two weeks and still having a tenner left by the time the next one landed. It was a tight budget I was on but I was splendid with it because weed was the only thing in need. I longed for nothing else but pot which was always available and affordable. It was enough for me back then; there was no predilection for pills, pastes and powders – you know, all that heavy junk which really undoes you in the end.

I used to watch pornography while stoned, always fumbling a spliff and the remote control with my spare hand. At one point in my youth I was watching it on multiple screens, on a 'video player and a DVD' hooked up at the same time. Maybe, as time goes on, I’ll be brave enough to write about pornography here at piebald77; I’m currently blueprinting the best way forward in divulging all of my personal life online. Should I stick my balls on?

I HAVE to deal with crap. Best place is here. And nobody’s reading, so there’s no embarrassment. Even if they are, I don’t mind. It’s not as if someone is going to approach me in real life on the street and say, “Oi Mr Donny, about your bollocks on the blog last week…” Even if they did, I’d batter them. So stay tuned for some very personal content coming here in the foreseeable. I don’t care for personal shit. When you’ve lost all your privacy, you tend not to. But anyway, take care of yourself until the next time. I really mean that. You can never be too careful. And stop stroking vicious dogs.

That Damn Mental Health System Again

 

I have a close friend, we’ll call him Subject A, who has been f**ked over once more lately. He explains:

“It’s this mental health game bollocks up to its old tricks again, screwing me over as is per usual. This latest escapade has me half-believing that I’ll never get out of the system. It started with me telling them to go and stick their medication up their jacksies and don’t come running to me crying about it. Not in so many words like, I’m not rude. I just casually missed my appointments – and besides, I had other things on the go as well by the way, okay?”

All he did is miss a couple of engagements scheduled to administer his medication. Personally, I wouldn’t take that crap if my life depended on it.

“They recalled me into a secure unit! I lost my liberty for five days and nights in the time it took for them to forcibly deliver the meds. We’re talking a heavy squad here, nine built dudes welding one syringe. Sheer overkill. I don’t see the point in it. I don’t want your stupid drugs, so you’re gunna get nine guys to pin me down and deliver them? What’s fair about that? All directed from a doctor I never even met in my life.”

If I was there I would have knocked them all out and injected the doctor’s temple with his own badass solution.

“I’ve explained the reasons why I can’t have their concoctions but my arguments fall on deaf ears. They just sit there smiling, telling me all the benefits of their drugs.”

Subject A also reported that they been telling all kinds of bare lies about him too.

“It’s true. In October last year I got sectioned for lighting gas canisters in my backyard. One, I don’t have either a) a backyard or b) a gas canister. Two, I wouldn’t light it in my backyard if I knew how to light it. I couldn’t believe it. One morning I’m sat at home drinking whisky enjoying my freedom, the next I’m on a nuthouse ward because of some porky pies about gas canisters. They wrote it down on my papers. I read the lies from the horse’s mouth. The doctors use different strange signatures on these papers, the reasons are barely readable, wow their handwriting, but I confronted him about it when I finally got the chance after weeks and weeks of him being off. He denied it was him bruv!”

I’m sorry, but I’d have knocked somebody out again for that. And it’s here where I’m drawing a line under this report because my friend has to take it somewhere bigger than my blog, like a lawyer’s office for example. He says he has a tribunal coming up anyway, so we’ll wish him the best. Personally, I’m finding it hard even just showcasing his position. If it were up to me, I’d shoot all those doctors in the head and throw them in a covered-up ditch. Their tyrannical system of terminal oppression makes me want to heave.

“I did have a visit on the beach with my girlfriend though,” Subject A adds. “We ate Rowntree’s ice lollies and cornettos.”

Phantom Images

 

Here are a few images I’ve put together over the last couple of days. My initials, and my motto, is ATD (ART TILL DEATH), so I thought I better make the effort. I know its kinda crap compared to the stunning array of web-orientated digital graphic computer design out there, but it does qualify as art work and it keeps the cobwebs away. Plus, at the moment, without any graphics program, it’s the best I got. Not the most impressive, I’m nowhere near happy with it, but at least it’s something and at least I’m trying.

I’ve made two art portfolios in my life. My mum destroyed the first and I destroyed the second. Upon the matter of the first, you’d have to ask my mum why she put it in the bin. If you can understand that then you’re wiser than I’ll ever be. Upon the subject of the second, I thought it was getting ripped off. I sincerely regret both outcomes, but what’s done is done, its water under the bridge. The tears are spent.

With those two portfolios harnessed on graphics programs at university, I could have been a jobbing artist. No doubt about it. I was extraordinarily pleased with those pair. Now I’m struggling to stick a batch of cut-out doodles around somebody else’s phantom figures! In a way, I’m still happy though. As long as I keep trying, I’m sure I’ll surprise myself with some good results one day.

That’s that anyway. It’s payday today, so I won’t be working on no artwork. PARTY ALL THE WAY BABY! I think I’ll start on the Jim Beam. Oh could you imagine it!? Swigging straight from the bottle with a spliff in my other hand on big slug-patches of coca? What do you reckon? Should I roll back the years and get wild with it? Or keep sensible and sober?

There’s a wolf on each shoulder. Which one shall I feed? The ex-addict still lives in total shifting states of hellish and heavenly conflict. The only good listener upon this problem, at the moment (atm), I’m afraid, is you. Your good self. I can’t share at my therapy groups anymore. My content is too heavy for the general population. Here I’ll tell you anything apart from what is commonly accepted as too much information.

You are My White Void Person. Stephen King calls his readers Constant Readers. I call mine White Void People. So shut up, listen to my problems, then go away. I’m only joshing. I need you more than you probably think. Someone to bounce off, like, you know. I’m particularly jealous of bloggers who get lots of comments. That must feel really nice. I’ve had that feeling on FaceBook but never on my blog; I don’t suppose I ever will.

It was special on FaceBook when I said I’d started as assistant manager for a kiddy football team. Everyone was chuffed for me. Depressingly, the position didn’t last, but I still have that pleasing memory. Another pleasing fact of life today, a small thing to be grateful for, is the suggestions bar on YouTube when I sign in. Instead of straining to think of a song out of the blue, I have a familiar list of classic recommendations right there on the screen. Hey, I’m in a jolly mood. I just told you, its payday.

“Hello,” says Mr. Whiskey. “Hello,” says Mr. Lager.

I once saw J A Konrath, e-book extraordinaire, pissed up out of his mind on his own blog once, so don’t panic if I decide that resistance is futile. He was sat topless in his writing chair looking windswept with a bottle in his hand. All will be well in life. Our Higher Powers will look after us. Don’t worry, don’t fret, don’t panic. Mr. Donnie is here and he’s here to stay (unless imminent death puts a finale on this venture). Hope not.

On the contrary, with clinical depression, I once knew a tramp who prayed for death on a park bench. The next morning a well-to-do couple invited him back to their place where they gave him two baths (the first one black) and changed his life. He’s got one funny story. He was in a gospel-squad travelling party with two other friends of mine, visiting churches and preaching to the service. One of them, my ex-mentor, has passed. The other was a woman who I remember once woke up after chemo on the kitchen floor with the vegetables over-boiling on the stove. She wrote a book called LIFE AFTER BREASTS and played the harp. A beautiful figure, in a way. Her name was Lynette. I read her book and passed it to my ex-girlfriend. The way my ex-girlfriend pronounced the word vegetables is quite funny as well. She called them VEGGY-TABLES. As in school exam tables.

That’s it for now. See ya soon. And remember, give up jaywalking. It’s fraught with danger. A trick could rip you off or get her pimp to hurt you. Or his pimp. Christ.

Psychic Sex

 

Now then. Two blogs in two days feels a bit weird. Well done me! Crikey, I feel like I’m beginning to waffle already. That’s the beauty of it. I can just sit here and waffle with nobody or nothing to stop me. It’s important to clear the air from time to time. With who? With yourself.

I went to my first séance last week and listened to the messages from psychics. I almost got up and performed myself. I’m not sure what stopped me. I’m 99% certain that there’s something out there, but I have doubts about the nature of the business itself. Part of me still sees them as picking on the weak and vulnerable. I could never allow myself to do such a thing. Yet, if my message from the other side was positive and helpful, I would be only too glad to pass it on. I think I’ll give it a try next week and then start doing palm readings for a fiver or something. You got a problem with that?

I’m really glad that, whoever you are, wherever you’ve been, or whatever you’re doing or about to do, we can share this moment of unity right now. It’s lonely being a writer. I want outdoor sex and go-karts and champagne. I want friendship in the nightclub, love in the park, wanna stroke the dolphins in the pool, wanna score the winning goal at The Theatre Of Dreams, wanna be popping tags in all the latest threads, wanna cruise in the convertible, eat all the finest foods…meeting and greeting A-Listers…

 All I get is you reading this on your phone probably 105 miles away who doesn’t give a shit. If you’re reading this on a PC then please let me buy you a drink. Everything looks so much better on a widescreen monitor. Even penises look better on a widescreen monitor. Sorry, did I just say that? Well where else did you hear it?

I’m dead honest me, you know. Yeah I have seen a porno or two. It’s a heated subject for me. I could write about it all night. I wrote 50% Rude as a homage to the industry but it didn’t go into it all that much. Only halfway in (pun intended), as a matter of fact, hence the title. I would say bomb the living crap out of all porn stars. Yep, just bomb them all. All they do is make me frustrated. They say sex is everywhere but I can’t find it. I bought a pornographic magazine just the other week, first one in about ever, took one look at the cover model who made me buy it in the first place, looked at a couple of grotty adverts, and the thing’s been hiding in the cupboard since. Completely tasteless.

The intention was to cut out the cover model and stick her on my wall, like a little kid proving he ain’t gay. That was until I realised that in the centrefold she’s sucking on a vibe in her gob. I’m sorry, there ain’t no woman licking a dildo getting wall space in my property. In another she was bent over pulling her bottom open. Same goes for that too.

I might start wring about porn some more right here at Piebald77.blogspot.com. I know it sucks (pun intended), but it’s a virtual bottomless well of material. Who isn’t interested in sex? Well that’s easy – me! I’m growing out of it. Or so I think until I see a fit emo. More than that, I want to test my honesty. How honest can I be? What kind of chicks I like, what kind of – well, yeah, all those personal preferences only admin at porn sites know about. Bomb porn sites as well with the other naked plebs. In my days, you had to 'man up' and go in the shop to face someone in person if you had the balls enough to buy real porn for yourself. It wasn’t all this streaming garbage. Have you seen the descriptions to some of the videos? Unrepeatable. At least the ones I watched anyway. More talk next time so be careful till then and don’t smoke or drink and drive. Stop scratching your bum too.

Mr Doodle

OK, so we’re back blogging again. Great stuff. I didn’t realise how content it made me feel until the ability to blog was gone. I took everything I had for granted. The comfy armchair, Netflix (I’ve never had Netflix, but you know what I mean), frosted glasses full of cold lager… Modern day creature comforts are nice, aren’t they? I can tell you that by all accounts now I have very little. I’m not saying I prefer it this way (who does apart from Buddhist monks?), but I’m slowly getting my head around it. I currently need a little to be happy. Give me a lot and I’d be pulling cartwheels off. Like a lucky scratch card win, for example. Hey, don’t count it out.

 

I feel UP, ON IT, mentally boisterous, ready to rock ‘n’ roll and spill some pig guts! I wanna blast the top oFf the Empire State, fill in the Grand Canyon with mashed potato, and copy and paste the entire internet into my personal journal! You don’t care about my feelings, right? Well I gotta tell someone. I don’t treat this as The Void (the naked bare white page writers have to fill up in order to do their job), because it’s slightly easier: I don’t have to make anything up, this stuff just pours out from the heart. As in: Careful, he’s pouring it out here… You know, like a music band live on stage with your favourite song. Sometimes they get in the zone and just pour it out. Ronnie O’Sullivan pours his pots out on the table: his passion, his zest, his skill, his talent, everything. So do I here, a bit.

 

I love being at the 'cryptic pen' (computer) in public typing from the soul. I feel like a receptionist at the 'cryptic'. I no longer even own a personal PC computer, so that’s why I get excited here in the library. At home I have to use a pen. Hell, I don’t even write at home anymore. I’m always in the pub doing it. Non-alcoholic beer, if you must know, Nosey Parker. Orange, lime, blackcurrant… that’s all I drink. Off the fags, and off the booze. Now give me a golden handshake, a brass band, and a firework show. I gotta tell someone.

 

So the writing’s back on course – it’s a pleasure to be reacquainted with you – but the artwork is proving a struggle. I might have stumbled upon a new direction, but it no longer includes graphic design. I’ve lost my beloved Photoshop Elements 6.0 because I have no PC. I can’t get it to work here at the library. It’s a real shame. I’m finding life without graphic design rather difficult. I’ve just had an idea – I might try and find a college course which does it. Then I would be able to pick my art life up. At the moment, until then, its scribbles and doodles with felt tips and biros.

Mr Donnie

 OPEN FOR BUSINESS

Hello there, Mr Donny here. Mr Donny is my new business name. Do you think it looks better spelled the other way, Donnie, like Donnie Darko, or not? I’ve not fully decided yet. I’ve not yet
decided what I’m going to do with my new name. I’m thinking Spiritual Councillor or Appropriate Adult. All I’m missing is a young client list of emos and goths. Female, of course! I’m deadly serious about it.

I’ve not yet considered becoming a clairvoyant but it has crossed my mind. The downside would be charging people and attracting more negative influences. Believe you me, I have enough. In saying that, bad spirits don’t scare me that greatly, relatively speaking. I’m more terrified of armed police. They do say you should be more fearful of the living.

One of my favourite bloggers has died recently. I never met him, but it’s saddening. I’d like this blog to be missed, one day, or read avidly. That would be very pleasing. It’s his death which has brought me here today. If any ideal reader out there exists, I’m a terrific let down. Now it’s just about staying in touch with the blog and posting an update every now and again in the hope to try and find "someone new" who would enjoy going back over the whole thing and singling out something interesting to them. I’ve done it myself, fishing though blogs all night. It’s nice when you find a good one. I hope mine will be a good one to someone out there one day.

I’m writing prose in the pub at the moment. It’s about a man in hospital. The book is called Headswap. I’d like to think that my own head has changed a lot since I started writing it. That was the point, in a way. It was meant to be a story about the creator-bond between Man (or me), and God. I didn’t expect to be writing prayer books though. The prayer book has almost got nothing to do with anything but I wouldn’t know what else to do with it apart from leave it inserted within the main body of Headswap. I’ve hardly ever even said a single prayer in my whole life so writing a bunch was something new.

Anyway, I’m too busy dancing in my mind to YouTube tunes now to think clearly, here in Warrington library, so I’m off to de-stress. I just wanted to say that I think I’ll try and pick the average posting ratio up, like back in the good old days, and start writing about ghosts or something (anything), to keep the blog alive. I really am surrounded by a lot of supernatural activity at the moment, and Christopher Fowler’s death has instilled faith in this thing, because his was so punctual and good. Stay tuned, keep happy, and don’t do drugs.

Nothing Much Doing

 

Hello all, I’m not too bad today. Life has been tumultuous lately, nothing steady going on. I’ve had a big flood and lost all my belongings. I decided to throw all my possessions away shortly beforehand, emptying my flat – the flood seen off the rest of the remainder of my belongings. What’s the difference between possessions and belongings? I didn’t even have a wheelie bin to my name (just got one delivered today)! Yeah, I’m still living there. Anyway, there’s too much to talk about so I don’t know where to start. Supernatural masks, assassination attempts, incarceration, money loss – I’m just waffling as usual waiting for something meaningful to say to crop up.

Might as well blog, talk to somebody/nobody. Writing is non-existent. I feel the need, yet can’t execute. I want to do all sorts of things and fill time, yet seem unable to. I’m trying my best to be as public and visible as possible, although to be honest it’s hard to get out of bed and Face The Day sometimes. This is a simple exercise to get the touch-type fingers going. I fear if I don’t write either this or something else soon I’ll forget the ability altogether. I could write about my emotions, but the sensitive emo chicks into self-harming do it so much better.

I met one last month in a group. She was absolutely stunning in extravagant make-up and revealing clothes. I didn’t know where to look so I ended up falling into her eyes. What I saw there: Beauty, Sadness, Warmth, leads me to pen this little piece of few word about her. I really do hope I see her again. Spectacularly striking, doubtlessly flawless, fit as anything, the hottest babe I’ve ever spoken to in the flesh. If we meet again and you are pointed to this, Courtney, I love you and I’m not ashamed to say it. I hope your Head People are giving you an easy time!