Tuesday, 27 May 2014


With this open door immigration, I'm truly worried about Britain losing its identity.

I miss the good old days of when I grew up, and you saw NF for 'National Front' scrawled on everything. And my dear uncle, ( hugely successful businessman ) visiting Halesowen and being told by two old women outside Jackson's shop to 'bugger off back where you came from'. Oh yeah, I do miss that.

And I miss people's lovely sense of humour. Like last week, my mate attending Jobclub in Birmingham said that the guy in charge ( an old Sergeant Major ), referred to a Somali as a 'jungle-bunny' TO HIS FACE. Yes, this racist has a f**king job, and is being employed by a subcontractor to the government! This same outstanding citizen also said that when he was stationed in Northern Ireland, the army used to think nothing of breaking into shops over night, and stealing cigarettes and whatever else they fancied. NO WONDER THE IRISH WANTED TO KILL US.

Personally, I miss the good old days of AD 43. At least we could get a decent goddamn pizza then, seeing as we were being RUN BY ITALIANS.

So which Britain are we talking about?

Wednesday, 20 February 2013


The boss is sitting at his desk in the corner. He's distracted by texts from his current 'girlfriend' ( usually they're from Eastern Europe, who he's met at a bar at 2am on a Sunday morning ). He's trying to write her a romantic text.

Apparently his current amour has already taken to calling him by a nickname ( some variety of cuddly animal, which he refuses to disclose ), and his thumbs are furiously roaming his impractically small keypad in an attempt to keep up the repartee.

He turns to me. 'I need an animal.'

'What do you mean, you 'need an animal'?'

'It's for my girlfriend. I need a nickname for her.'

'That Polish girl - the one you don't even like?' I'm thinking: The one you're screwing because no-one who speaks good English would go near you?.

'Yeah, her.'

'What about 'wolverine'?'

'What's that? - Like, a walrus?'


Colleague ( Platinum blonde, tall, slim, large breasts - which she paid for from being on Deal Or No Deal ): Are you still seeing that woman?

Me: What 'woman'?

Colleague: That Muslim woman?

Me: Yeah. ( Thinks: Here we go. )

Colleague: You're mad you are.

Me: Why?

Colleague: All the women in the world, and you go out with her. It's a right hassle.

Me: All relationships are a hassle.

Colleague: No, they're not. Mine isn't.

Me: You were crying your eyes out at work the other day, because your boyfriend left you. He said it was the 'final straw'. He left you because you have nightmares that make you thrash around at night, because you were bullied at school. You smashed him in the face while you were asleep, and he was angry enough to get dressed, ring a mate, and go and sleep somewhere else at four in the morning.

Colleague: I don't understand. What's your point?

Tuesday, 10 July 2012


Oh God.

Here I am again. 

On the train.

Doesn't anything ever happen to me while I'm not moving? I can't seem to move ten yards without some idiot trying to get my attention.

Alright mate? Where's Trinity Street?

- Never heard of it.

Alright love? Got any change?

- Sorry. I'm running for that train!

Oi, mate? You got a light?

- No. You got any vitamin C tablets?

Do you have any coins for this machine?

- Do I look like a bank?

It's been noted many times that travel writing flourishes because the writer is in a state of transition. He is neither here, nor there, and therefore, the extra-dimensional aspect lends itself to unique experiences.

Although, in my case, I have to ask, is there such a thing as 'Commuter Writing'?

I'm on the train home. I'm trying to read my book - Limitless, by Alan Glynn. It's the second time I've read it in a year, but the 'hit' ( you'll see what I mean if you read it ), isn't the same the second time around. I should have cold-turkeyed longer, then had another go in maybe a year.

Anyway, a bunch of attractive women ( if you like shrill, orange, Stourbridge types ) invade the seats across the aisle from me. The usual: Hiroshima skin-tones, bling, dyed hair ( jet-black or platinum blonde ) plus extensions, and that ubiquitous Selfridges shopping bag.

I turn up the Ambient Himalayas on my iPod, to try and focus them out. I get into the zone: I'm at windswept base camp. My sherpas are getting me an ice cold coke. Then instantly I'm teleported back to Planet Earth, because the women suddenly start singing their karaoke favourites:

'Oooh baby, do-you know what-that's-worth? / We'll make hea-ven a pla-ace on Earth - !! 

I do an Oscar-winning turn as the living embodiment of 'nonchalant', despite a good ten minutes of sonic barrage.

'Oops I-did-it-again - !!'

The CIA may want to try this the next time they have a suspected terrorist in custody. The skin colour of these chicks alone would trigger flash-backs of Guantanamo boiler-suits.

'I'm not-that-inn-o-cent - !!'

After a while, my glacial demeanor, has - I hoped - transmitted itself to their suggestible minds, and prompted them to lapse into a kind of semi-dormant, or vegetative state. 

But then it happened.

'Is that Volume Two he's reading?'

Dear God. 'Volume Two'? That can only mean one thing... My book does have a similar colour scheme on the back.

'Ask him which book he's reading.'

Please. Leave me alone.

Focus on the book.

Mountain streams.


The brunette nearest me leans over and taps me on the knee.


'Which one are you reading?' she says '- Volume One, Two or Three?'

She is, of course, referring to the housewives' current favourite: Fifty Shades of Grey erotic trilogy. Every woman on the train has a copy. And those that don't, have disguised it by reading it on those bloody e-books.

'I do not read that shit.'


The blonde next to her leans around to join in: 'They're not shit...'

I look at the one guy in their group. He's either their nephew, or younger brother, or a cheerful homosexual colleague who works at their salon. Probably called Wayne.

I bellow: 'Two thousand years of erotic literature, and they have to read THAT SHIT!'

The brunette's jaw drops open. 'Oh...Emm...Gee. How rude!'

Blonde: 'I know. Oh-emm-gee.'

The crowded train seems strangely silent.

Sunday, 27 May 2012


‘Yo. Are you okay to talk?’

It’s my bro.

‘Yeah, man,’ I say. ‘But you sound like you’re down a coal mine. Are you on speakerphone? Because you know I might say cunt a lot..?’

I have to verify this every time I speak to him, after what happened a few years ago, when he called me from the car, and neglected to tell me he had a vehicle full of relatives.

‘Haha, yeah,’ he says, ‘let me try SKYPE. Call you back.’



‘That better?’ he asks.


‘So, what’s up bro? Been a while.’

‘I know. Hey - how’s the hurricane?’

‘Meh. The mayor feels like an asshole because of all the apocalyptic warnings he gave.’

‘Well, he was in a no-win situation, wasn’t he?’

‘Exactly. If millions of people got killed, his ass would be on the line. Now that nothing happened, they’re saying he cried wolf.’

‘Well, it was hardly his fault. So what did you do?’

‘I drove over to George’s house, and we shotgunned beers til three in the morning.’

‘Shotgunned? What’s that?’

‘It’s when you punch a hole in the bottom of the can, so when you drink through the regular hole, it pours straight down your throat.’

‘You mean there’s no glug?’

‘Yep, no glug. So you can get it down in one go. So we got drunk, and practised taking apart the AK and putting it back together.’

‘Jesus, you still have the AK?’

‘Yeah, baby. I got guns all over the house.’

‘I thought your mom told you to get rid of it?’

‘I read her the First Amendment, baby.’

‘And she was okay with that?’

‘No choice.’

‘So how much did you drink?’

‘Er...four beers and a bottle of wine. I took the AK in case of looters.’

‘Ha, you should have been here a couple of weeks ago..!’

‘Oh yeah, I heard you had riots n’ shit. How was that?’

‘It was pathetic. It wasn’t political rioting. They were rioting for TVs and snacks.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

‘Yeah, they weren’t even poor. One guy was a school teacher. Another was a bank manager. The oldest was eighty-five!’

‘Oh shit, that’s funny!’

‘I think some pundit on TV referred to it as the ‘Because I’m Worth It’ riots. They were even scheduled on the internet, and people were organizing car sharing and stuff. It was like, You can go home at four thirty today, as after that, there will be rioting.’

‘Haha. Unbelievable.’

‘Yeah, but get this: They jailed a guy for four years because he stole a white t-shirt from the Armani shop, after the riot had left. He felt guilty, handed himself in, and they still jailed him for four years!’

‘No shit!’

‘Yeah, and one girl stole a Pepsi got four years, and so did two schmucks who jokingly put up a riot event page on Facebook. And nobody turned up to riot! There was no riot where they lived..!’

‘Ohh, fuck! Jesus. That’s harsh..!’

‘It’s because of the Olympics next year. Nobody has said anything to this effect, but I think the rioters played into the government’s hands. They got it out of the way a year in advance, and now no-one will dare to do anything during the Olympics. They’ve all been used to set an example, so there won’t be any protests or civil uprisings.’


‘Yeah. Anyway, so how’s things?’

A pause.

‘Well...there’s some problems with my employer’.

‘Oh shit.’ Not again.

‘Yeah. I’ve been told I can resign.’

‘What? You’re kidding me.’


‘The bastards. I'm sorry to hear that.’

‘Yeah. And I billed more hours than any other guy there.’


‘Yeah, so what with that, and getting testicular cancer, it’s been a fucking helluva time. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s been the worst few weeks of my life. Which is why you haven’t heard from me.’

‘Oh, okay. Wait, back up – you’ve got ball cancer?!’

‘I thought I had. I found a lump on my testicles.’

‘What happened?’

‘I had it checked – it wasn’t malignant.’

‘I never check mine.’

‘You should, man.’

‘I kinda think that’s what a girlfriend’s for. They’re always down there, they should be having a look around, doing inspections. Running a battery of tests. It part of their job.’

‘I hear that.’

‘So what did they say?’

 ‘It’s fine. It was just the thing at the top of the ball, the – I can’t remember what it’s called. And there’s no history of ball problems in the family, either. Well, there’s been a few inflammations. The odd swelling. Maybe a blockage. But no actual tumours.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah. Talking of girlfriends, how’s your girl?’

‘Great. How’s yours?’


‘Do you get to see her much, what with all your travelling for work?’

‘We get together on weekends. It’s great because my parents are away six months a year. So we get together and fuck in every room in the house. Well, unless there’s a hurricane, and she can’t get here. So yeah, on top of all I’ve been through, no pussy this weekend.’


‘In fact, get this: On the same day I found the lump on my testicle, I failed my accountancy exam.’

‘Fuck, you’ve really had a time of it.’

‘In fact, that isn’t even the half of it. Let me think. Yeah, June 24th, I’m asked to resign. June 30th, I fail the accountancy exam – by one point. Same day, there’s a lump on my testicle. In July, I’m trying to dodge a goddamn New York City pothole, and smash into a stand-pipe, destroying two wheels on my car, which then gets towed away. In August I discover that the people who want to interview me for a job, only want to interview me during my vacation. Then, during my supposed vacation, I get called into my current job to save someone else’s ass. Then, while driving across Virginia, I’m tracked by police air support, who stop me for speeding, and hand me a charge of misdemeanour.’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Yeah, so apart from being broke and unemployed, I’m now a criminal.’

‘Haha, that’s fucking funny!’

‘However, the lawyer guarantees that if I hand them a bogus excuse like ‘defective equipment’ or something, and pay 175 bucks into the system, I can get off, no problem.’

‘Cool. Nice one.’

‘Tell me about it. But I’m amazed I didn’t put a bullet in my brain. And I have plenty of guns and bullets around the house. So to top it all off there’s a hurricane, and I’m denied sex. Normally, all I do on a weekend is drink coffee, make linguine, and screw. But no, I’m denied even that simple human pleasure.’

Basically, if there’s a shit-storm, usually my bro is at the centre of it. Generally, he’s an affable, unassuming, happy-go-lucky kinda guy, and I think a lot of people maybe forget he’s a grown man, who knows what he’s doing. Even I make that mistake, and no matter how much aggro he’s caused me in the past, at some point, I think people should treat him like a responsible adult, and cut him some slack.

‘So what are you going to do for the rest of the weekend?’ I ask.

‘There’s a bunch of asshole Italians across the road, having a party. They’re always getting rowdy, and I wanna keep an eye on them. You remember the big balcony outside our sister’s old room?’


‘I like to go up there, drink beer, and sit in the dark with my rifle. I’ll be waiting for one of those fuckers to step on our lawn.’