Big Girl

Cleveland Bay, pure. Bright bay, 17.3 hands. Big Girl. Bella, formerly Bertha.
Big Bertha, Big Bella, Big Girl.
Thick stable doorway, old former 17th century barn.
Me in the doorway,
Big Girl trying to squeeze on through.

Me feeling squishpop on upper layer of shoulder muscle fat compound.
Quick rapid roll away and I manage to dodge the giant as she squeezes through. Nearly crushing me against the stone doorway.
This horse once dragged a vet along on a rope, he was clearly a skilled waterskiier, as he slid upright across the overgrown yard, his heels channeling through the scrubby grass and mud and leaving a trench of Carry-On mud. Pure James Herriot. The vet laughed it off, and laughed even harder when he found out I’d bought the monster horse. A big, Charge of the Light Brigade motherfucker, from the dodgiest horse dealer in town. Motherfucking horse dealing cocksuking motherfucker.
Sorry, I’ve got to go, I was geting into that too. Sorry, pressing business.
Thanks

 

View from the Ridge

Fallen off the perch.
Standing on the bus.

GE Capital bank.
Breathing, standing over me,
breathing, down the back of my neck.

No dragons in these hills, no toast
Just mostly broken things that I must repair
But try explaining that to a credit management representative squalking from deep in a ruptured cancerous bowel.

Was I simply surfing an economic wave, wrapped up in my limited abilities and screaming around like a twat in the hills. Or can I limpet onto this motherfucker and ride it out like Turner knockin’ out the rent from a ships mast in a storm at midnight.
We’ll see.
I’m so broke I’m thinkin’ about buying a banjo, some cut off denim dungarees and a straw hat and dinglin danglin doo and doo doo doo and shit.
Or something.
Stop, persona.

 

Notice

Hi
Thanks to those of you still checking up on the blog. I owe you an apology for being unproductive. Been very busy with things. Will sort this thing out soon. Tomorrow.

 

Curry

Sitting in my local takeaway, waiting for some tastless mush that’s going to cost me £18.

Home made curry is out of the question – I nearly killed the wife with the last one. I’ve hung up my garam massala, and sold the remainder of my curry gravy to some Rawandan terrorists I met in Safeway.

I know this takeaway makes tastless mush, I know it’s gonna be horrible before I order it. Anyway, I’m sitting in my local takeaway, waiting for some tastless mush that’s going to cost me £18.

I pick up ‘The Sun’ newspaper, and there’s a big spread on the front about brave prince William. About how he’s been in Afghanistan, and a thick fonted headline boasting that he’s killed thirty people in Afghanistan. About national pride. About him on a machine gun machine gunning the poor bastards. About him calling in an airstrike and killing some more. Like a DVD cover on the paper. I think ‘The Rock’ was posing with him in one shot, in another he was holding up a child’s head.
There is some sick colonialism in this newspaper, and do they really expect us to believe those posed pictures with the ginger cunt prancing around like Lawrence of Arabia – he’s been in Dubai the whole time playing XBox with Osama Bin Laden. It’s all too much. I stop reading. I wonder why they’ve got this rag in there in the first place. Why are Indians getting the BNP newsletter in for their customers ?

The bland food is coming, and I know that they’ll forget to put the right chutneys in – but at least this curry won’t put my family at risk. I suppose I should name and shame the curry recipe book – well, it’s the ‘Curry Bible’ by Pat Chapman. If you spend thirty odd quid on all the spices, spend about four hours blending and generally fucking around with them, then combine them with more fresh ingredients, most of which are so obscure you’ll have to buy them online… I guarantee you’ll create something that has no place existing on Gods Earth, and which, when ingested, will do for your intestines what that little Alien did for John Hurt in Ridley Scott’s sci-fi classic.

 

Road to Nowhere

Black Atari plastic dashboard in front of me, grey sky through the windscreen, maybe it’s raining, maybe it isn’t. Warm jacket on, about eight thirty, start the engine, radio on. Down a bumpy drive, down a little lane, down another little lane, onto main road. Play with the radio. Maybe its raining, maybe it isn’t.
Listen to music, some songs are good, some songs annoy, grab a CD, open the case and put it on. Keep driving. Overtake a car. Dodge a puddle. Think about work. Think about ideas, think about life. Hear a good song, think about things. Drive. Get closer to work. Maybe slow down a little. I’ll still get there. Fiddle with the radio. Drive. Cars growl past, dry stone walls on either side of the narrow road blur, change gear up, change gear down.

Get to work, do work. Finish. Approach car, get into car, black Atari plastic dashboard, grey sky through the windscreen, maybe it’s raining, maybe it isn’t. Warm jacket on, about four thirty, start the engine, radio on. Out of the car park, down a hill, onto a road, drive. Fiddle with the radio. Drink a sports drink. Cars growl by, now they’re on my right side, they were on my left this morning. Think about tea, think about life, dodge a puddle, overtake a car. I don’t like this song, put in a CD, remember things in the past. Grey skies through the window. Fiddle with the radio. Rain, skid, quick brakes, brakes lock, sliding now, horizon turning right around, then a bump.

Then quiet, then a slow drift in my mind and a look through the windscreen, questions to myself, panic. I get out, more fear. I look down, then heartbeat, then cars stop, then people, then shouting.

Questions, shame, guilt, loss, hatred, refuge, home, rest, screams, split, drink, hide away, wait.

Appearance, verdict, shouting, questions, shame, guilt, loss, hide, drink, wait.

Black Atari plastic dashboard in front of me, grey sky through the windscreen, maybe it’s raining, maybe it isn’t. Warm jacket on, about eight thirty, start the engine, radio on. Down a bumpy drive, down a little lane, down another little lane, onto main road. Play with the radio. It’s raining slowly.
Listen to music, some songs are good, some songs annoy. Keep driving. Overtake a car. Dodge a puddle. Think about work. Think about it. Hear a song, whistle. Drive. Get closer to work. Maybe slow down a little. I’ll get there. Fiddle with the radio. Drive. Cars growl past, dry stone walls on either side of the narrow road blur, change gear up, change gear down. Turn around. Now the cars are growling on my right.

Flowers tucked into a wall at the side of the road, beneath them muddy tyre tracks cut into the grass.

‘So he killed himself’
‘Jesus Christ, I didn’t see that in the papers’
‘Well, it was years back, and they don’t like to print too much miserable shit – it’s only a local story, not what people want to hear’
‘The poor sod, imagine having that on your conscience’
‘Fuck him, the kid’s the one you should feel sorry for’
‘Gary was working there, you know he works for the council, worked for them for years…’
‘Yeah’
‘Well, he strims the grass at the roadside, and he swears that the tyre tracks are still there’
‘How could they be ? Surely the grass would grow or something ?’
‘Gary reckons the tracks come up each time it rains’

Black Atari plastic dashboard in front of me, grey sky through the windscreen, maybe it’s raining, maybe it isn’t. Warm jacket on, about eight thirty, start the engine, radio on. Down a bumpy drive, down a little lane, down another little lane, onto main road. Play with the radio. Maybe its raining, maybe it isn’t.
Listen to music, some songs are good, some songs annoy, grab a CD, open the case and put it on. Keep driving. Overtake a car. Dodge a puddle. Think about work. Think about ideas, think about life. Hear a good song, think about things. Drive. Get closer to work. Maybe slow down a little. I’ll still be there. Fiddle with the radio. Drive. Cars growl past, dry stone walls on either side of the narrow road blur, change gear up, change gear down. I’ll get there.

 

Tyred

This post is about me going to get some new tyres. Because that’s how I roll! Does imbecillic gestures with arms and fingers.

Don’t tell me about the tyres motherfucker.

I mean, it’s a Saturday – we shouldn’t even be here. You’re fixing the tyres (that are leaking air) on my Rover (yes, I own a Rover motherfucker… you got a problem with that?).

The bloke is fixing the tyres, then he starts talking to me about them. Bastard.

First thing was that the front one had gone flat whilst the Rover lay dormant for a month. So I pumped the bugger up with my own generator/car pump thingy we bought off this insane American woman a while back.

So the bloke’s opener is “Did you pump with up yourself ?”

“Yeah”

“I thought there was something – it’s sixty five, nearly seventy. They’re only supposed to be thirty five.”

I laugh nonchalantly. His assistant chips in with “The back one’s flat as fuck too.”

“Yeah – could you do them all?”

Assistant wombles off, and I’m left with laddo, fucking moidering me about the tyres, then the rims, then how he’s going to do them, then sealing the tyres, or rims, or whatever. Telling me about the shit.

Now, it’s bad enough having to go and get the fucking cars tyres fixed on a Saturday morning in the first place like, but what I object to is the blow-by-blow from the fucking tyre bloke.

He goes on to tell me about rim problems, alloys something, bloody something about the pressure. Something about the weather and the pressure, something about something else, something about about the Anglo Persian Economy sidetracking conblifial Doturates on sky of Island. Something about (I just stopped listening and kept yeahing the flob)

Flob. On a bus-shelter roof, hanging down. Thick flob, some sinus in there probably. Dangling in the January wind.

So I gob on the floor of the garage, a real gooby fucker. No I didn’t.

I gob on the floor. And you should see the look he gave me.

“I thought you were a real man” I told him.

“What ?”

“What’s the problem with me flobbing on the floor of your fucking tyre hangar then you cunt ?”

“Nothing – it’s just the judgement that I find problematic”

“Well, you shouldn’t be telling me about the technical tyre shit on a Saturday morning then”

“I was only making conversation”

“You call that a conversation – shit, the woman who cuts my hair got more wit and wisdom than you. You should hear her theories on Britney and slimming”

“Come on – this is a tyre hangar”

“Okay, maybe you’ve got a point”

At which point I put his head in this spinning machine thing, welded and buffed his face into my rim, phoned up ‘Pimp My Ride Wales’ and got ‘Ice Taff’ to install a goldfish bowl into his arse.

It’s screening on Sky in April.

They tell me it’ll be the making of me – and help tyre boy boost sales no end.

I should be going now. My nurse has some new tablets for me. They’re stronger than the other ones. She assures me they are good. They fucking cost enough.

Peace out.

 

Muck Heap Vs. Chelsea Tractor

This farmer brings the horses some hay. In a Land Rover.
Him and his missus. Bale for horses.

Comes down the drive in this spotless silver Landrover Discovery – a Chelsea Tractor. Twenty five grand, or two hundred a month at 19.9%.

They like hunting – they’ve got eighty poor fucking salivating dying hounds in a big cage. Big hunters.
Probably hunt all the time. Probably not just happy with swatting a fly – they gots to trap it, then feed it some fucking glue. Then pull it’s wings off as it squirms its last squirm. Red cheeks, dead eyes.

So, Land Rover, so, the gleaming penis extension glides down into our yard, and for some reason (well, I know the reason – because he can’t drive properly) he decides to drive the LandRover over the side of my muck heap (well, it’s the horses muck heap but I’ve been known to spill a few fluids there myself from time to time).
Now this is a big muck heap. This is a pile of animal shit and fucking straw and any other evil putrid shit I scrape off the yard, it’s around six foot high in the middle with a big spread of about ten foot. There are all kinds of evil organisms squirming around in the bastard, it’s been known to make hens puke – and hens don’t puke easy.

So, his car is now in the shit. Go iawn. And as it’s a Chelsea Tractor, it’s slipping around the place, fucking throwing up shit all over the side of the thing. Mature horse shit, all over the doors, thick under the wheel arches. Farmer is looking desperate in his skidding, demographically targeted, ecological monstrosity, caked in faeces.
Such a sight, a heart warming lost battle.
Posing car Vs. megalith of animal Shit, and shit wins.
Eventually the poor sod span out of the muck heap, turned around, enturdcrustulated his hands whilst fiddling with the trailer, then I paid him, then thanked him, then he buggered off down my drive.

My closing thoughts for this shit little story are these – Farmers aren’t immune from consumerism, and I felt sorry for him, but more worse sorry cry for his dogs.

 

Ploughing the Same

I’m watching the bloody news, and there’s this local report on a ‘bartering’ system in the Suffolk countryside, set up by some crazy woman. She stands there in front of her Aga, resplendent in some bog dirty floral hippy smock, blathering on about how there’s this underground community of like minded berks she’s set up. Pure Wicker Man.

Cut to the news reporter cleans the windows of her fly-blown shack, and in return gets a voucher. In return for this voucher he can get the services of another person, to do any odd jobs around the house or garden he might see fit need sorting the fuck out.
Cut to clips of other members of this ‘bartering’ community. There’s one biddy that’ll weave you a basket, another that will sort a playa out with some jam, another that will plat your pubis into the shape of rare birds from the Fenn district. I exaggerate – but you get the picture. Like minded hippy folk, dog owning, good people.
But then it cuts to scene of another ‘helper’, this is only a quick flash, showing ‘Mr. Jones’, who, for his contribution to this band of country specialists, ‘Does woodwork and carpentry for £15-£20 an hour’.

Reader, you know it, he was a builder.

£15-£20 an hour, tax free, above the fucking going rate for skilled craftsmen – or as I like to refer to them, ‘bastards’. £12-fucking-fifty is the going rate to have some half-man half mongoose come into your house, come into my fucking house, walk in there in clodopping spasto-boots ensconced in mud, concrete, shit, spegma, dead slugs, Wehrmacht strength glue, L’Oreal Elvive, and glide across your floors like Torville and Dead – leaving a trail of coloured, chemically burnt in evil fucking industrial action paintings on your Coir matting, or Husk for you Kosovans out there.

Demand tea, tut, frown, scrunch, get all bloody Simean when I’m trying to explain the job to the bastard before I rush off to work (it’s 8.00am). Explain the job, draw a diagram, write it down, tap it in morse on his brow, show coloured pictures at the end of a maze at the end of the lab to the fucker. Press the red button, press the red button.

He did a good job though. Tidy. Nice finish.

So, to conclude, they’re not all bad. Just most of them. 98%. You are more likely statistically to die in a plane crash which involves crocodiles than you are to not get thoroughly fucking in the arse by a builder, in February.

Peace.

 

Dirty Harry

Landscaping is a vital part of any smallholding.

Anabelle and Timothy called ’round for Pims and croquet on the lawn. Well, I say Annabel, it was really builders merchants coming ’round with sand and hollow blocks and then dropping them two fields away from the house. Tonnes of the stuff. The fucking monkey lorry driver then drives over a newly sewn section of field – leaving big trenches.

Trenches so big that I was approached by the local historical society, enquiring if they might re-inact those fateful last days in the Somme, during the second world war, when so many of our young men went over the top to make Brill-creamed target practice for the people who make Audi cars.

I duly told the historical society to go and fuck a scabby dog. At night. Our laws on bestiality in Wales are stringent, bordering on pedantic.

Anyway, builders merchants. Oh, those swines of men who brush builders underneath themselves as they smoothly swim through the shit in the pond of life. Those snakey dumb bastards. I should have realised this earlier.

I should have realised this when I saw the tyres hanging from ropes at their yards. When I slipped on the disguarded banana skins and saw some Japanese tourists photographing them from a thick glass window at the far end of the timber section.

I stand at the till as they pick mites from one anothers backs, forraging eagerly, their dainty hands letting them down in the world of work. Fit only to work the tills. In this uber-non-customer friendly environment they reign, prancing and growling like the Silverbacks they so long to be.

And do they fucking know where anything is in their shops?
Do they know what the fuck they are talking about when they give advice to seasoned professionals?
Do they think a pair of big boots makes them some kind of a man?

I would honestly offer that positive discrimination in favour of women at builders merchants would be a fucking blessing. Okay so women can make shit shop assistants too – but fuck me, they might know where the fuck some of the motherfucking stock is at. They might be able to fucking read, punch buttons in the right order.

And whilst on about buttons – what the fuck is going on with the tills at these places. When every other retail and wholesale outlet on the planet is spending billions to speed up their EPOS systems, their tills, builders merchants seem to be getting longer as time goes by.

The fucking behemoth computer system the fucking chimps tap on, then tap on some more, then some more, then a fifty page printout spews forth. You could complete Oblivion in less time than it takes these motherfuckers to till up four bags of fucking cement.

I can’t even finish the story about the tonnes of blocks and sand getting dumped miles from the house, that motherfucker will have to wait. I’m still trying to work through it in my head.

But then, after that happens, the fucking horse-dentist on his way out of here, fucking has to driver past the fencer. He can’t wait and pull in on the side of my drive like a professional and respectful motherfucker. He has to get all Lara fucking Croft on his ass.

He takes his four wheel motherfucking drive off road, through the same fucking patch as the bastard builders merchant, and further fucking enscar my poor bloody little field. The bastard.

 

Creaky Shuttle

AKA N.A.S.A.

This was an introduction I posted on this ‘Political/Feminist’ newsgroup. The reason I was visiting a ‘Political/Feminist’ newgroup in the first place was to gather research for a book I was co-writing with an Australian pornographer.

Anyway, in the interests of context and shit, I just thought I’d add that. The book (which comprised of the dirty Aussie and me bursting into various bizarre newsgroups and trying to wind everyone up, for comedic effect) unsurprisingly remains unpublished. The Australian cunt event has the bare faced nerve to post comments on here, so watch out for him – he’s an evil carousing shyster bastard. And a pornographer for Christs holy sakes.

Roland Emmerich was the only man that could have directed ‘Independence Day’, likewise only Kubric could have made ‘Clockwork Orange’ and Sellers was the only man capable of pulling off ‘Dr. Strangelove’.

But if they made a movie about my cock, there would be only one team of professionals worthy of helming the massive project – N.A.S.A.

The scale would be enormous. Lucas’s THX sound would not suffice, because the deep thrombing sub-bass level bass deep noises my shlong makes would take a new advance in delivery only a team of approximately
340,000 Harvard trained scientists could muster.

The visuals, of course, would be presented digitally, no finer definition would deliver the full levels of colour and vibrancy expected by an eager public awaiting visual presentation of such a monolithic slice of shaft.

Puny Meg-naplex 3300 screens would have to be significantly rescaled to contain the full breadths of my pulsating member, anomorphic enhancement would be impossible. It would have to be presented in true scale – and this in itself would present a delivery problem on a scale with the virgin birth of Christ.

The narration would call for a voice on the level of James Earl Jones – James could deftly explain the nuances of my cock to a frightened audience, explaining the history of a shaft so significant that it defies the Gausian curve and makes play with prior theories of physics and geography – yes geography!

The news coverage would be global, the premier attended by royalty, presidents and leaders from all nations. There would be visits by beings from other planets – initially questioning the time delay in their satellite transmissions from Earth – but later realising that the problems were due to a tear in the fabric of time from my morning wood.

Box office chaos would bankrupt many smaller countries- causing massive bans and censorship leading to widespread world wars, famine and poverty, as the 3rd world saved up to buy tickets to see my cock on screen.

But, at the end of it all, standing in the smoking ruins of the planet, all peoples would come together in the shadow and feel a sense of pride and hope at winessing one of the miracles of the universe gliding across their skylines. All hail the collosal serpent. The tattoo on it’s monster head reads…

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom… know what is enough until we know what is more than enough.”

William Blake