Archive for the ‘sad songs and dirty stories’ Category

Now that I have your attention…

Glenys has no hair and is thin as a bird. She has a pca that allows her to administer her own morphine at the squeeze of a button.  Oxygen at all times. They’ve cut her voicebox out and every so often a nurse will stick a tube in her tracheostomy and suck  out the fluid before it chokes her.  She has a little digital chalk board, always scribbling: “I’m a tough old bird… don’t you worry about me…” At some point we get talking and she tells me she has a daughter working for a transsexual support group. Two transsexual granddaughters (soon to be grandsons) and a tranny late partner. She tells me that there is a lot of prejudice, and misunderstanding, and that the condition is caused by an extra chromosome, like downs syndrome. She says we all need to be more understanding, open our hearts and love more.  For some reason I expect Abebi to turn her nose up but she’s cool.

We drift into politics. I assume she must be lefty. Then she starts saying Tony Blair was a puppet of Cherie, and the next she’s chalking: “bring back our Maggie…she wouldn’t have had this open door policy to foreigners….” i tell her Margaret thatcher was the most homophobic prime minister of my lifetime. “she was just starting to come around” chalks Glenys. I beg to differ but the next thing the coughing starts  up again and she needs suction once more. Afterwards me and Abebi take her for a tortoise crawl walk around the ward, but it’s hard going, she makes only a few metres, and we don’t get time to talk again.

The next time I see Glenys she’s so weak and confused she can hardly rise from the bed. She throws her stick arms round me and squeezes for all she’s worth, or rather as hard as she can, which is little. Glad to see me. I squeeze back but have to get out of there before I start, heaving or sobbing I’m not sure which. I leave her gently snoring, tongue wedged between her lips, squidged into a mountain of pillows, fluids steadily pumping into her disintegrating body from the calm sentry of the baxter pump.


I skive off and sit on the ward desktop computer, reading about Lord Byron. Yeah, that’s the stuff. I’m going to be just like this guy that I’ve never read.  In fact, I already am.  He likes guys and girls, hates authority, has a receding hairline and a weight problem but still looks kind of pretty. Even if he was born rich and died at the age of thirty odd. Yes, it all makes sense now. I’m not just another poor shmoe struggling to pay the rent, I’m a Bryonic hero- arrogant, shameless, amoral and romantic and ultimately doomed. And I’ve outlived the original by fifteen years and counting.


I don’t know about this thing with the French lady. She’s great. But she clearly wants my heart, and I don’t have one to give. I left it in Booneville. Or maybe  in the elf’s luggage. She unwittingly took it through customs, and it’s rotting in her handbag now, if she didn’t already get peckish and scran it down on her way home to Indy.

Apart from my kid, I’ve got nothing left to give to anyone. I don’t fall in love so easily, and I don’t fall out of love easy neither. And I sure as tits don’t want to be the one to waste someone’s time, using them as my stop-gap or my consolation.  Of course I want to drown once more in lustful love, but you can’t choose who you do that with.

Mum snores on the sofa beside me. Worn out like an old flip-flop. Waiting on a biopsy that don’t look like being good news, at all. Last night we took Rose to see ‘The Nutcracker’ live on screen at ‘home’ cinema. She passed out before the sugar plum fairy turned up-  i bet her stupid damned mother let her stay up late. That or her stupid damn sister.

Rose’s family are jerks. I can’t get over my part-time tamagochi lover from the USA. My Mum’s sick. That’s the news as i see it, and the rest of the world can fuck right off and die. That’s how i see the universe this morning, take it or leave it. I’m sure as hell through with saying things I don’t mean.

The sky’s full of black clouds and I can see a rider coming. Horned beasts pulling his sleigh and a squirming sack of fuck knows what. Laughing deep and long, all blood red robes and folds of fat. At this distance, it’s still impossible to tell.

Father Christmas or the grim frigging reaper?



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“just when you thought you could learn to forget her, right through the door comes a tear-stained letter” (Richard Thompson, ‘tear-stained letter’.)

The elf is stalking me.

She dropped me like a hot shit brick just as i was about to jump on the plane to elf town Told me she didn’t love me anymore. She has some tiny voice in her head tells her what to do, apparently. Well, so does my brother and he hides knives and his bedding stinks of Clozaril. But that’s another story.

So the big lovely holiday with ms sexy elf was not to be. And in the words of Peggy Lee: “I thought I would die. But i didn’t.”

Time went by. I was cheering myself up. Fucking girls, boys…i even found one i could hold a conversation with. She scared me off by demanding a monogamous relationship after i’d known her a week. Maybe we’ll just be friends. I don’t want to mess anyone around.

Then the elf sends me an email confessing she did love me but couldn’t stand the pain. Or something. Then she starts reading this blog, and seems to get mad that i’m not in a monastery. Doesn’t she know you can be balls deep in one woman while your heart breaks for another?

She, who should know all about lousy coping strategies.

Maybe  i write too much about things that don’t matter. Can’t look my real demons in the eye, so i create a false reality, where the stop-gaps and the consolation prizes loom bigger than the heartthrobs. But it’s time to set the record straight. Let the world and his dog know, who it is i loved the most. So, Elf, if you’re listening, this ones for you…


Elf climbs on top of me and starts to work my cock up her arsehole….

(just as i start to write, up pings a note: “i’m not angry…i want you to be happy…but save your garrulous words for someone who can find meaning in them…or maybe for yourself”

They don’t call her the pissy elf for nothing.

Right now words are all we have. If you find them garrulous, dear reader…this ain’t ‘clockwork orange’, no-ones pinning your eyelids open. You can always look away…)

At first i’m kind of scared of the little monster, and not without reason, as we’ve seen…the Elf’s criticism can hit you like a hard blow across the eyes from a wet rope. But the blood surges and i hear myself saying ‘lets do this properly’…and soon enough i have the little freak flipped over and i’m taking her from behind still buzzing from the happy memory of the three other guys i helped do this to her a few days before…and a good time was had, by all.

So yes i bummed her and it was gud. Probably falling in love was a bad idea though.  Should have thought of her as just another cooz, albeit one with an extra juicy arse who cums at the drop of her hat and has wild eyes and crazy lips and isn’t as hard faced as she likes to make out…all of which could also be a description of me, except the cum bit. I take ages.

Hell, even porn stars have feelings, or so i hear. Maybe those who fuck nastiest have the softest hearts, after all. Certainly you get a lot of  buzzy chemicals swarming round your head when you have crazy sex,  enough to push anyone over the edge into sexlove. You set out, full of bad intentions, out to fuck the pain away. Then before you know it, the sex object you’re using without regard for their humanity- is suddenly the apple of your eye who’d you’d gladly burn alive for. Hard luck, sucker. It’s like the lady from Shanghai says: You can run away from your own true nature, but life is long and the world is round, so- you’ll catch back up with it sooner or later.

Reading that back, i fear the naive reader may think the pain the elf was fearing, was from the endless bummery. Far from it, as far as i know. In fact that was the bit that sold her on the deal. No, the pain she couldn’t stand was of the separation, over and over, after a few short weeks of sexy loving bliss. Nothing like a bit of what you’re missing to show you the true horror of your ordinary life. And I should know.

Then again, what does it matter?  Romance, shmomance. Tear down all of the illusions and it’s just yourself stood alone on a landscape straight out of Dante. The denizens of hell are clawing at your ankles, the sky’s ablaze, and time’s many mouths are eating your life, mouthful by tiny mouthful.

There’s stuff to do, Honcho.  Kids to school, Mums to hospital, great works to be wrought from the wreckage of a dying civilization. Any women want to know you, well…they know where to find you, eh?

Now, cry me a river so we can sail our little life raft out of this desert, once and for all.







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What is it with Swingers and white supremacy?

I enter the club and the first thing I’m greeted by is Trump’s wotsit textured fizzog, on a huge screen that dominates the bar. Upstairs you’ll find amusing 70s porno, but the first thing you see is this?! It’s the very thing i was dreading seeing at customs had my doomed visit to the Elf gone ahead- the adorably disingenuous Obama replaced by the transparently vile Don. Transparent to me, anyway…but I trust I’m preaching the choir here,

Anyway, they’re not promoting Donald, just letting ITV play out, some documentary. The face of Alan Greenspan looms up next…I ask the guy at the bar why we’re being bombarded with ‘the Donald’ though, and he says ‘nothing wrong with a bit of trump’ with enough conviction for me to immediately regret handing over my money. Who says such things, even i jest?

Anyway the party is awful, nothing to report. I spend the evening sat shivering in my towel like a Billy no mates, the foil of my condom cutting into my thigh from where it’s optimistically wedged into the fold.  Watch some exhibitionist couple, her giving him head right there on the sofa, no indication they want any company. He’s a sort of miniature neanderthal brad pit, young, massively endowed, she’s older and fatter, huge voluptuous arse spilling out of her corsets. Going down on his huge, rock hard erection., deep throating skillfully before a smooth mechanical fuck. They both look quite bored.

Remember the thrill of those clubs you went to as a youth? I mean ordinary clubs. raves, parties. Everyone clothed, dancing. Generally full of ecstasy in my era, i don’t know what kids do now. There was no viagra or cialis then,  and i don’t think it would have occurred to many people in their 20s that it needed inventing, though they’re selling it by the pill at the bar here…but remember the buzz! The thrill! The air thick with smoke, that terrible music pounding…everything was sex, people snogged like it was going out of style.  I remember being in an absolutely constant state of horn at the time, popping into public toilets to jerk off, always in love or heartbroken, always yearning, and secretly suspecting an orgy was behind every door, shivering with excitement, sometimes uncontrollably so.

Now, this…didn’t Baudrillard say something to the effect, when everything is sex, nothing is? He must have been to swingers clubs. ‘Porn is the death of eroticism’ . I go up to the bar, where the TV is now showing a documentary about ‘Britain First’. Subtitles show some moron on the mike: “Allah is a Paedo!” At least they’ve nailed their colours to the mast- a blatant attempt to connect all Muslims to the worst thing they can come up with. Demagogy one oh one. But the fact that their target audience is morons doesn’t make them less dangerous. Because there are legions of those.

The screen is full of waving union jacks now. “we’re going to string up every paedo in this country from a lamppost” yells the wanker. Lovely image, great idea. Who wouldn’t want a landscape dotted with rotting corpses? I knew the criminal justice system needed reform, and here’s the guy with the answers. And as he’s already made clear, by ‘paedo’ he means ‘Muslim’.

Supposedly those creeps in Rochdale did his propaganda for him, of course. Years of abuse by organised gangs of Asian background,targeting young white girls while the cops turned their back out of ‘cultural sensitivity’. With guys like that around, who needs agents provocateurs?

But i don’t recall Jimmy Saville converting to Islam, Ted Heath neither. Nor Cosby nor Rolf Harris nor…you get my point? It’s all bullshit. And these racist pigs are all probably fucking their kids at home, anyway. Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound, and the world turns and burns wiser and weaker and weirder and worse.

“Can we not have something cheerier on the screen?” i say, this time to the female half of the team. All lipstick and leathers and what’s she doing with that beast? She glances at the screen. The flags wave, the boots stomp. “What’s wrong with this? Seems OK” she says “anyway, i dunno where the control is.”

One more niggling glimpse into a mentality of pointless sex and tiny, vicious brains. Did they have ‘no Asians’ on their profile? Cant recall, but many do. They always claim its an aesthetic taste but of course it’s political. This scene is not the hedonistic, transcendent shangri-la i was searching. In fact, somehow i feel further from that than ever. The Elf was the only one that really understood. And of course it turns out now that she didn’t really understand, at all.

Two days ago i came into this same bar and immediately hit it off with a gorgeous woman, black as a singularity. Witty and smart and privileged, a real nice middle class of African descent. I’d seen her pics online, and that had been enough to get me down there. We got on at once. Me and her and a thick guy went back to her hotel and had some tepid, awkward sex and he left the hotel and left the website. Me and her had breakfast in the executive lounge, looking out over the city, chatted about intelligent shit. Slagged off Netanyahu, spoke of her time in Israel- there on a pilgrimage with her christian mother, she had more rights than a Palestinian but still got the racism. A fascinating situation.

I drove her to the train station. Her train was late and we kissed and touched and later she sent me some nice messages. We could do with more like her on that scene. I’m done with the fascists and the lumpen proletariat, stripped of their legendary sexual fire by a system they don’t understand and shuffling through the motions like Huxley’s Epsilons.

This succulent goddess of a woman has a brain. We didn’t fuck much but I’d like another date. She had depth and possibility and she’d actually read some books.

If I can only persuade her to try anal…

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A year ago the Elf lent me the deposit for my writing weekend which she earned frigging herself for the amusement of a man with a micropeen via webcam.

A year later she’s dropped me like a hot brick and i’m drowing myself between the thighs of a woman i met on exactly that course. Eight years my senior were Pissy Elf was eight years my junior. A hyperactive, Logorrheaic  French lady from a rich family who fled the land of her abusive father to be a scruffy hippy here in blighty. She doesn’t fit my image of dream woman like the Elf- goodbye to the inky bangs, the huge alien eyes, and the deceptively warm and loving smile.

Hello tousled, beaky, boyish older woman. Way more shared reference points and this one even like comic books. And she does tongue-in-ear, so we are more compatiable in one way at least. If we hang out long enough, I might even get to learn another language.

She came up to stay and we spent three whole days in bed. I had such a good time I forgot my heart’s been stamped on and nearly tried to run before I can walk. The endorphins killed the pain but the damage isn’t really fully healed.

News item: Head transplants been postponed again. The patient didn’t want a new body that didn’t walk any better than the one he has. All the other scientists say the surgeon’s mad.  And the creature that survives the operation may be a screaming abomination in permanent agony.

Think i’ll get a sandwich before class resumes for the noon session.

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From the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew I was in trouble…

Hold up. Rewind…or maybe fast forward…

Just got in from work. Here’s how it was.

Jock tosses and groans in his bed like a hung-over sailor. He’s not long for this world, the handover says. End-of life care. They’re not even taking obs on him any more. DNR, DNAR NFR and various other acronyms meaning, don’t try to revive him cos all you’ll do is give him a few more minutes of painful life- break ribs doing chest compressions, drag him away from the tunnel of light and back into his bed for a few more miserable minutes…better to let them slip away with dignity.

He has a sizable clan of family and admirers, including a jocose priest who sounds like a mancunian but is a fully paid up member of the Scottish national party. He wears a rainbow dog collar and has a string of one-liners, all of which point at some kind of scots heritage. Jock is from Glasgow, as are many of his family, and the conversation tends towards celtic fandom, the priest jumping in with lines like “you want to see what a scotsman keeps under his kilt, lift that sheet..but wait until we’ve gone!”

Suzanna tells me she wants to change him and the family are ushered into the dayroom. She’s from Romania, and I’m keen for her to explain to me her claims that Vlad Dracul is in fact a national hero and not the sadistic madman my big book of vampires leads me to believe. But she doesn’t want to talk about Transylvania’s historic battle with the Ottoman empire while changing the patient and its just as well as it turns out. Jock is quiet now, and offers no resistance as we roll him, pull out the filthy and bloody sheet beneath him, slip him into a clean nappy and robe…we’re half way through and he sighs and sticks his tongue out, purple between dark lips, and it occurs to me we may be changing him as he passes from this world.

Quickly we get him into his nightie as his face changes to waxy yellow before our eyes. I’m lousy at finding pulses but I find a faint one…then it disappears. The hissing of the oxygen briefly fools us he’s breathing but in a moment the nurse has pronounced him dead.

Uninvited, a song comes into my head- that silly eighties number. “..I just died in your arms tonight”. In fact I’ve just put the radio on and it’s blasting out some kind of doom laden east European violin music, which gives the proceedings a ghastly air. I quickly turn it off, just in time, for at that moment the family come surging back into the bay. The nurse says “now would be a good time to spend some time with him…” ”Is he sleeping?” says his wife and the ruse crumbles. Its fucking obvious he’s not sleeping. She commences to wailing, throwing her butties across the room and falling as she clambers over the rails to cling to him. Eighty if she’s a day but she sobs like Juliet for Romeo.

Soon the room is full of sobbing Scotsmen and scotsladies. The man with the Korsakovs in the next bed tries to get involved, babbling non sequiters as I flap him away. The family are shown to the dayroom and I’m off to make them all tea. The urn is broken and I have to manually decant it to a flask, pouring scalding tea everywhere and nearly all down myself before I manage to waddle into the dayroom with the magic substance. God knows what other countries do. I guess if you’re American they offer you coffee at a time like this? Which would surely be horrible.

That’s all I can rattle out tonight. I’m exhausted, I can feel illness coming on and I’m up bright and early tomorrow for the writing retreat… And I still have to write the tale of the Elf. This time I know full well the mighty ‘thoughtwat’ will see it. But I still have to dance like no-ones watching.

So without further ado…


From the moment I saw her, I knew I was in trouble.

I spotted her across the airport. Chicago, O’Hare. An unremarkable strip of tarmac to be sure…but I wasn’t there for the landing strip.

I seem to recall her dress was long and red…she was smaller than I’d expected, the way film stars are always are. Of what funny things impressions are made…what exactly was it that made me dig her so? Very black hair. Very strange eyes. I knew all of this already, but here she was in 3-D. Little waist, big bum…sort of a sashaying walk, very self-contained. A sense of a lot of sort of…crazy seethe– within a dinky, petite package.

What was I doing there? Flying all the way to Chicago to meet a total stranger, on the basis of some online chats, a bit of wise cracking and veiled dirty talk…we’d jokingly mooted the idea we would probably have some sort of disappointing sex….but we did the honourable old-fashioned thing and acted like sex was just one possibility on what was in fact to be a meeting of minds. We hugged, she took me to her car, to a hotel, and then…

in no time we’re in bed, then naked…brilliant, scary, I’m not used to girls just taking their clothes off and saying ‘fuck me’…apart from at sex parties of course….in relationships my usual method has been “I’m too damaged from past experiences, could we just cuddle?” I always meant it. And it’s good because it gives one time to find ones groove…and before you know it, all shyness if thrown to the wind…this, however, was instant.

Great kisses and yummy fanny and her body was like it had been scanned straight out of my fondest fantasies… of course I tried to bum her from the get go…she’d never heard of no-lube anal before and was complaining she hadn’t brought lube when I tried it on with spit…we never did use much lube on her arse after that…. followed by a road trip across the us, just like all the ones you’ve read about and seen in the movies…saw Nashville, it was ok…then, Indiana, Booneville…. inside of her little apartment, and had some of the best times of my life….she was more woman than i’d ever had and more man too, if you know what I mean, Bi boys 😉

(That’s it Gene. Keep the tone dirty and cheap. No sense cracking open your heart and letting all that goo pour out. Not yet anyway. Trouble is the old ticker’s already got a hairline fracture, and I’ve got a feeling its gonna give whether you like it or not…you mardy fucking cunt…)

She also turned out to be the crudest and most foul mouthed person I ever met. Finally I could let the tourettes style stream of obsenities out of my head, through my mouth, without fear of censure.

But it wasn’t all butt sex and blow jobs and it wasn’t all vaginal sex and lick jobs either. Because this human being had a brain and a heart and a soul too, goddamn it.

And she was funny, too. Damn it, why did she have to be so muthafuckin’ funny?

There’s a bit in ‘the restaurant at the end of the universe’ where they find the guy who actually runs the universe, living in some little shack on the shore of some desolate beach on some desolate planet…also there’s the recurring theme of ‘meeting with the goddess” in popular fiction, where the protagonist faces an ultimate power, wonderful and terrible at once…

Mix them two together and there’s me: Meeting the bookish and hilarious porn star of my dreams, in some tiny flat in some one-horse town in the arse end of bumfuck USA. The first time I’d ever met someone with as high a sex drive as me… possibly higher. There’s love blossoming in my chest, fear too…I don’t want to like this girl too much…even if she doesn’t eat me alive, she lives on the wrong motherfucking continent…keep telling yourself she’s just another notch on your bedpost, Gene.

Except we fit together like jigsaw pieces, as we slept curled up like a couple of possums. That’s the worst part. I’ve finally found the shape that fitted the hole in my bed. The butt that was meant to nuzzle my belly. The tits that fit my hands.

I met her kids and they were great. I met her family and they were crazy. Her friends were warm and kind to me. We wandered round the little town where she grew up and it put all of the other small towns where my other girlfriends grew up to shame. Nothing there but dust and a Laundromat. But the elf’s house was there and that’s all that matters. If I didn’t have a kid waiting for me back home I would never have left. And maybe I’d be there still…

Got sexed out halfway into the trip and spent some time watching movies. Some weird Russian vampire movie and Chevy Chases European vacation, of all things. In this weird gothic house in Alabama, where her buddy lives and  the ventilation never shut up all night. In new Orleans we visited Marie Lavreau’s house and voodoo and found it full of tourist tat. Next door was Larry Flynt’s hustler store, way more fun. We got a massive dildo she christened ‘Brexit’ (‘cos it’s going to fuck the British) and some of doctor-sexos up-all night pep pills which sure enough put all thoughts of shyness and tiredness straight into the bin…and when all the sex I had to give was given away, I just lay bashfully on my back in the bathtub while she stood over me and jerked herself off like a wonderful lady giant, and all the shower water ran into my ears and I like a fool didn’t care and let it happen and in the end it fucked up my hearing and I was deaf for two weeks.

By the time she dropped me off at the airport she was in tears and tears were in me. (I always picture a mortal wound which tears open my chest and washes away the world when all of my bottled up tears flood out. For on the outside I am stony faced. But oh, oh, oh if you people only knew…)

A few months later she was boarding a plane for England. And shortly thereafter came the adventures which have seared themselves into the hard-wiring of my brain, like some wonderful, pornographic, love-ographic cattle brand.

And a few months after that, all was lost and those self same images were flashing behind my eyelids like malevolent neon, tormenting me in my insomniacs bed while I cursed her and god and the universe and america and anyone else i could think of to blame for fucking it all up so badly. Not me though. I’m blameless. Not me. Never me.

I know you’re going to see this, Elf. And I want you to know that…I mean, I just want to say that…I mean, I really hope you understand…uh…that…um…

Goddamn, Elf. God damn. I swear….

Fuck it.

Some guy just died in my arms and its all to clear to me, tonight- that life is too, too, too fucking short.

But too short for what?

Too short for regret…and too short not to regret. Too short for doubt…and too short to be a prick who doesn’t see he needs doubt to become human. Too short to be hung up on some woman you’ve only spent a few days with….and too short not to be…..

And so even if it is bad writing here’s the semi-autobiographical dope:  even if you don’t want me anymore…I will love you til the day I die…in the grip of some underpaid oversexed support worker just like me…

gory shitty pissy sheets and all.

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From the moment i set eyes on her, i knew i was in trouble…

of course we’d already been in communication for some months. The stream of gags, ideas, dirty talk, cleverly chosen gifs and pictures and other file sharing foolishness…I deleted the whole messenger thread, which is a terrible thing for writer to do…but the first time i set eyes on her real, three-d, fleshly form…well..

I can’t write this right now. Why tear the new flesh from a barely scabbed wound? Life-threatening until mere days ago…be glad the pain has eased to a dull throb, with occasional searing blasts still soaking the bandages scarlet and drawing your lips back from your teeth.

instead, lets do some comparative study. Think back, to the last time I felt this bad. So long ago, now, that I can look at it truly dispassionately, and say “hmm. look at the pain that poor slob was in, over that particular dame…some watery bint, seemed like the centre of the universe back then… fascinating, fascinating…”



Our eyes met, across a riot. Even now, when its all burned away into the distance of time, and the final judgements in, I still recall it as a unique and cinematic moment. We’d been nodding acquaintances for years, and I hardly gave her a thought. But she looked at me in a way that seemed to contain knowledge of future events. Fascination, and it seems now, pure loving lust. I was with someone else. It was 2001, and we were there to protest the evils of the worlds most powerful countries, or something. The G8 summit..the Genova police were getting ready to charge us, and it was over a year before we met again, had our first unremarkable sex, six months until the same non-event…and inbetween, i didn’t think of her at all. And yet by the time three years had passed and i was with Beryl, when we got together for what was to be our third casual, pointless canoodle….we had somehow developed and overwhelming, intoxicating, brain-buggering desire for each other.

She was overweight. She had a funny haircut. Weird slanty eyes, lashes so pale as to be invisible…and yet, flipping heck. Even now, torn up as i am over the Elf and what a lie that all turned out to be…even as images flash into my head, unbidden, of her drooling face contorting in pleasurepain as she fulfilled every fantasy in my great big book; as i bitterly brood, on promises made, and abandoned with such ease;  and on the smiles, and the tears, and the arsefucks, and the cuddles, and the  lies of love she poured from that faithless, inconstant gob and into my gullible, never-learning ears…

Even so, if ol’ Sandrine was to walk in here right now…walk in now with her wobbling-coquettish walk, flash her bashful-dirty smile and immediately begin to explain that the last ten years had been a terrible mistake and it’s of the utmost importance than i lob it out and stand it up and shake it til i spunk in her grateful-adoring face- here, even in  this very library where i type, everyone watching and cheering us on (this is, after all, MY daydream…)then to snog the jizz from that most beautiful wonderful face, and lick up her grateful tears while I’m at it, tongues dancing and hearts entwined like mating snails… Well, I’d say yes. And as the other adult-learners applaud this glorious scene of true romance, I’d sweep her into my arms (even though I AM still in love, with the heartless fucking Elf…) Id whisk her away and marry her at once- and then the fun begins in earnest…once more to waste wonderful days laughing and drinking and eating and fingering and  smacking each others happy faces red. Oh, I wouldn’t mind at all the time thats passed since last time! I’d bite her bum her, spit at her and worship her. Tie her up and offer her holes to many many black guys, weep with joy that miracle of miracles she loves me still.  I’d beg for her forgiveness for all this time wasted, to have and to hold, til death do us part, tits and smile and arsehole and heart…

Yes. I don’t need the Elf at all. So long as I have the last woman that made me feel that way…a decade back, and counting.

Which just goes to show, i suppose, that love is really as simple as locating one of the finite number of people with whom you share sufficient compatibility factors to trigger a mutual hormonal response that causes mutual infatuation.

Plenty more fish in the sea, i guess. Even if the fish you seek, is a rare one….and the granules, of course, are rushing to the bottom of the hourglass.

Yes, I’m a scientific man. I know that consciousness is located in the brain, and that your psychology dictates your internal reactions to events…but when lady love tells you where to stick it and leaves you snivelling in the mud outside of her door, well…

Its your heart that breaks, is it not?

Go ahead and tell yourself its located in your head: even as you clutch the ol’ blood pumper on the left  like it just took a javelin, blood pissing between your fingers as your knees fail and your face turns white and the life-force gushes from your body…

Damn these women. Damn them all to hell for making such a fool of me.


Meanwhile, on the Manchester vascular ward…the cue for the surgeon is growing. I watch men plead for their painful legs to be amputated, and he duly obliges. Somewhere in this building, severed limbs are wheeling t’ward the incinerator, obsolete appendages whose blood supply has failed beyond saving…and they who still long for release from their pointless limbs watch, stoical, as the flesh turns black. Toes snapping off, larvae having failed, eaten away the necrosis but the rot still spread…gangrene, pulling at your flesh.  Where dementia first dismantles your mind, this beast takes your body, by installments. Dying a piece at a time.

“Hey, Doc. Post these parts of me to the great hereafter will ya? I’ll pick them up when I get there. ”

The afterlife will be a blast, I’m sure. I just hope the almighty is good at jigsaw puzzles. ‘cos he’s really got his work cut out, piecing everybody back together.


It has come to my attention that some readers have perceived in the above story,  the hand of some sort of obnoxious self absorbed misogynist. To these readers, I can say only that the fault must be with my writing. I had intended to create an unreliable narrator, whose crude broadsides at a series of women- first idealised, then hated- would paint a picture of a man so heartbroken and lost that he has fallen back on these dumb swipes. It seems, alas, that while our hero cannot fool himself, he has fooled others- for of course, ‘Gene’ knows only too well where the fault really lies.

No matter. I’ll let the story stand. Let Gene Even-Wilder rage and rant against his lost loves, for now. I’m sure all will come clear in future installments.



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Weeks since the bomb and the sirens still haven’t let up. What’s going on? They must have arrested every Muslim person in Manchester twice by now. And still they’re saying hey, think it was a lone wolf anyway.

In other news

I’m in some kind of sexual frenzy right now. All by myself, you understand…in fact the thought of a Woman is kind of scary right now…but Madam Palme and her five daughters are having a wild old time with their insatiable lover man.

So now you’re feeling life is too short to read a blog about a guy jacking off a lot…but i just wanted to give you some context. The love and passion bottled up right here is like a nuclear power station approaching meltdown…four times a day seems a lot of frustration to relieve to me… and now the Elf has told me the U.S passport office have fucked up her kids passport app…so looks like I’m alone for even longer than i thought.

I’m thinking of taking my lonely ass to a gangbang on saturday…i know by now it will probably be weird and disturbing and disappointing. And even if the women are gorgeous and hey even if most of the men are too…it still isn’t really what i want. I want a brutal gang fuck with someone i love! That’s where i’m up to right now. I want what i hd with the elf, last time. Looking into the eyes of my darling while some other hunky shmoe takes her asshole. Let someone else be the fuck toy. I don’t want to be the toy for some other happy couple.

I know where I’m up to and what i want. I just don’t know how to get it.

In other news:

I got to meet a victim of the bomb. Injured, lost someone. Stitches swirling across their limbs, shrapnel wounds all over their body. Inoperable shrapnel inside to stay. Bereaved. My Mum’s hip replacement sure is put into perspective. And i get to do my bit to help the victims of the atrocity, bringing the bed pans and the urine bottles, and cracking the odd corny joke.

But lets keep it real. I didn’t spend the whole shift biting my wobbly bottom lip. I spent it frenziedly flirting with the amazing support worker on the next bay, finding any excuse to sneak out of my own section and ask for her help. Watch her arse shake when she walks away, turquoise knickers visible through her uniform. Laugh at her jokes, because she is funny. Also loud and daft and way too young for me. Would I know what to do with her if i somehow got my clutching mitts on her? Only one way to know. My stomach swirls and my uniform is sticking to my body as ask her out to the pub, casually as i can. Her and her Muslim co-worker, so that’s gonna be right convincing: “Hey, ladies, why don’t we all go to the pub now our shift has finished?”

“The pub? Now?! No way!” she yells merrily. “I’ll take that as a no then!” i sing back.

She has just done the long day, so who can blame her…maybe i should have tried harder? I hang around outside, thinking i might catch he eye and win her over…but i’m fumbling with my bike lock as the two walk laughing by, unseeing on their way to the bus stop…or somewhere. They disappear behind some buildings and the moment is gone.  At this point i still think the elf is on her way and i’m running ahead of myself: it’s probably for the best. She’d have fallen madly in love with me…we’d be having passionate anal sex all night every night and the elf’s heart would be broken…we’d try a threesome but there’s be conflict, i’d be forced to choose, it would be like being thirty five again, in all the worst ways.

Yes, its for the best we didn’t have a drink together, me and sexy ginge. She’d have wanted kids, i’d ruin both out lives…better i sweat my lonely arse back to the flat for another half crazed  hand shandy.

Sun blazes down sirens scream and somewhere in England a demented divorcee is aiming a van at a throng of innocent people…again…and I’m off home to lie in my bed and dream of impossible women and make more laundry for myself.

Which come to think of it is a lot more than my patient can do-what with their hands all wrapped up and full of metal and all.

Grateful for small mercies, innit?







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