tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13991863106023635552024-03-13T20:54:57.102+00:00weird cuntfreakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.comBlogger123125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-73300905527494755822013-01-17T17:09:00.000+00:002013-01-17T17:15:39.690+00:00Train Station<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span lang="EN-US">…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">(Laughing) “What are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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***</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The grinning guard looks up at the National
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">‘Did he just have a minor stroke?’ The
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voluptuous woman with big lips on platform nine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“There’s a bluddy dog on the platform,” This
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">He decides not to act on it because,
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ride on the wagon,’ he’s actually quite shy around women that he finds
attractive. If he had a therapist he would know that his penchant for fat birds
was nothing to be ashamed of but in this version of reality he remains love-struck
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***</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“Why are you looking at me like that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“EXCUSE ME, why are you looking at me like
that!?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I don’t think you should use this train
station anymore miss”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“What on earth are you talking about?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">“I…I…I just don’t think you should come
around here anymore”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“I’ll come where ever I want thank you very
much”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You can’t do that with dogs”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Do what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Are they not allowed on trains?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Well no they’re not, but that’s beside the
point, you can’t use this station anymore miss. You have to leave.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“Make me”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“You don’t even have any socks on you
foolish man”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The National Rail officer feels his cheeks
burn up like Guy Fawkes and notices that the Amazon River has begun flowing
down the arc of his spine. His eyes flood with dread and he turns around to run.
‘Where am I going?’ He does not know. ‘How stupid do I look?’ ‘Will I ever work
here again?’ I do not know. The only thing he knows is that one of his shoes
has fallen off and his heel is dredged in sludge. Probably dog-shit. Horny
dog-shit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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***</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">“That’s the guy from earlier. Fuckin’ ‘ell
what’s wrong with him!?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The security guard zips up his flies and
ambles down towards the platform. He is very nervous about the prospect of
meeting the curvy women with big lips. Nervous to the point of forgetting why
he is descending into the dangerous world of the ‘camera-zone’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I don’t even have to talk to her. I can
just watch her.’ He thinks as he sits back down in his swivel chair and spins
around the full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees. He frames the camera with lusty precision and
looks down at the tent forming in his jeans. One more spin. Just for luck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
**</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s a sunny day in Brussels and the National
Rail officer has been absent without leave for a month. He is sitting outside a
café in Brussels, sipping milky tea, reading the paper, about to embark on a
tour of the European Parliament. Bliss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s a dull day in Derbyshire and the
security guard is standing in WH Smith holding a magazine called ‘BEST OF
BESTIALITY’ with the headline ‘CANINE LINGUS”. With eyes like a pill-head the
ex-CCTV officer, sacked for negligence, looks upon the glossy cover in awe at
the chubby woman and her pooch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s a sunny day, it’s a dull day, it’s an
overcast day, and it’s a stormy day. It’s everyday. The carnal woman has been immortalised
in print, forever basking in the glory of her fleshly desires. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-81931958021218763362013-01-16T19:22:00.003+00:002013-01-16T19:22:39.164+00:00The Cool Guy and the Fosters Guy
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<span lang="EN-US">I heard about the abandoned theme park from
a couple of Australian ‘dudes’. At first glance they seemed like carbon copies
of the guys from the Fosters adverts, but on closer inspection it became clear
that only one of them deserved that pejorative judgment. Ignoring the ‘LAD’ as
he repeatedly tried to flick a card down an Austrian girl’s top, I spoke with
the cool guy about the Nazi’s. I had just got back from the Topography of
Terror, which as the name suggests is a visual and textual exhibition mapping Hitler’s
rise through 1930-1945. He had visited a real life concentration camp that day
so, although we were in sync, he was very much ‘winning’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Amid a backdrop of: impromptu fridge art,
shisha pipes, people using beer bottles as water pistols, accusations of false
identity, oversized foam dice games, constant camera flashing, potatoes being
thrown at people on the street, Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, prescription pills,
and good old Aussie lechery, the cool guy told me about his visit – harrowing,
mind-blowing, “must-see” etc. – and I told him about mine – disturbing,
interesting, “worth a visit” etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Keen to avoid his pal – who at the time was
scrunching his face up like a bulldog to pose for a photo with two blonde girls
– the cool guy mentioned some other places that he thought were worth checking
out. The TV tower is the tallest building in Berlin and it affords you a
panoramic view of the insomniac city with characteristically affordable beer.
The Brandenburg Gate is a big sightseeing place that didn’t excite me that
much. And the abandoned theme park sounded lush.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">He described a ghost town, but unlike the
conventional image of cowboy saloons and empty bars, he painted me a picture of
humungous ferris wheels, dodgem cars and rollercoasters, guarded by German
gypsies, hidden within one of Berlin’s city parks. “The best thing about the
place is the way its just been left there to rot. If there wasn’t so much
birdshit about the place, you could probably get the rides going; everything’s
in the right place still.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I had read about somewhere like this in
North Korea and was just about to tell the cool guy when the lairy fella
stumbled over and started barking loudly in my ear about how many beers he
downed through a funnel when he was at the theme park. He rolled his jeans up
and showed me a graze on his left shin from where he had tripped over a piece
of rusty train track. I wondered if his wound was capable of becoming infected
as he rambled on at me. Later that night he got kicked out of a nightclub for throwing
up on a DJ. The bouncers are built like oxes, but they are not used to that
kind of thing and it was pretty funny to see them attempt to drag the drunkard
outside. They tried their best not to scrape him against the floor, but for
some reason he went limp and allowed his, already-damaged, leg to trail behind him;
an act of defiance that with any luck could have led to an amputation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I never saw him or his cool mate again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The next day I set out for the abandoned
theme park with a half-Russian/half-Algerian blonde gay stripper, a short Hispanic
football-fanatic American, and two miscellaneous mute Turks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-41740002159170969032012-12-01T17:27:00.002+00:002012-12-01T17:27:13.169+00:00Riga
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<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Hire a bicycle and sample the city for
yourself… Dare to shop in the Russian Black Market… Marvel at Stalin’s Birthday
Cake… Navigate the labyrinth of cobbled streets… Catch a train to the seaside…
Ride the lift 48 floors to see the city from the eye in the sky… You will never
forget Riga.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">These short and sharp fifty-four words sold me a
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Latvia struck me as somewhere that somebody like me would like to go. It’s in
Eastern Europe, it’s not famous for binge drinking Brits and it has a history
of Soviet and Nazi occupation – my two favourite megalomanic movements in
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I had been saving my wages up for a couple of
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have a girlfriend. My mother even cooked me an ample supper every night at
eight - so there was no real need to eat out either. The only time I spent any
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">The Arcade was empty so I called Jamie over to
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Hey mate I wouldn’t play on that if I
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Why has somebody just won off it?’ I
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">He was right I could lose my job if I was caught
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enough change for a few spins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; tab-stops: 112.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘I’ll risk it,’ I said coolly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 112.0pt; text-indent: 28.9pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Yeah ‘cos that’s what you are… <i>a risk taker</i>!’ He was laughing like an
idiot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; tab-stops: 112.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘You’re putting me off,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; tab-stops: 112.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘You’re just pressing buttons, there’s
no skill involved its just luck,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 112.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">My last credit ran out and I was seriously
thinking about withholding Riga from him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; tab-stops: 112.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘I’ve been considering what you said
Jamie,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; tab-stops: 112.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘About you buying a prostitute?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; tab-stops: 112.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘No of course not. About going away on
holiday,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; tab-stops: 112.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Oh yeah?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 112.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Yeah and I’m actually quite excited
about it. I’ve been looking at fights to Riga and they are very affordable,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: 112.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Not really what I had in mind, but
I’m game – Russian girls are hot and young and easy – there must be loads of
them there just waiting for you and me,’ he nudged me in the arm and winked as
if this was a funny joke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; tab-stops: 112.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘You’re game? You want to come with
me?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Well yeah, its not really a holiday
if you go on your own is it. And they have cheap beer over there. One of our
English pounds is worth a Ford Mondeo, and a tenner gets you a mansion with
slaves,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Are you just describing that,
grossly, misleading scene in the film Eurotrip where they visit Bratislava and
imply that the whole of Eastern Europe is a litter-strewn hell-hole?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">He didn’t answer me, but just walked away laughing and shaking his
head, as if <i>I</i> was the stupid one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I booked our tickets and spent the following few weeks re-reading
‘Stalin’s Legacy’ in ‘The Penguin History of the Twentieth Century’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">It seemed that Jamie had other ideas about the trip. He was
hell-bent on ruining my cultural experience; he wanted to get drunk every night
we were there and ‘mix with the locals’. I knew what he meant by ‘mixing’ and I
didn’t approve. I planned to look and learn from the country, but all from a
safe distance. A safe distance that didn’t involve the confusion of inebriation
or the awkwardness of nakedness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">The night of our flight Jamie sent me a link to a website about
Riga:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Hey
Petey-Boy check this out – www.horrorstories/riga.com - if we’re lucky we’ll
meet a couple of blonde bombshells ourselves!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">The website had a story from an aggrieved Englishman who had just
returned from Riga. He declared that a friend and he were seduced by two
stunning Latvian girls – ‘blonde, tan and leggy’ – who offered them sex, took
them to a bar, and then called upon four Russian Mafioso’s to beat them up and
steal their wallets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">There was another story about a Welshwoman, who was accosted in the
street by an angry mob who, she claims, mistook her for Monica Lewinsky. They
chanted ‘CIGAR GIRL, CIGAR GIRL’ and took her to a tobacco stand before giving
her scarring burns all over her arms and legs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Another person told of a harrowing trip to Riga that resulted in an
illegal organ transplant leaving him with a deficient left kidney and a fear of
all mustached men in aprons. He couldn’t face French restaurants anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I was mortified by these revelations, and the dozens of others like
them. They instilled a profound fear within me that threatened to ruin my trip.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">We arrived in Riga at ten in the morning local time. Jamie slept
during our one-hour taxi drive from the airport to the hostel whilst I surveyed
the new landscape for dangers. Every person that we passed on the street seemed
dangerous, they eyed me with fear and envy as if I had done each of them a
personal wrong. Every building looked as if it was harboring a secret Soviet
crime syndicate; the jagged mismatching architecture that I had originally
fallen in love with on Google Images had become the signifier of unfamiliarity
and deceit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">The streets were long and straight and even from within the taxi I
could feel the chilling tingle of the Baltic wind as it surged through me. The
taxi driver seemed friendly enough but he kept on trying to speak to me about
Latvia, he pointed out all the historic monuments as we passed. I recognized
some of them from the travel guide and some of them were new to me but I
couldn’t concentrate on anything apart from his aggressive accent and
disconcerting twitchy eyes, as he turned to address me grinning wildly each
time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">When we got to our room in the hostel I began unpacking my folded
clothes into the drawers provided while Jamie shouted ‘Get ya hole out’ to the
potential evil seductresses on the street below us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Will you stop that please Jamie, I
don’t want any of those Russian girls knowing that we’re here,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Oh come off it mate. I’m single and <i>obviously</i> you’re single, so lets get
some dirt-cheap booze down us and do what all normal people do on holiday and
have a good time. Boys will be boys remember!’ I hate it when he uses idiotic
clichés to try and persuade me to do idiotic things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘But girls will be girls Jamie, and
here in Latvia that probably means that they will take you to the butchers to
get your testicles cut off and sold on the black market as Armenian soup,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘God where’s your sense of adventure.
I’m bored of the room now, lets go and find a restaurant, I feel like a ten
course meal – maybe roasted hog or heart of lion and sautéed caviar,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘For one that would be disgusting and
secondly-’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘-Oh don’t even bother ruining
something else for me. Lets just go and do whatever it is that you want to do.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I wanted to emulate the dreamy paragraph that first inspired me to
visit Riga. So we started by going on a bike ride. We hired two peculiar
looking bikes and to Jamie’s delight his one had a bell and mine didn’t. Every
time he overtook me he smiled like an imbecile and rang the bell repeatedly,
this was bearable until about thirty minutes into the journey when both of my
legs cramped up and he was stupid enough to carry on going as I stopped to
stretch out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I was in the middle of a city park, sitting on a bench overlooking a
small pond that was populated by mallards. My forehead was sweaty and my
trousers had ripped at the bottom from getting caught in the chain so many
times. This wasn’t playing out like it had in my mind. I realized that Jamie
was long gone and probably sitting on a park bench himself: telling a young
Latvian girl how he was the Prince of Wales or something. I decided to try and
find my way back to the bike shop via the freedom monument, without Jamie and
his juvenility I could try and take in some of the cultural magnificence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">As I approached the plaza I saw two men in army uniform walking
towards me with rifles in each arm. I tried to swerve out of their way, I
thought they were going to shoot me and ended up crashing into an elderly man
with small metal badges all over his bomber jacket. He shouted and spat at me
in Latvian, but my mind was frozen with fear and I couldn’t get any words out.
He got up and walked away in disgust. From my vulnerable position on the ground
I saw the two men with guns walk from one side of the plaza to the other, just
as Wikipedia said they would: they were the Guards of Honor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I spent the night recovering in the room with a complimentary ‘Zelta’
beer that was given to me by the over-friendly hostel barman, in an attempt to
get me to join in the karaoke. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">The next morning I was surprised to find myself alone in the dorm. I
hadn’t seen Jamie since he sped away from me in the park – maybe he had found a
Russian girl? I felt strangely smug as I imagined him walking through the door
and breaking down into tears, admitting that I was right to be cautious and
apologizing for being so dismissive before. This bubble of righteousness was
broken though as he busted in with a big grin on his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘My oh my! Look what the cat dragged
in,’ he said gleefully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Don’t talk about yourself in the
third-person Jamie, its crass and its, its ostentatious,’ I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Guess who got some poontang last
night?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘I don’t know, Johnny Depp?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘No you buffoon it was me. I met this
girl called Shell on my bike ride, we were both stood in this big open square
laughing at two army men walking back and forward in front of a big phallic
statue,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘The memorial statue!’ I didn’t
mention my altercation there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Yeah that’s it, I asked her if she
was going to ‘remember any more statues’ from her stay in Riga,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Oh, spare me the sordid details and
tell me she wasn’t Russian,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Nah, she was an Aussie,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Well that’s something,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Oh stop acting like you’re not
jealous.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I persuaded Jamie to come with me by foot to explore the <i>labyrinth of cobbled streets</i> with the
aim of finding Stalin’s Birthday cake. But this romantic notion of rambling
around the quaint avenues and alleyways, appreciating the historical relevance
of the city was ruined by Jamie’s impatience and inelegance. He wanted to drink
at every bar we walked past and eat at every restaurant without any thought for
our safety.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Nobody mugs you in the day, that
would be wrong, that would be like… daylight robbery,’ he said not knowing how
stupid he sounded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘We’re in the Russian quarter now
Jamie, and I don’t think the Russians care what time of day it is.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Jamie wasn’t the only thing detracting from my experience though;
the sporadic street signs were very unhelpful and didn’t correspond with my
travel map, I couldn’t ask anybody for help because that would give me away as
a tourist and leave me vulnerable to potential Mafioso’s. Instead, we trudged
along the mazy streets arguing about who would get the window seat on the way
home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">That night as I lay in bed waiting for Jamie to come home drunk, I
thought of how Jamie had ruined each day for me so far, ruined each potentially
enlightening experience with his whimsical ways. Resentment grew inside me, to
the point that when he came in and attempted to boast about his near-death
encounter with a bouncer, I managed to blank him out completely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">In the morning Jamie was surprisingly amiable and even stole me a
croissant from the communal fridge in the hostel kitchen, I didn’t approve of
theft but I appreciated the gesture all the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Together we set off for the Russian black market; Jamie was as
excited as I was frightened, but I kept on telling myself that if the travel
site recommended it then it had to be safe. We found the market surprisingly
easily and decided to enter. It looked like any other outdoor market I had been
to with stalls of goods and little paper price tags; the difference was that
everything on sale was clearly stolen. There were single car stereo speakers,
half scart leads, muddy garden spades and pitchforks, old leather jackets,
tubes of Colgate toothpaste, scrap pieces of metal, car number plates, oily
spanners and wrenches, mobile phones and even counterfeit Britney Spears CD’s.
The people stood behind each stall looked fierce and evasive, the majority of
them had high and prominent cheekbones that made their eyes look sharp and
sour. Jamie was looking at some Soviet metal badges, like the ones I had seen
at the Freedom Monument, he looked to be communicating affably until he got his
camera out and took a picture of the stall-keeper. This triggered an outburst
of horribly aggressive shouting. I felt a bead of sweat run down my armpit.
Jamie came over in fits of laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Did you see that? He’s obviously not
very snappy-happy hey?’ He said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Yes I did see, and I think we should
leave, look Jamie, he’s pointing at us to his mate. We’d best leave, that one
over there has a sharp garden cultivator in his hand and I’m not about to find
out why,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Oh come on he’s probably trying to
sell us a bargain.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">At that moment a secondary wave of sweat spread all over my back and
forehead, I could feel my heart beating faster and faster as the harsh foreign
chatter surrounding me blended into one evil chant of malevolent design.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I ran straight out of the gate, pushing my way through crowds of
mothers and children jumping over greying beggars and knocking over their
diminutive change pots in the process. I didn’t stop running until I reached
the hostel. I wasn’t going at such a pace by the end but still, I was jumping
between steps and struggling enough to alarm anybody who saw me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">About an hour later Jamie came home with a Soviet military map of
Riga that he called a ‘memento’ of when I ‘lost the plot and went AWOL’. I
planned to steal this memento of his and put it up in front of my computer
desk. It was too late to go to the beach so the only other option was to find
the <i>eye in the sky</i>. I hoped the city
would seem more safe and satisfying from a hundred metres high but when we got
to the hotel, the lift had a sign across its door reading: ‘OUT OF ORDER’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">Jamie wanted me to run up the forty-eight flights of stairs with him
but I still wasn’t recovered from the run earlier so unfortunately I had to
decline. I went to the Hotel’s casino instead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">A strange sensation rushed through my body as I walked into the
casino. I marveled at the slot machines, the craps table and the roulette
wheel. A neatly dressed porter with a reassuringly good English accent took my
coat and hung it up in a locker. I changed up some cash for chips – about a
hundred pounds worth – and started on the slots as a warm up. The bright
flashing lights and primary colours seduced me like a toddler in a toyshop. I
became accustomed to the ‘bring, bring, bring’ of the reels spinning-in exotic
and inventive symbols, symbols that exponentially outclassed those of the
machines I work on at Harrisons Amusements. I found myself about fifty quid up,
if my calculations were correct, and moved on to the blackjack table. I admired
the professionalism and accuracy of the dealer as he dealt me blackjack six
times over half an hour. I was beginning to make some serious money here. I
noticed my face in the reflection from the silver table lining and to my
surprise I was profusely smiling. A waiter approached me with a cocktail of
some kind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Compliments of the house sir.’ He
uttered coolly as he handed me the glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I drank the cocktail and it tasted sweet like the nectar earned by a
hardworking bee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I started placing bigger and bigger bets and they handed me bigger
and bigger cocktails. For the first time in my life I felt like I belonged
somewhere, like I was wanted. I moved between craps, baccarat and poker, slowly
building up more and more money – I was on the up like the Soviet Union under
Stalin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I felt wonderful, I was in Riga and it was wonderful. A slim blonde
girl with a lot of makeup sat next to me at the roulette table. She put her
chips onto the same spaces as mine three spins in a row, and on the third spin
she clinked her glass against mine since ‘red seven’ came in and we had both
won a lot of money. I didn’t place any chips down for the next spin but she
pointedly leaned over me, rubbing her breasts against my side, to place one
chip on ‘black two’. As she did this I could see her black thong rising above
her tight jeans and for the first time in my life I thought to myself ‘what
would Jamie do?’ – Jamie would probably grope her ass and ask her to go to the
toilet for a quickie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Do you want to cash in some of those
chips and take me for a drink at the bar?’ She asked in an incredibly sexy
Eastern European accent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Champagne and blueberries?’ I replied
flirtatiously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘No. Balsam!’ She insisted and led me
away from the table by my hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Champagne and blueberries – I’ve never had champagne and
blueberries in my life – where the hell did that come from.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">She took me to a private bar in the back and opened a bottle of
Balsam. I remembered this drink from a travel site that described it as a
‘creosote-like potion’ so I knew I was in for a rough ride. She poured me a
handful of shots and urged me to down them one-by-one. The bitter spirit caused
my mind to start playing tricks on me. My vision was blurry and the room was whirling
like a spinning top finally losing its balance and toppling over. I thought I
could see four enormous guys in tailored suits enter the room and walk towards
me. I thought I could feel them reach into my pocket and extract my wallet. I
thought I could see the blonde girl give them the cash from my casino chips and
laugh as they handed me a hand-written bill of two thousand Lats. I thought I
was writing down my pin number and account details as one of the guys held a
baseball bat to my head. I thought I felt an earthquake in my skull before…
nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">I woke up in the street with a searing headache and the taste of
iron in my gums. Jamie was bent over me gently clapping at my cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Are you alright man? I mean, you
don’t look alright and your wallet and keys have gone, but are you… okay?’ He
asked me sounding genuinely concerned. ‘I guess you were right about being
cautious,’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘Hate… to… say… it… Jamie… but… I told
you so.’ I mumbled before falling back to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-34499308794849386302012-11-17T02:53:00.001+00:002012-11-17T02:53:50.481+00:00Berlin: Day Two
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<br />
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<u><span lang="EN-US">Day Two</span></u><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You imagine an intricate tale of romantic
youth,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Star-crossed excitement, whilst your peers
are stunned,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Lapping up each and every stolen moment of
bliss,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Swaying and stumbling to the blood-red
beat,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Nothing seems to matter, although<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It really, really does.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Whoredom and artistry will no longer take
place,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Ideological clouds are forming,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Momentum is building; the concrete
buildings can feel it,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The night is an odyssey, although<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For some it is less epic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Memory deceives those who fought for themselves,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But the truth will persist in those who
thought and withheld,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Wine stained lips, drunk on the blood of
The Other,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Their money, their power, but never their
brother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The rebel and the girl with no sense of
decorum,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Out of control, dangerous, but never
suffering from boredom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Take a bow modern man, and empathise
without fear,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Because underneath it all you yearn for a
day in the life, a taste of the year,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When everything changed and life was real,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Not rehashed, and regurgitated, and already
peeled,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Nineteen, Thirty-Nine; which juncture will
you choose,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">To mark your make, or let it hang loose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A city can re-emerge from rubble and wreck,
although<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A person cannot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-80513403299915259062012-11-17T01:56:00.000+00:002012-11-17T01:56:59.369+00:00Berlin: Day One
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<u><span lang="EN-US">Day One<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You know how it is with trains and buses
and waiting at the airport. And then you get on for your 95-minute flight and
the air is dry like the inside of an aerosol can – maybe lynx, maybe imperial
leather. If you say ‘aerosol’ with an accent you probably sound like an
asshole.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">On the flight you have to put up with
somebody sitting near you, reading and breathing, wearing glasses and leaving
just one seat between the two of you, even though the flight is two people
under capacity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">To top things off you are so tired from
your punctual 25-mile journey to the airport this morning that when the vessels
touches down on German soil you are pissed because you’re still sleepy and need
another twenty minutes or so to wake up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The toilet at the airport is inadequate at
best. There is only one urinal and everybody needs a piss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Although the S-bahn service is both
efficient and comprehensive, you find the prospect of paying for it abhorrent.
“This is supposed to be the capital city of Europe’s most resilient economy,”
you think to yourself as you gaze upon stacks of sheds with graffiti and
juvenile pink tubes carrying gas and electricity. The water is glorious like
the Thames, yet the river Spree is less famous and this makes you feel proud to
be British. Most of the ‘street art’ is English, and this also tightens the
muscles in your lower abdomen and neck to improve your posture and sense of
self.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">After taking another train, this time
titled ‘U-bahn’ – what’s the difference? – you are pretty close to the destination
but the dastardly directions have sold you short. Undeterred, you persevere and
as you see the disgraceful doorway, rendered pink and blue with cheap crayons
and unskilled spray-paint scribblings, you sigh an audible expression of
disgust before announcing for no apparent reason: “HONEY I’M HOME.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US">****<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The remainder of the evening is spent
toking on a spliff of business, adjusting your eardrums to understand the
garish commonwealth, and diluted hummous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-12310760222180977872011-10-29T02:09:00.002+01:002011-10-29T02:20:09.146+01:00Many Mosaics<div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; ">Compare an atom with an orange,</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Consider a river of cargo,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Suspend a thimble in your thoughts,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Eat a mouse's sugary tail,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Lose the last digit,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><i>Participate, precipitate.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Absolve your feathery anxieties,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Sharpen the leopard's skin,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Ignore trigonometry,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>The cracking of a quail egg,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Re-route magnetic fields,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><i>Lennon's leniency.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Lost in mace,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Decipher your hoof,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Crackling cider and the river Mersey,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Glaring lily pads threaten,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Acne, TNT and a red shed,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><i>Saline saturates.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Spiralling mutilated beetle legs,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Memory, rust, lantern,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Rhythmic ache,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Sparkle delight,</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Listless onion pur</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 20px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >é</span></b></span><b style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; ">e,</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><i>Many mosaics.</i></b></span></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-22524099129196504012011-05-23T14:02:00.001+01:002011-05-23T14:05:00.389+01:00Take It With A Pinch Of Salt<span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I was sat in an American diner, chomping down some French Fries that tasted somewhat tasteless, when I realised that you have to take everything with a pinch of salt.<br /><br />The waitress was elegantly poised as she explained to me how the ‘moist’ and ‘unrefined’ qualities of the prestigious Grey Salt she was about to give to me would guarantee an enjoyable end to my stay at the B&B. I fingered the salt curiously, before clenching a small clump in my hand and spreading it over the plate of food.<br /><br />When the waitress left, with a gleeful expression beaming from her high cheekbones, I began to think about the article that had kept me awake the previous night. It told me that I had just over a year left to live, that the world was coming to an abrupt ending on December 21st 2012. I spent the entire journey home researching the cosmic phenomenon on my iPhone.<br /><br />I learnt that 21st December 2012 is the end date of a 5,125 year-long cycle in the Mesoamerican long count calendar, a dating system used by the ancient Mayans. This date is believed to mark a transition within humanity as a whole: a physical or spiritual transformation: a shift in global consciousness that could lead to a more enlightened presence on earth for the human population.<br /><br />One new-age writer, Daniel Pinchbeck, claims in his book 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl, that ‘materialism and the rational, empirical worldview that comes with it has reached its expiration date,’ he suggests that these pragmatic traits will be replaced by more ‘intuitive, mystical and shamanic,’ qualities. And to a certain extent, I’ve come to agree with him.<br /><br />I spent a few weeks investigating the myriad of theories surrounding 2012, whilst munching away at bags and bags of salt’n’shake potato crisps. I found myself baffled by the complete lack of rationality, logic, and empiricism that dominated the discourse. I read a series of theories that, quite comprehensively, lined the spectrum of lunacy.<br /><br />At first my exploration only led me to mild conjectures. Apparently a powerful ‘solar maximum’ would take place in 2012 and the excessive heat as our orbit brought us closer to the sun would cause the surface of the earth to melt, thus signalling the end of humanity.<br /><br />This seemed viable to me, of course if we were closer to the sun the heat would be greater and if the change was drastic then the implications for us could be horrific. I phoned up my parents, my friends, and even my ex-girlfriends to tell them about my dangerous discovery. I was thoroughly distressed. Most of them seemed strangely apathetic to my warnings, with only my Uncle Gary even making the effort to ask me how I knew all of this. He told me to phone him back when I could verify the catastrophe with scientific knowledge.<br /><br />However no such phone call was made. I learned from the U.S National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration that the 2012 solar maximum is predicted to be ‘below-average’ in terms of irradiation, the weakest since 1928, and that it could even occur after December 21st and in fact take place in the spring of 2013.<br /><br />After this scare I found myself craving cured meats and smoked cheeses as I carried on my study of the year 2012.<br />The next theory I looked into suggested that some kind of planetary alignment will create a combined gravitational effect between the Sun and a supermassive black hole in the middle of our galaxy, called Sagittarius A*. However I don’t think the author of this theory, Lauren Mora, will have gotten too many A* grades in Science at school seeing as the black hole she talks of is 30,000 light years away form earth and would have to be 6 million times closer to our solar system to have any gravitational effect, according to professors at the University of California.<br /><br />I thought I was growing accustomed to the scaremongering and inaccuracies of the apocalyptic theories after systematically ruling out the chances of solar storms, magnetic pole reversals, earthquakes, supervolcanoes and photon belts by doing a bit of scientific reading behind the ideas. I felt like my capacity to be shocked had been saturated like salt in brine. That was until I discovered some of the more outlandish theories.<br /><br />I was casually sipping on a glass of margarita when I came across a theory that shocked me into spitting out a mouthful all over the computer screen. As I wiped away the gritty green liquid I read about how a computer program called the Web Bot has predicted that a cataclysmic event will devastate the planet in 2012. The program, that is created by Clif High and George Ure, who call themselves ‘The Time Monks’, analyses ‘Internet chatter’ and shifts in ‘emotional tension’ to generate predictive reports of the future. It was not the idea of the end of the world that shocked me—I had just read a handful of apocalyptic predictions— but the ejection of my margarita was fuelled solely by my incredulity at the thought of such an idea receiving any kind of scientific credence.<br /><br />I began to worry about the state of the world. A world where data on the Internet was being used to sell people bogus predictions of the future. It seemed like maybe Daniel Pinchbeck’s proposition was coming true, that rationality and empiricism were being replaced by mysticism and occultism. I relined my glass with an extra thick helping of crunchy sea salt as I contemplated a future where such absurdities were heralded as truth.<br /><br />Another bizarre proposal that knocked me for six is Nancy Lieder’s story of how she was contacted by grey extraterrestrials called ‘Zetas’ in her childhood. She supposes that these alien beings implanted a communications device in her brain to contact her from the Zeta Reticuli star system, and that in 1995 they warned her of earth’s imminent collision with a large planetary object called ‘Nibriu’. The collision was originally pencilled in for May 2003 but Lieder has since aligned the apocalyptic clash with the 2012 phenomenon.<br /><br />Scientists from NASA have repeatedly refuted the claim that a planet ‘four times the size of earth’ could exist within our solar system without, one: being seen, and two: effecting the orbits of the other planets. Astronomer Mike Brown notes that for ‘Nibriu’ to have no gravitational effect on the planets in the solar system it would have to be 1000 times further away than the distance between the earth and the sun (1000 Astronomical units) and that if ‘Nibriu’ were to travel that distance in less than two years, as Lieder purports, it would need to be moving at 2400 km/s which is faster than the galactic escape velocity. ‘At that speed, any object would be shot out of the solar system, and then out of the Milky Way galaxy into intergalactic space.’<br />Even though they are based on sound scientific knowledge, impossible assertions such as Brown’s that the planet ‘Nibriu’ would be expelled from our galaxy into intergalactic space, seem equally farcical to me as the bogus theories they are designed to debunk.<br /><br />But little did I know there was still one more level of lunacy to go before the 2012 scale of insanity was to be completed.<br />Spiritual teacher and New Age author Terence McKenna proposes a theory so preposterous that I was moved to pinch myself with a pair of sharp pliers and fill up my bath tub with sea salt in an attempt to replicate The Dead Sea and cleanse my mind, body, and soul from the intellectually debasing content of his work.<br /><br />McKenna’s 2012 theory is underscored by his love of psychedelic drugs, especially psilocybin-containing mushrooms and DMT. His ‘Stoned Ape’ hypothesis of human evolution suggests that as our primate ancestors moved from living in trees to open grasslands and savannas near the end of the most recent ice age they began to feast on psilocybin-containing mushrooms, and that this helped them acquire selective evolutionary advantages over other species that did not eat the mushrooms. He states that the effects of psilocybin, such as increased sexual arousal and ecstatic hallucinations were advantageous to the early humans as it encouraged the ‘development of spoken language in order to form pictures in another persons mind through the use of vocal sounds.’<br /><br />In a similar vein of fashion McKenna attempted to use psychoactive drugs to better his understanding of humanity and the mysteries of the universe. He believed the drugs opened the mind up for ‘trans-dimensional travel’ and could enable him to communicate with spiritual ancestors and omniscient beings.<br /><br />These drug induced unworldly affairs led him to discover how the story of the universe is simply the story of the ‘proton matter wave’s 13.7-billion-year-long fall into its own gravitational field.’ With some spurious references to Einstein and de Broglie he claims that on December 21st 2012 the wait will be over for the proton matter and the universe will be completed for eternity. He purports that we will enter into ‘Timewave Zero,’ a phenomenon that allows everybody to travel around the universe at the speed of light infinitely and timelessly, forever. The universe will reach ‘a singularity of infinite complexity, at which point anything and everything imaginable will occur simultaneously.’<br />The plot thickens…<br /><br />This is all made possible by the tantric union of the world’s two most imaginative people with the hyperspace of the universe’s information, which he calls ‘The Superconducting Overmind.’ Humanity is condensed into one unitary being of interconnectedness, which leads to the human species taking complete psychokinetic control over the universe, ‘That is the ultimate goal of the universe’s existence.’<br /><br />This was the point of no return for me. It sealed the deal. ‘Intuition, shamanism and a profound sensitivity towards the mystic’ has replaced ‘Empiricism, pragmatism, and rationality.’ But somehow, concurrent to Pinchbeck’s prediction, materialism still lives on.<br /><br />Most of the writers I have mentioned are wealthy and successful in their own fields of study. It proves that there is a market for mysticism, and who knows, maybe the shift in consciousness has started a little earlier than expected. Maybe humanity is on the cusp of a spiritual evolution.<br /><br />But of course, as I am telling you this, it is important for me to point out that I am spreading a small pinch of table salt all over my plate of mushroom risotto.<br /><br /><br /></span><br /></span>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-65864533386924202462011-05-09T23:30:00.001+01:002011-05-09T23:32:36.107+01:00The Royal Wedding 2011<meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/joshferrywoodard/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>781</o:Words> <o:characters>4457</o:Characters> <o:company>University College Falmouth</o:Company> <o:lines>37</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>8</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>5473</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;} @page Section1 {size:595.0pt 842.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"><b> </b></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> <meta equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css"> <title></title> <meta name="Generator" content="Cocoa HTML Writer"> <meta name="CocoaVersion" content="949.54"> <style type="text/css"> p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria} p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px} p.p3 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Cambria} </style> </i></span></b></p><p class="p1"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>
<br /></i></span></b></p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i> <p class="p1">At 11:20 AM on Friday 29th April 2011, the Archbishop of Canterbury pronounced Prince William and Catherine Middleton man and wife. It was a momentous moment, not just for the monarchy, but for the entire nation and dare I suggest it, the rest of the world too. The wonderful union between these two most-gracious young lovers represents a coalition between the monarch and the general public. And as I drunk a pint of Skinner’s ‘Kate Loves Willy’ Ale, I truly felt a speck of regality emanate through my body. I was proud.</p> <p class="p2">
<br /></p> <p class="p1">Millions of people swarmed around the palace gates like wasps around a juicy looking ice-lolly in the sun. Some particularly patriotic commoners gathered in their small communities, sporting union jack flags and Will and Kate masks, they pitched their tents several days before the ceremony took place in a gallant effort to ensure a prime view of the event. These earnest royal subjects will undoubtedly pass down the story of how they procured the most intimate view of the royal kiss for generations to come, their grandchildren and great-grandchildren will take enormous delight in knowing that somebody in their family once saw Prince William’s lips touch Princess Kate’s from the tender distance of 50 metres.</p> <p class="p2">
<br /></p> <p class="p1">‘Isn’t it a magnificent sight’ Huw Edward reported for the BBC, as Prince William sat next to Princess Kate on the luxurious State Landau during the royal procession. The lavish carriage was pulled along by four thoroughbred stallions, and in its pure grandness, it eclipsed even the magical carriage that Cinderella’s fairy Godmother made for her from a rotten pumpkin.</p> <p class="p2">
<br /></p> <p class="p1">Given the weight of the situation one would be forgiven for letting the pressure affect his charm, but the Prince was on top form, quoted by The Guardian and backed up by professional lip-reader Tina Lannin, as telling his newly-wed wife ‘You look beautiful’. So articulate, so concise and so original—majestic lines such as this are what separate the royals from the likes of me, you, and the general public. We can only thank journalists and members of the media conglomerations for bringing us little snippets of captivating insight into the lives of our superiors, with such cutting urgency and punctuality. </p> <p class="p2">
<br /></p> <p class="p1">The transformation from commoner to regality for Kate Middleton was complimented by an amazing piece of knitwear: an ivory white satin silk gown, created by Sarah Burton, Head Designer at the House of Alexander McQueen. A confidentiality agreement had been signed that kept the dress as secretive as the princess was formerly chaste. So when the dress was finally unveiled to the world as she stepped out of the royal Rolls Royce, it was no surprise to hear a BBC fashion expert let out a high-pitched shriek of ‘YAY’, echoing profoundly the exact joy of a whole nation looking on at the dress with glee. </p> <p class="p2">
<br /></p> <p class="p1">The jubilation and goodwill was not confined to the Great British Isles exclusively, the event received worldwide publication and quite rightly monopolized the cable and terrestrial networks in the United States. There was even a makeshift ‘street’ party held in the Helmand province of Afghanistan by the proud British troops. The Afghani affair featured flags, music, cake and a brilliantly formed life-sized cardboard cutout of the Royal couple themselves. ‘It was a wonderful day, Kate looked beautiful and we had been so looking forward to seeing her dress.’ Commented Captain Clare Brooks who usually spends her time inspecting packages and scouring the landscape for improvised explosive devices.</p> <p class="p2">
<br /></p> <p class="p1">The spectacle of the event surpassed all other distractions. Street parties brought people together. Labour and Tory politicians shared cups of tea from the same Will and Kate ceramic teapots; students taught local residents how to skateboard; terminally ill patients nodded their heads and smiled with a long lost twinkle in their eyes; everybody was happy that the British monarchy was succeeding. ‘With all the bad things in the word at the moment, its nice to come together, forget about them, have fun and just be British.’ The sentiments of a conscientious citizen reveling in the achievement of a wealthy heir to the throne finding himself a beautiful woman to marry on the 66th anniversary of Adolf Hitler’s marriage to Eva Braun.</p> <p class="p2">
<br /></p> <p class="p1">Of course there will always be some blasphemous spoilsports who refuse to acknowledge the true value of the monarch, labeling them as fetishized puppets of public affection, tax-dodging time-wasters, or archaic throwbacks to our shameful past of slavery, sexual discrimination and colonial exploitation. Some sacrilegious dissidents will always make grandiloquent claims, such as the holy matrimony is a ‘Wedding of Mass Distraction’ or that the money should be spent on education, the NHS or welfare rather than a jumped-up media celebration of an antiquated oligarchy.</p> <p class="p2">
<br /></p> <p class="p1">These bitter invectives, and a desecrating offer made by Vivid Entertainment’s Steve Hirsch, for Kate’s exquisite sister Pippa to feature in a pornographic film for $5 million aside, the royal wedding was a tremendous success. It re-united the loving public with a unique historical figure of majesty and allowed a society that was growing progressively aware of current affairs and critical of its own foreign policy, to take a much-deserved day off and forget about the many evils of this world. </p> <p class="p2">
<br /></p> <p class="p3">APATHY RATING: *****/ ***** </p></i></span></b><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-63373861965818318572011-01-08T03:53:00.003+00:002011-01-08T03:53:54.458+00:00foxxy - PREVIEW<div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I had been working as a pizza boy for about two years when it started. I used to turn up everyday at six o’clock, quickly change my t-shirt, stick the stupid cap on my head and walk into the store to sign in. I was always careful to keep my hands in my pockets at all times when in the store because they had this annoying rule about bare wrists. The problem was I had this tattoo from when I was back in college, it was ‘Mary’ my childhood sweetheart written in a tasteless gothic font on a peculiar looking Labrador, and it was emblazoned on the underside of my wrist. We used to have a little joke about her being a dog, say if we went into a posh shop or to the beach between the 1st of May and the 31st of September, I would point at the ‘no dogs’ sign and look at her disapprovingly and she would giggle and shake her head in that ‘you-think-you’re-so-funny-but-it’s-okay-because-I-guess-I-do-too’ sort of way. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I thought it would be cute to get the tattoo but my ‘incessant jealousy’ and ‘wandering eyes’ proved the perfect antidote to my charming humour, leaving me with a trophy of failure on my wrist. To hide this inconvenient truth I tried wearing sweatbands, but they used to get all mouldy and smelly if I didn’t take them off for bathing and showers – and taking them off for such occasions proved even more horrific as I was faced with the dog – and there is nothing worse than reminding yourself that you’ve got something to hide. So I decided to go to a few shitty festivals to get some wristbands that had a sense of permanency about them.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" > The one that stuck was from a hippy festival in Newton Abbot called ‘Quest’. All I can remember of the festival is taking this anonymous pill from a guy dressed up as Jesus Christ, and from then on my mood was dictated by this great big tower that had a searchlight that changed colour as it span around the field. The colours acted to dictate my mood: if it was bright and yellow I would feel ecstatic and if it was dark and navy: I would get twitchy and unsure of myself. In the morning the yellow wristband reminded me of the electric energy I had felt the night before. And the name ‘Quest’ coupled with the Jesus guy who gave me the pill, inspired me to search for God, and gave me hope of maybe finding more to life and potentially fulfilling some kind of unheard of spiritual bliss. But by the end of the day I started to come down and realized that this enlightenment was in fact, part of the trip.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >But anyway, I stuck with the wristband to cover up the tattoo the same way a cutter would do, to hide their scars - sometimes I would even let people think I was a cutter, if it proved less embarrassing than admitting the truth – anything to avoid showing that dastardly dog. So when I was told that ‘Franchise policy dictates all employees adhere strictly to the uniform code’ and found out that in order to deliver pizza to somebody’s house at night it was necessary to ‘be cleanly shaven, piercing free and bare wristed’ I was quite understandably indignant. I mean who really gives a fuck when they’re stoned, drunk and hungry – ‘cos that’s the only time that I order a pizza – if the guy stood outside in the cold wearing a mojo-shattering blue hat has a bit of stubble or a festival armband saying ‘Quest’ on it. When I’m desperate enough to pay twelve quid for a pizza I don’t care if it gets delivered by Grizzly Adams and his forest-face, Snoop Dogg and his plethora of bling, or even Dick Dastardly and the unkempt Mutley. It just doesn’t matter.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >At the beginning of my first shift, I was sent to the toilet with a bic two-blade razor and the cold-water tap. I went in looking handsome as ever and came out all cut up with red patches and rogue hairs scattered around my face. They said I looked a lot better.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >But then they told me I would have to cut off my wristband before I could start earning any dosh. My initial reaction was to bullshit. I started itching my neck along the collar where I could feel a spot swelling up from the massacre of the bic, and I told my supervisor how important the quest for God was in my life. I explained how cutting free the band would symbolically sever my own spiritual bond with Jesus Christ and told him how damaging that could be to my emotional wellbeing. He bought it. Or at least he was too weary to argue with it, and said that I could wear the band just this once, but in future it would have to be covered up by a watch; either that or I would be ineligible to work for them.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I didn’t own a watch and I was not prepared to pay for one out of my own pocket to conform to this officious code – but at the same time I was growing increasingly anxious at the idea of exposing my wrist and the tattoo – so I resorted to stealing a spy watch from my little sister. It didn’t tell the time but it did have a little plastic hatch that you could open up. I didn’t really understand what its purpose was: I wondered whether it was supposed to harbour miniature laser beams to blind villains with, or to set off remotely controlled mines in times of crisis, but ultimately, I concluded it was just a toy.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sometimes I would forget the spy watch. It could get left at home or in a jacket pocket or at a mate’s house by an ashtray. And sometimes I would neglect to shave: if I hadn’t washed in a while or if my mum was having a bath at the wrong time or something. The threat of the bic and of unleashing the beast under my wrist was of great concern to me. I would carefully slip in and out of the building between deliveries, vigilantly avoiding eye contact with any of the supervisors, because I came to realize that nobody actually cares about rules, they just care about power. So if you don’t directly challenge their power, if you keep out of their way, then most of the time you can get away with a few little discrepancies. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Another benefit of minimizing my time in the store each night was avoiding my ‘colleagues’. Although some of them were alright, for example, the twins with cheap Mazda sports cars who planned to open their own pizza place in Australia, the Spanish manager with a lust for olives but a lack of English skills and the Polish chef who would shamelessly smoke bongs outside the backdoor, but these were the exceptions. The majority of the staff were unfunny no-hopers, constantly participating in ‘banter’ and laughing profusely at their own jokes. I don’t mean to appear judgmental but I had a real problem identifying with people who were content to grow fat and old delivering pizzas and sticking new exhausts onto the backs of their cars. I was aiming for better than that.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I’ve always wanted to make films. As I was growing up I would always tell Mary about my ideas, they would come to me when we were lying in bed or taking a day trip on the train, and I would get all excited relaying my thoughts to her. She would listen in awe and tell me how good the ideas were and encourage me to plot the narratives in this little notebook called a pukka pad. The thing is I would write down the flashes of ideas, fleeting elements of films but I would never develop them, never put any hard graft into them. I was always too busy trying to get my dick wet or watching films that had already been made on DVD. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >After we split a couple of years ago I would still carry the pukka pad around with me in my car, but it would rarely feel the pleasure of being written in. I needed the encouragement. Any ideas that I had would just get eroded by the radio, or by a traffic jam, or by an unhappy customer who had asked for no pepperoni. By the time I had finished my shift I was always too hungry and tired to search through my brain for the fragments of films that had played behind my eyes while I was driving. To my dismay I found myself resigned to being a delivery boy. For the time being. I would tell myself.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" > *************************************</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >So there I was half eleven on a Friday evening, driving to a residential trailer park to deliver three cheese and tomato pizzas with my spy watch on. As I approached the driveway I spotted the park mascot: it was a life-size wooden fox, orange with bright blue eyes and the word ‘Welcome’ scribed across its stomach inside a sparkling sunshine orb. This image of happiness unsettled me a little bit. I shone my full beam and squinted out of the window until I found number thirteen Sunnyvale Lane. I parked up, and took the pizzas out of the hot bag ready for the customer. I knocked on the door but there was no answer. This was normal. I waited half a minute and knocked again, much harder this time. Again, no answer. I was used to this type of thing, sometimes people would take ages to reply and then just rush to the door with a towel on, messy hair and a flush. I assumed that ordering a pizza worked in the same way as oysters or as Lynx would have you believe their scent works: to make women horny. If I was lucky I’d get a little nip slip, but more often than not, I was just treated to a bouncing ballbag as the guy turned to run back to his pizza-enchanted mistress. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >After about five minutes of banging on the door and wailing ‘PIZZA BOY, IT’S YOUR PIZZZZZAAAA BOY’ reminiscent of Jim Carey in The Cable Guy, I was getting seriously pissed off. I got back in my car turned the light on and rung the ‘customer’s number’. As I was typing in the digits: ‘01626 2829-Wait a minute’. It dawned on me that this was the number for sexline, all those prank phone calls me and Mary used to make about fornicating with elephants and acidic discharge, how did I not see this earlier. I was furious at whoever this little prick was that set me up. Nobody orders shitty cheese and tomato pizzas. I revved my engine and jerked the volume up on the CD player: ‘You made me forget my dreams’ Fucking Belle and Sebastian. This was not the time for them. I was growing more and more disgruntled as I encountered that fox mascot again. In a moment of madness I stopped the car, ran towards the fox, picked up a metal pole – the kind of shit that prank-calling-trailer-trash-people leave lying around – and went for the fox’s head. After three wild blows, the neck snapped and the head drooped down slowly. I felt like a naughty beaver. I felt that overpowering sense of guilt I used to feel instantly after ejaculating inside another girl when I was with Mary. I deemed it most sensible to wrench the head free from its torso and place it in the back of my car on the parcel shelf.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >For the next few shifts I was haunted by the fox. It would reflect onto the back windscreen, and appear ominously in my rearview mirror as some kind of ethereal apparition. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I guess I must have felt responsible for the fox, because I was intrigued to look after him – I was quite sure from his rigid posture when he had a body, that he was a male fox – it was some kind of twisted Stockholm Syndrome, but reversed and with a wooden ornament. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >So for a few weeks me and the fox would ride around town together delivering pizzas and surveying the streets. We delivered to drunk students, who flirted with me and asked to stroke my fox; we delivered to fat single men who left us large tips for not laughing at the number of pizza boxes piled up behind their doors; we delivered to families who answered graciously and offered me slices of pizza; we delivered to buildings with broken buzzers that rung the wrong flat; we delivered to houses with no numbers that took ages to find and we delivered to some houses that had nothing notable to say about them.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Although I was happy to have the fox on the parcel shelf, I don’t really think it had started yet. I suppose it had started in a way but I wasn’t aware of it.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >One thing for sure, the evening that I met the fox, it had definitely started. It was just a normal shift at work, I had remembered to shave, and I also had the spy watch on my wrist. I was listening to some weak hip-hop on the radio and my heater was trying its best to clear the windscreen of pizza fumes, although I was defenseless against the pizza scent. It was about eleven o’clock and I had nothing planned after work apart from a lonely wank and small garlic bread I had smuggled into my boot. So I wasn’t even counting down the hours, they just travelled past me like the curb at the side of the road. Well anyway this eleven o’clock jobby proved a bit more significant than I could have guessed. 36 Starcross Street. The fox answered the door. Yes the very same fox that I had decapitated a few weeks earlier had answered the door. Well it can’t have been the same fox, but a carbon copy of the head that I was carrying in the back of my car. I glanced at one fox head and then at the other. I was astonished. He was about six foot tall, so just a little bit taller than me, with the same white whiskers I had become accustomed to that resembled the stubble around Homer Simpson’s mouth. He was fluffy all over and wore the same wide grin that had infuriated me so much during my first encounter. I wondered if I was imagining all this, an elaborate scheme devised in my subconscious to keep me entertained at work, so I touched him on the arm, and to my surprise he was real. Soft and furry. ‘Sorry!?’ said the fox. I was surprised by how human his voice sounded. I looked at the sticker and he had paid by card so I gave him his pizza. He turned around and shut the door on me. I stood still for an immeasurable amount of time before getting my shit together and getting back into the car. He was looking at me out of his window. I turned the car around and in doing so I reversed up against the fox’s front room and for a split second the reflection of the wooden fox in my rear windscreen merged together perfectly with the real fox staring out of the window. It was the kind of moment that would be turned into slow motion in a film.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I went home that night and called Mary for the first time in months but she didn’t answer.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The fox played on my mind. I dreamt about a cream-coloured country home surrounded by forest and separated from the rest of the world by a grand ornamental gate. In the gravel driveway a man with a tweed sports jacket and a hunting cap on was pacing in front of his tall arching doorway looking very animated. Then all of a sudden the fox appeared from a clearing in the thicket, he was running on all fours this time and he looked a lot more vulnerable than I had seen him before. The agitated aristocrat reached for his shotgun and raised it towards the woods. He let off a few bangs before exclaiming: ‘RELEASE THE HOUNDS’. Two posh-looking men in similar hunting gear came running from the front door and stood by his side. As they all loaded up their shotguns three humongous dogs, slightly larger than horses, came bustling from around the back of the house. The beast-hounds stopped for their hunters to mount, and then let off a blood curdling howl and set off for the fox. The same fox that I had beheaded, and then delivered a pizza to.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I woke up confused, firstly because I had an erection after such a shocking dream, and secondly because I felt almost culpable for the terrorizing of the fox at the hands of the hunters. I was horrified to compare what I did with a piece of wood to the brutal murder of a miraculously large vulpine creature, but for some reason I couldn’t separate the two crimes. I felt guilt running through my veins and vowed to be a better person before tossing myself off back to sleep.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The next day at work I had to deal with the usual drivel that goes around the store when its quiet, one of my supervisors was telling everybody about his latest sexual antics and naturally, all the lads joined in, pelvic thrusts and fingers in their mouths. The female staff stood back quietly, trying to blend into the walls, in fear of the sexual furore breaking out into a sleazy CCTV pizza porno film. I was stood back with the girls, thinking about the fox and what I should do; should I go back to the trailer park with some superglue and try to fix him back in place; should I order a fake pizza to the real fox’s house and ask him what’s going on; or should I chuck the fox’s head in the river and be done with it.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >But I didn’t have a choice in the matter because 36 Starcross Street was on the computer screen and the pizza was out of the oven and ready to be dispatched. I jumped into the car and threw the pizza in the back and set off. To begin with I was jumping red lights and revving my engine like a boy racer, eager to talk to the fox like a schoolgirl meeting a pop star. But like a schoolgirl, I got nervous and starting stalling. I took a few wrong turns and looked at myself repeatedly in the mirror, as if the structure of my quiff would determine the quality of my meeting with the fox.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >When I got to number 36 Starcross Street I still had no idea what I was going to say. The fox came to the door while I was still getting out of the car, he was staring straight past me and I swear he saw the fox’s head, his head, but he didn’t say anything about it. I gave him the pizza and took the twenty-pound note from his furry paw. ‘I know this is going to sound completely weird… but do you know of a great big house, sorta like a mansion with high gates, and its surrounded by woods?’ I said. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The fox looked me up and down for a few seconds. ‘It’s only becau-‘ </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The fox interrupted me this time: ‘Yeah I know a place like that’.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘What do you know about it’ I asked.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘It’s a long story’ the fox said. ‘If you let me ride around the town with you I‘ll tell you some more about it’ he added.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >So it was arranged. It was as easy as that, but it still made no sense to me. How could he know of the old country home, it was from a dream, an imaginary place? I had only said it out of panic.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The fox rode shotgun while I drove back to the store to collect another pizza. We exchanged formalities but I was still too stunned by the situation to really ask what was going on: as if by drawing attention to the weirdness I would then cause the fox to evaporate or something. We drove passed a KFC joint and the fox got really excited: ‘Fuck me! I could do with a KFC’</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Do foxes like KFC?’ I said taken aback. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Why wouldn’t foxes like KFC’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘No reason. I suppose the colonel does a good job with his seasoning’ I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘It’s the top fast food outlet in my opinion. Fuck Ronald McDonald and that big burger, who even is the ‘Burger King’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘I don’t even know’ I said laughing.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Are you stopping for a KFC or what!?’ he demanded.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘But you left half of that pizza I delivered to you at home’ I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Yeah, but, we foxes are never sure of our next meal’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Sounds that way, what with your outspoken views on all the major fast food restaurants’ I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘I take it we are not going to KFC then’ he said stroppily.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >It dawned on me that although he was some kind of magical animorphic fox; he was just a normal guy beneath that.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >We spent another hour and a half in the car together in which time I learned that; he loved gangster films and only gangster films ‘for the way the mobsters always get what they want and live their own life regardless of the laws of society’; he hated CCTV because it is ‘an unnatural phenomena to be recorded doing what you do’; and his favorite animal was a duck-billed-platypus although he was ‘disappointed to have never seen one in the woods’. I wandered if he was the only life-size animal around and he told me that he wasn’t but I wasn’t ready to know about all that yet. I got the same kind of evasive response when I asked about the cream-coloured country home from my dream: ‘You’re not ready yet’. I was intrigued but at the same time frustrated, I didn’t want to ruin it though. Like when you realise something is too good to be true in a dream, but you try your hardest not to question it incase your bubble of subconscious bursts and you wake up sweating with an unwanted erection.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The next day I picked the fox up from 36 Starcross Street as we had arranged and we embarked upon another night of mystery. I just couldn’t get anything out of him unless it was to do with something on the tele, or a band or a football team – I was very surprised to find that he wasn’t a Leicester City fan, but in fact hated Gary Lineker with a passion: ‘But their mascot ‘Filbert the fox’ is the most similar looking thing to you that I have ever seen!’ I reasoned.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘I don’t care, I hate that Gary Lineker and his big FA cup ears, and I hate those boring crisps he eats too’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘What’s so bad about Lineker anyway’ I couldn’t help but crack up when he came out with these ridiculous statements.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Him and Stan Collymore had a fall out’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘So…’</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Collymore is famous for bringing dogging into the mainstream, and to carry on with a career in the media after a revelation like that is admirable in my opinion’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘He used to beat up Ulrika Johnson is that admirable?’ I asked. He didn’t reply.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘And anyway what has a fox like you got to do with dogging? I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Oh, nothing I just... saw a program on tele about it and it sounded quite exciting’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Whenever I’ve been dogging its just been a load of old guys in expensive cars waiting in a car park and driving off when they see a gang of lads in the car’ I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The fox went silent for about half an hour after that little exchange, I figured that I must have hit a sore spot mentioning Gary Lineker. I just carried on delivering the pizzas, even if he wasn’t saying anything, it still felt cool to have a massive talking fox sat next to me as I went.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Over the next few weeks I had the pleasure of the fox’s company for most of my shifts at work, he couldn’t make Wednesdays or Fridays and asked to be dropped off early on the posh side of town ‘to visit a friend’ every once in a while, but on the whole my life felt a lot more purposeful. I didn’t know what the purpose was exactly, but I knew the fox had something to do with it. He allowed me to open up. I told him about Mary and the guilt I felt, I told him how I just wanted to show her I was sorry and maybe even be friends with her if she would let me. He told me that I was better off without bonds and ties, and to let the past stay in the past. He asked me what she looked like and I was shocked to find I didn’t have any pictures on my phone so I waited until I had a delivery on that side of the river and drove outside her house. I knew she used to leave the curtain open after she had a shower but I couldn’t believe my luck when she was stood by her window bare breasted looking in the mirror and brushing her hair. She looked angelic. ‘Who needs her as a girlfriend when you can gaze on her from afar?’ suggested the fox. I didn’t really feel that way, but seeing as she wouldn’t reply to my calls I decided to settle for the fox’s company and Mary’s tits. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The fox also got me talking about my aspirations to be a writer again. He encouraged me to tell him my ideas but remained ominously voiceless with regards to his own life. I told him about my plan for a screenplay involving a mix-up in the hospital with two babies going home with the wrong parents. The plan was for the families to be reunited with their true offspring through a freak coincidence on the Jeremy Kyle show. The fox ripped the idea apart, criticizing my lack of character motives and condemning the plot as ‘shit-cold’. I didn’t take it well at first, and I think the fox noticed this because he told me the real reason for his disapproval was that he hated northern accents and explained how he couldn’t stand anything to do with Jeremy Kyle since they employed ‘Foxy Bingo’ as their sponsor with that ‘cocky northern fox’.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" > ************************************************</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Do you wana come out with me tonight, y’know, after you finish work, out of the car’ asked the fox. He struggled to get his words out as if he was asking a girl out on a date for the first time.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Yeah sure mate, what you thinking?’ I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘There’s a few of us all heading out somewhere, we haven’t decided where yet though’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Sounds like a plan, I guess Mary’s driveway will be lonely tonight then’ I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I assumed we wouldn’t be going to the ‘Fox and Hound’.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >It was my last delivery of the night when everything changed. We were driving around the rich end of town looking for a house simply entitled ‘Majesty’. I was suspicious of such a lavish name for an address but the customer had paid by card already so I assumed it must be a legit order – I mean the jokes on you if you try playing a prank by actually paying for the pizza. These streets weren’t paved in gold, but I swear that some of the gates had diamond sparkles on their peaks. The fox was getting a bit fidgety. ‘What’s up?’ I asked.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Don’t like rich people’ he replied.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Oh come on, I think their quite funny with their outrageous elitism and funny accents… Jolly-good job old boy’ I impersonated poorly.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘It’s not so funny when you’re me’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I wondered what he meant by this.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘I reckon we just go back, this place is a ma-’ he began.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >“HERE IT IS… Majesty!’ I interrupted.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The fox shuddered.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The gate opened as soon as I maneuvered the car in front of it. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘That’s funny’ I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Some of these posh houses just have sensors, they’re just for ornament really, not really to do with security’ he told me.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I drove slowly down the driveway crackling the clean white gravel beneath us. As I approached the house the lights turned on and illuminated everything to me: this was the cream-coloured mansion from my dream. It was all there, the tall arching doorway, the woods behind the house and the humbling sense of grandeur. It was so much more lucid in real life. A polyphonic ringtone beeped twice, the fox had a text message. I looked down at his phone: ‘Majesty woods’. I was so confused, was that a warning, had he planned this or what the fuck was going on? The fox started acting panicky and urged me to turn around and drive off. ‘Lets go. Lets just go back now. Come on lets go back. I’ll pay you for the pizza’. But I was intrigued: this fictional place from my dream had come to life and I was here with a magical talking fox, I had to find out what it meant. Curiosity killed the cat.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I parked as close to ‘Majesty’ as I could. I got out with the pizza, locked the door and started towards the door but before I had the chance to knock it opened briskly and powerfully. The man from my dream in hunting gear walked out. He was much less intimidating than I remembered. His eyes were big and droopy and his grey hair was swept behind his ears revealing his ruby red cheeks. He was shorter than me and rather stout. ‘Who are you’ he requested walking straight passed me’</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Pizza?’ I gestured the box towards him.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Oh yes! Fair play chappy. Have you heard any signs of foul play whilst in the grounds? Seen anything unusual?’ he asked.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Urm not while I’ve been here today… I had a dream about this place’ I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Ignoring me: ‘Is that your motorcar!?’ he exclaimed. ‘What is that perverted buffoon doing in your front seat?’</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘The fox?’ I asked.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Yes the bloody fox. PERCY, PERCIVALD’ he shouted. ‘BRING ME MY SHOTGUN’</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Almost instantly as if on queue, another man with hunting gear came running through the door with two shotguns in his hand.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘WHAT THE FUCK. No you can’t hunt him you mental poshos’ my dream was coming true. I had to stop them.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘We are not hunting him’ the main posho said. ‘We are going to murder him’</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Murder?’ I said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Yes and I don’t think the police will have a lot to say about it. Not after what his despicable friends and he have been doing in my woods’ he said.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘What are you going on about? You’ve seen the fox before? I asked.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘I’ve seen a whole gang of these furry fiends before. They come into my woods at night dressed up as cuddly toys and fornicate wildly with a complete disregard for the sanctity of my grounds’ he told me.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘And we’ve had enough’ the other posho added. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I shouted to the fox ‘Is this true’</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >He began gesticulating innocence but I couldn’t hear what he was saying through the window. I walked over to the car. ‘Hand him over and you will be rewarded chappy’ the main posho said to me. I opened the door.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘HAND HIM OVER’ the other posho ordered.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘I thought you’d be into it’ the fox said regretfully as he jumped out of the car and burst into a sprint towards the woods.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >I was waiting for one of the mental poshos to shout ‘RELEASE THE HOUNDS’ but instead they loaded their shotguns and ran after the fox. I followed them. We ran through the thick layers of forest and jumped over a few logs. I was eager to overtake the hunters and find the fox, and it wouldn’t have been hard at the inebriated rate they were going, but I was weary of their loaded shotguns so restrained myself to waiting behind them. Eventually we found ourselves at a clearing and to my dismay the hunters were telling the truth: a melee of sexual perversion lay before us. There were great-big furry wolves banging smaller furry squirrels against the trunks of sycamore trees; there were furry monkeys sucking off furry bulldogs like they were licking on the tips of bananas; there were furry black and white cows mixing with furry brown cows performing the 69’er with their udders; there were furry pink rabbits being drilled in the ass by panting furry tigers yelling ‘Its GRRRRRRRRRRREAT’; and there was even a furry Care Bear riding a furry Scooby Doo in the reverse cowgirl.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The hunters opened fire. It was a massacre. A few of the furries got away – God knows where they went or what they did – but most of them were mauled down by the poshos’ callous spray of bullets. They must have had a field day, I bet hunting had never been such fun. ‘Good show Percy, shame a few of them got away, but some of the little blighters always do’. Credit to the furries, they stayed in role even when they lay dying on the floor: as I fled the scene back to my car I heard a cacophony of tragic swansongs; a howling wolf; a mooing cow and a wailing bulldog. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >When I was back in my car and safely parked outside the pizza store I called the police and told them what I saw. The pizza company were understanding and gave me two weeks paid leave to reconcile my emotions, although they did ask me why I didn’t return the pizza if the customer neglected to take it from me. On my way home I phoned the fox to find out if he got away okay. He told me that he ran to a different clearing, but did one when he heard the gunshots. He said the first day that I delivered him a pizza he was about to go out ‘furring’ – that’s what they call it apparently – and that’s why he was dressed up like that, he saw the fox’s head in the back of my car and recognized the mansion I spoke of and assumed I knew about the activity. He later realised that I was ignorant to his designs but decided to groom me anyway. He told me he had a lion’s costume waiting for me at home and was planning on initiating me that night. I hung up on him and never saw him again.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >The story was a big media hit, all over the local and national news, The Sun even ran an article ‘Furrociosly Funny’ with cartoon images of the horrific scene in the woods complete with speech bubbles. The two hunters were arrested and both given life sentences. I couldn’t go back to the delivery job after the media exposure so I handed them my notice. Mary had seen me on the news and contacted me, to tell me to ‘never wait on her driveway again or she would get the police involved, and that she wanted nothing to do with me regardless of my trauma’. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sony bought the rights to the story for ten grand, and I threw in the wooden fox’s head for authenticity. The bastardized filmic version has just been released: I’m played by Keanu Reeves and Sean Connery stars as the fox. In a steamy sex scene that makes me feel weak inside: Scarlet Johannson, as Mary, smashes a chandelier as she explodes out of control in her third screaming orgasm.</span></b></div><div><br /></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-42288430316306385922010-11-29T17:59:00.000+00:002010-11-29T18:00:33.504+00:00Birth Scene<div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>It is Thursday the 12th of December 1994. The Christmas lights are being switched on in the city of Exeter by chat-show host Jerry Springer. The cheers of elation erupting from the high street surge towards the hospital building as the twinkling fairy lights illuminate the festivities taking place below them. “JERRY JERRY JERRY” Springer sits on his papier mache throne and feels contented that he has once more brought happiness and joy to a mob of strangers. He casts a smiling glance at his loyal subjects; teenage boys with mistletoe stuck to their belts; pregnant teenage girls singing “Away in a manger” at peoples doorsteps for money; men buying cut-price jewellery for their mistresses; middle-aged women stuffing chocolate selection boxes into their handbags for their grandchildren; and a particularly mischievous red robin perched on a white fairy light staring into the maternity ward of the hospital.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>An unusually high influx of women with wet patches around their groins has forced the maternity wing to split each ward into two beds. Three nervous looking men, two exasperated women with their legs in the air and a young girl holding a care bear, occupy the room being surveyed by the red robin. The male midwife is constantly pacing from one side of the room to the other tending to both prospective parents, cursing nurse Paige who booked the night off months in advance upon hearing who was switching on the Christmas lights. One of the men is knelt down beside his wife looking very worried and repeatedly asking her: “Is everything alright dear?” or “How are you feeling?” to which she replies accurately and insincerely: “I FEEL LIKE I’M GOING TO FUCKING DIE HERE”. The other man is crouched over, rubbing his short spiky ginger hair against his wives dainty freckled forehead roaring: “Come on Janine! Do it for the Wedleys”. Janine smiles and her face radiates elusive beauty, before she screws up her face and unleashes a thunderous scream that scares the birth into action. The cute three-year-old girl is leant over the windowsill, hugging her care bear tightly and staring back at the red robin with a white ring around its eye.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>The room explodes into action. One woman is confidently heaving and breathing, screaming in an animalistic manner, her husband is incredibly awed by her performance and is even forced to adjust the slackness of his belt to accommodate stirring. The other woman is somewhat quieter, efficiently carrying out the wonder of childbirth, whilst her husband preys, preys to whom he does not know. The midwife is hurriedly scuttering between the two beds trying his best to give the correct advice for the reciprocal period of labour. He occasionally confuses dilation measurements between women but nobody is detached enough from the situation to notice. The young girl is still examining the red robin.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“Mummy! The birdie is shaking. The birdie is sick!” The young girl looks towards her mother and wonders why her father is holding his hands together so close to his face. Nobody hears her. Suddenly the white light that the robin is perched upon starts to flash. The robin bursts into flames and combusts into a sullen pile of ashes. The whole circuit of lights starts sparkling and emitting screeching sounds. Flashes of light spark from the bulbs, some crack and explode shattering into glassy snowflakes falling to the ground. People below start gasping. They shriek as the fairy lights turn into fireworks and light up the sky as the city is plunged into darkness. Jerry Springer looks confused. The little girl is crying. The maternity ward is thrown into a frenzy of confusion; the expulsing mothers are wailing, instinctively concerned for their young; one father is weeping, crying for help; whilst the other is shouting, furiously demanding an explanation; the midwife is taking photos of the dilated vaginas with his camera phone, using the flash to help deliver the babies; the little girl is crying. </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Somehow through the chaos the midwife manages to cut both umbilical chords and carry the babies into the emergency cots where a night nurse with a candle tends to them. When he returns to the ward, both women have expelled their placentas onto the floor and the backup lighting has been activated. One father is profusely thankful for the midwife’s ‘calm and confidence in a horrible moment” and the other father assures the room that he “would have responded in the same heroic way if he was called upon” to do so. The young girl is now lying in her mother’s arms, stained by the afterbirth.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“Both the babies are boys.” The midwife says.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“See Janine, I told ya didn’t I? The lads gonna be a true Wedley, I knew it” The ginger father says to his wife. The mother gleams back at him proudly.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“Aww did you hear that Jennifer? You’ve got a baby brother! The other father says patting his daughter on the back. The young girl snuggles deeper into her mother’s arms without responding.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“The mothers should get some rest-”</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“-NO we are going home tonight” The ginger father interrupts the midwife.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“But I really think it is best for both the mothers and the infants to spend the first night in hospital, just as a precaution.” Says the midwife.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“We have to pick up little Charlie from my mum’s and we’d like to spend the night as a family if it’s all the same by you.” The mother says.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“And you?” The midwife asks the other family.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>“We’d like to stay” the mother yawns “It’s my first night off in, in, well since I can remember and I’d like to sleep now.”</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>The midwife fetches one of the babies from the night nurse and all the necessary information is discussed. This process is repeated in the morning for the other family.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>The ginger father names his son Chris and the other boy is named Roger by its mother.</b></span></div><div><br /></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-31024032869217030702010-11-02T13:23:00.003+00:002010-11-05T00:49:28.017+00:00Halloween Monster is going 2 get ya?<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A young lad walking through the graveyard on Halloween, the moonlight splinters through the brambles from the refection of the swanpool..</span></span></b></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Earlier that night he had met a silver fox, a black sheep, an eccentric old fellow. At a bar, with two girls, about to order a pint of European Lager: </span></span></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"I'm flamboyant.. And I'm drunk" The old man with grey hair, a large pot-belly and relaxed wrists announces.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sat in a booth at the back of the bar, three vodka lemon and limes arrive. "Courtesy of Sir William". The younger male pounces on the waiter and downs all three drinks, spilling some cider-and-black over the blond girl in the process, looks to the old man and asks "WHAT!?" </span></span></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sir Williams seems taken aback, but not enough to refuse the offer to sit with the group.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sir William asks about ambitions and boasts of his worldly conquests: a day on each of the world's most exotic beaches to build up an appetite in order to devour their local cuisine and then fornicate with the language-less and therefore in-need-of-consent-less women. He was a carpenter, and a sailor, and a saint, and a soldier, his father is an editor and his daughter is the Personal Relations manager for Manchester United Football Club. His sister is Korean, but North or South "it does not matter which". He and good old Leo Wilkins were kicked out of Kings College at the modest age of twelve for callously joy-riding a cement mixer "over half of the school". Said apparatus was later found jammed in the net of the new tennis courts.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Nature calls! The strongest muscle in Sir William's body is his liver. The liver is not a muscle. And even Sir William has to empty it on particularly active evenings such as halloween. The youngsters confer, and it is decided to try and push the flamboyant gentleman and see how farfetched this tale will wag.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Alcohol is a funny thing.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >On returning Sir William, decides to sit in between the young women and insists on a photograph, cupping each of their breasts and gurning with a synthetic erection he tells the unsuspecting audience of his "weekend pills". </span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"How many times are we talking here, like?" the young lad says. </span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Well I would usually get around five-to-six stiffys in a weekend"</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"And you go for it every time yeah!?" Asks the lad. </span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Well the thing with the weekend pill, its a special kind, its like, urm its like-"</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Its like viagra?" The lad says.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Viagra - its like viagra but it only kicks in when you are horny. You need these things at my age you see" Says William.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The girls are giggling throughout this exchange.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The lad keeps a straight face, breaking his gaze only to juvenilely slap his fingers together: a shoddy parody of urbanism.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >It turns out, his exclusion from all boys school opened a new world to the young William. Instantly the advent of girls into his life affected him deeply. On the very eve of his first day at Thames-Valley Comprehensive he attended a raucous evening dinner that swiftly metamorphosed into a decadent all-night-long party complete with booze, cigarettes, nudity and casualties. And this at the tender age of twelve! One girl was found unconscious of alcohol poisoning, so William - ever the pragmatist - swiftly whisked off her clothes and placed her in the healing comfort of the cold bath.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Like the body-builder posing by the pool, standing between the sun and his naked lover, casting his shadow, as to prevent the rest of the world to see her hermaphroditic penis.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sir William tells us it is not his aristocratic heritage, nor his enviable explorations of the world that make him a rich man. No. It is the moments when he is laid in bed next to a woman he loves, smiling, gazing into each others eyes, naked, with eight hours to do whatever he wants. That is what makes him a rich man.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"I Love you" He says meekly towards the ginger girl.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >This is after he tells us how his many lusty affairs are not for his wife to think upon with scorn, because it was libido, simple human desire. Animalistic cravings not true love. Not that which he surrenders himself unto her.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Offers are made. "60 K and a yacht around the world?" </span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"I'll dump the head of Liverpool Metropolitan Police Station, I'll finish with her and the five-year plan"</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"I just need a woman tonight, don't you understand?" He says to the ginger girl.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"You understand don't you?" Looking towards the lad.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"The crew bar stays open all night and the booze is free".</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Instead. We go to a different pub. In this one, pumpkins are carved out of rotten smiley faces and hags dress up as barmaids to serve us all a pint of Hobgoblin Ale. Sir William drops the knighthood and insists on being named simply 'Bill'. With this he says:</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >"I am living life aren't I? Yes I am. I am not imitating art, the most beautiful feeling in the world is to have a woman thrusting her pumping vulva onto your nose". </span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And with this he leaves.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >It is discussed how Sir William wears his flamboyant heart on his sleeve and his Prince Albert in his pants.</span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A young lad walking through the graveyard on Halloween, the moonlight splinters through the brambles from the refection of the swanpool, <i>David Bowie</i> - <i>Changes</i> blasts from his headphones as a car crashes into the back of him.</span></span></b></span></span></span></span></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-75994949884981131792010-10-13T15:02:00.003+01:002010-10-17T00:52:19.864+01:00My room<b><span class="Apple-style-span" >You might think it an exaggeration for me to compare my room to a rat infested cellar beneath the most dingy of Parisian bistros, but I surely do envy the rats for the rotten food they indulge to feast upon. You might think I am serving my keepers the greatest disservice when I speak of them with such insolence as I am about to: but I really do despise their tyrannous reign over the place, and I can honestly say that their bitter disrespect continues to nullify any positive attachments to the room. </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >You might find me ungrateful in my telling of how I yearn to sleep in the unkempt and guilt-ridden bed of a gigolo; because it at least comes with a heart-shaped pillow - albeit complete with complimentary white stains - when faced with the prospect of another night on this bed I keep. </span></b></span><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >You might be shocked to hear that I do not dispute the legitimacy of my residence in this prison cell, for I truly do regret stabbing that cunt in the fruit section of Aldi, because there are no CCTV cameras in the adjacent toiletries aisle.</span></b></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-73450510039201245492010-09-10T13:35:00.003+01:002010-09-10T16:25:56.507+01:00sinister rouge<span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Wake up with my bellend stuck to the inside of my marks and spencer boxer shorts. My eyes focus on a papier mache mask from the Cuban rainforest, its teeth are sharp, its hands are placed on either side of his head mirroring the despair that perforates through its eyes. Its ears have been chopped off. Get up and navigate my crooked joints through a collage of green and black socks, Green and Blacks chocolate wrappers, blue hoodies and sandy rugs with Volvic water bottles on top. Take a piss and shudder from the sprinkles of dried smegma that fall into the toilet. Phone a university in Cornwall to tell them I can't live like this anymore and I'm not even homeless yet. Seven unanswered calls and I'm getting angry. I accept that I am going to have to live in a B&B for the year. 'When in Rome'. I cook myself scrambled eggs on toast, the eggs float around on the milk like shrimps in dehydrated rock pools.</b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Pick up England and drop his girlfriend to work at the mental hospital. Pack Laney and his bodyboarding gear into the car, but the boot wont open. Calmly I announce: "You fucking cunts cant even open a boot without breaking it, this is gonna cost at least thirty quid" to which England retorts: "Fuck off Josh, It's not my fault you've got a shit car". "May aswell call it a day" I say. "AHAHA fuck that, its not the end of the world mate come on" Laney suggests.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>On the motorway I truck pulls out in front of me, England is riding shotgun. "Give him some England" Laney says. England gets his head out of the window and starts fucking off the truck driver. This scenario is repeated three to four times. We all have an oversized can of caffeinated energy and dance to 'Tiger Army III: Ghost Tigers Rise'.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>"Hello Mate" a croaky voice that is obviously put-on bellows from out of my car window. "Have you seen my missus, shes fat as fuck... and ginger.. yeah shes ginger and shes got a stupid hat on?" "No, not seen her sorry" a confused man with a stupid England hat on replies". "ALRIGHT" my car wheelspins off and nearly hits a black man on a bicycle. He subsequently calls me a wanker. This takes place in the carpark in Bude.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>At bodyboarding I hit my head on a wave and Laney cuts his ankle on his flippers. Some cool dudes are surfing and a fat couple have both got their tits out. A sophisticated couple are practicing anal sex on the overlooking cliff. The wind is blowing towards us so I am careful to keep my mouth closed in case a piece of fecal sperm cums my way. End of bodyboarding sequence In my fur-coat and replica aviators I flash my bare chest to a blond with a surfboard. I strike a pose that she chooses to ignore as she walks past awkwardly talking to her boyfriend.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>Beep my horn as a golfer swings his driver to strike the ball. A woman in a bistro that won't serve us drinks tells us that the best fish and chips are to be found 5 miles west in Widemouth Bay. On the way there Laney inadvertently tells a stoner his girlfriend is fit and some surfer crashes into a cliff on a freak once-in-a-lifetime wave. The fish and chips are not in fact 'the best' but actually quite average so we chuck them as bait for seagulls. A scottish woman with her gash out catches the three of us stood over a seagull brandishing miniature boulders held high above our heads. She talks about not killing them, we talk about raping her and sending her kid to make us a chicken sandwich.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>At a campsite CCTV footage shows a lad about 5ft 10 wearing a sleeveless Ramones top and a pair of cargo trousers anxiously get out of his car and walk towards a wooden fox on a sign. From a POV shot of the youth you can see that the fox is the same size as him. The camera cuts to his mates' perspective in the car, watching, laughing as the boy pulls a big white wooden pole out of the ground. The black and white CCTV footage from above shakes in the wind as he callously assassinates the cute furry fox. A low angle close up catches the moment in slow motion as the poor fox's head droops and falls from glory. The juvenility of the situation is accentuated through the use of a POV shot from an oncoming car with two middle-aged women in it. They see the scandalous male rip the head from the fox's neck and make a guilty dash towards the car. With the microphone based inside the car, the audience hear a chilling cackle as the three fugitives accelerate out of the scene with haste.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><br /></b></span></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-49846043145430845832010-07-31T11:22:00.004+01:002010-08-04T15:47:45.023+01:00Water Fountain<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>One mother stranded in a glass shopping complex. The water fountain entrances her. Every drop of water rises and falls, flows seamlessly, invisibly. It shimmers brilliantly, the yellow beams emanating from McDonalds' golden arches reflect a dull rainbow that appears to float above a young boy with fair hair, who is being picked up by the handles of his denim dungarees. </b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>One mother is feeling the Valium kicking in. Her fears are recycled, they are fears that every woman has felt since the beginning of time. She wants to fit in and flow. She forgets about her boy, she forgets about her water bills, she forgets about her MOT test failure, she forgets about her crooked toe-nail and her cheap haircut. For one moment she feels free.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>The boy in dungarees has his mouth stuffed with a soiled sock. Muted cries are made, but that really does not affect his plight. The woman with her arm around the boy leaves behind a plastic Superdrug bag. Inside the bag there is around fifty unsuccessful pregnancy tests. The woman navigates the crowded shopping centre erratically, she bumps into a few chavs in pink cotton tracksuits: "OI WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING YOU DOZY MARE!". She doesn't look around, and she doesn't notice that all four of the girls are pregnant. She doesn't resent every piece of fertile blood that streams through their clitoral blood-vessels. She doesn't curse every single iron globule of waste that she sheds every 28 days; for now she has a baby of her own.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>One mother gets splashed by a droplet of water. She shudders and her eyes focus on the water fountain properly. She clearly sees the blond child splashing about like a drunken dog in the sea, but only now does she realise it is some other woman's son. Panic hits her and saturates her nerve endings, her stomach drops down to her ankles and her wrists begin to shake. Her mind plays a kaleidoscope of the past ten minutes, an image of the water fountain, spins into an image of the water fountain, dissolves into an image of the water fountain. Once more she is frozen, entranced by the water fountain. It is not flowing seamlessly, the blond boy is interrupting the flow. </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>She realises that she used to fit in and flow. Not anymore. She thinks. But she forgets how on this exact date three years ago an unsuspecting mother was fishing for her bus pass in the fountain. She forgets how she saw the anger in the mother's eyes as the fair-haired baby cried for some milk. She forgets the burning streak of jealousy that she felt shoot through her veins. She forgets the callous act of theft that she performed. She forgets noticing the way that the water splits and sprays around the arm of </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; "><b>the aggravated mother. She forgets picking the baby up, carefully cradling its neck, wrapping it up in her cardigan and walking towards the exit sign slowly and deliberately.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>One woman stranded in a glass shopping complex. The water fountain entrances her. Every drop of water rises and falls, flows seamlessly, invisibly.</b></span></b></span></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-51092530838331529512010-07-17T01:53:00.002+01:002010-07-17T02:42:54.973+01:00every journey is a triumph<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>I've been trying to find my friends house, at 1:45 AM, driving around a completely different neighborhood. I've been driving smoothly reckless dodging parked cars down a sequence of thin residential roads with squinted bloodshot eyes. I've been swerving across both sides of the road trying to pick up a cricket bat and some pads. With full beams on? On my own? At this time in the morning? This is what I've told the imaginary police officer in my mind. As I stand in my car-park listening to retro music over-indulgently whilst pissing on a British gas van who's interior is lit-up by a Sat-Nav.</b></span>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-42645348890370929892010-07-14T01:27:00.003+01:002010-07-14T01:46:25.905+01:00Did you mean: iphone doing this shit with sound wont work da phone<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>Entered Exeter. Got a job. Waited for a while at George's Meeting house for Darryl. met his Bulgarian friend. asked his English friend if he'd spunked in this girl yet. Had a drink. Had tea with Mum and Emily. Met England, he's got a new girlfriend in Portugal. Picked up Dave. Dave chips a toad over his neighbours house with a sand wedge. Dave's dad has lost their kitten. drive around town. stop and try to get Dane to steal us a football from One Stop. It is light outside still. talk to Jake and Rabbage. roll a spliff. I pull a bug from my hair and it looks like a mini black crab. smoke da joint outside the car. talk about a boy with a massive powerpod of a head shagging his maths teacher who is engaged. Kev Squires walks passed and chuckles to himself. Drive to Marine Parade. It is dark outside now. my phone wont work anymore, it just keeps on calling me a sex offender. the touchscreen doesn't work, it just reads out aloud everything that I press. sometimes it just says stuff anyway. "Facebook". "Facebook". "Facebook". smoke a joint on the beach. chuck stones at boats pretending to aim at the bin. "Papertoss". try to save the beach huts telephone number for prank calls. Forget the phone is fucking around. "Phonebook: double tap to open, swipe to lock". Get a pizza. I buy one you get one free. talk about when Rabbage smashed the pizza place's window. The sticker still hasn't been replaced : P_ ZZA P_ LACE. chuck the box outside the shop. see Dave kick a bin for a while. Jake walks home. Drop Dave home. Evade da policia. Drop Rabbage home. "Sex Offender". "German Les- Sex Offender". Harass some girls walking up the hill. Apologise. Drop England home. take a piss in the carpark. Brush my teeth. Get into bed. "Screen Dimmed... Screen Locked".</b></span>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-74004094426549300982010-07-13T00:14:00.001+01:002010-07-13T00:14:53.363+01:00London to Brighton<div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Driving on the wrong side of the road out of Berlin in a rented Volkswagen Polo and I've felt more comfortable with my hands in a prickle bush. Remembering to change gear with my right arm is harder than a left-handed wank. Occasionally I get the tyres caught in a tramline and grind down the road, but mostly I don't hit any of the other cars on the road. I'm sweating fuck-loads because I can't seem to initiate auto-pilot. Get high at a service station, get lost in Hannover, feel hungover on da autobahn, have a shit at a German mall, cross the border into the Netherlands, admire the lack of geographical relief, think about pretty brunette girls riding bicycles with dresses on, swap seats in the car, get some shit directions from Matthew Peter Somerville.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Laker navigates seamlessly through the labyrinth of one-way roads, tram-lines, gear changes and general road etiquette. Arrive at Matt's and smoke two of his pre-rolled spliffs. Read his spazticated email to Nick Clegg and set up a bed on the floor. Matthew mentions that he does 'occasionally smoke marijuana' but does not use this fact to excuse his spelling mistakes. Maybe we go out and get some fastfood this night too. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Get up to eat some waffles and try to take the rental car back to Hertz or Avis. Walk through Vondel Park, go to a coffee shop with flashing lights to play pool. The streets afterwards are delicious with strawberry cream tarts, quaint barges floating downstream, magical alleyways, tunnels and bridges. There are Turkish kebab stores with elephant legs swirling around on sweaty sticks, grey women on bicycles swearing like a witch. A red light means a fuck without a fight.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">We stumble in and out of civilization, occasionally engaging with other members just to buy rizlas, ice-cream smoothies or to give ourselves a comforting sense of alienation. The man in a boutique gives us a line of herbal speed that smells like cinnamon and tells us how to attract pretty girls with a toilet. The man in the Ajax shirt lurching over the bridge chucking half-empty cans of beer at families in boats tells us to 'FUCK OFF'. The tall girl with yellow hair, yellow eye make up and yellow bikini tells us 'to come in for some fun'. In bed at night we all wish that deep down, we wanted to sleep with a prostitute.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Buildings that look grey and industrial like Sheffield or Plymouth by day are illuminated vibrantly purple pink orange and turquoise at night. They now remind of Shang-hai or the great coral reef. It does not seem necessary for the sky to harbour stars because the whole town feels like a fairy tale; innocent fantasy replaced with gluttonous debauchery.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">The tastebuds here, like a pulsating clitoris, need constant stimulation. Your stomach becomes a hole that needs filling. 'Twenny euros extra for anal'.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Lost. One night we decide to gatecrash a houseparty untill it becomes apparent that it is infact a family barbecue, complete with nappy changing and beer sans alcohol. To move the evening along we decide to follow some girls for a bit. Turns out they don't know where they are going either. We push them down a steep hill with steps at the bottom in a shopping trolley. Waiting ages for a bus it dawns on us that they are not running this late on a national holiday. We walk in a direction. Find ourselves stood outside a pub blazing in the rain, drinking tins of Lidl branded beer, cheering loutishly at a plasma television that has Fulham beating Wolfsburg on it through an open doorway. The warmth of the wooden fireplace eludes us. Dutch people with money and wives start to notice us they scowl in our direction.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Later on a field with electronic music coming from a stage. Matt sees his boss in a coffee shop and she leaves. The electricity has been turned off on the stage. The taxi man has dropped us off prematurely and we are eating poor quality kebabs.</span></b></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-65892255873421520062010-06-03T18:21:00.002+01:002010-06-03T18:28:27.038+01:00Berlin Part Two<div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Eat loads of ham and cheese sandwiches for breakfast with chocolate corn flakes. Train to the Berlin wall. Walk into this tall glass building that has a silent sensation to it; reminiscent of theatrical depictions of heaven. On the other side of heaven is a river and on the river is a boat full of people. Realizing they are here to greet me, I put my hands up in the air in a celebratory manner. I wave humbly to my fans and the whole boat is moved to a standing ovation; women with rose-bowed hats raise their champagne glasses; children with balls of sun-cream on their noses clap their miniature hands disjointedly; and the driver releases a deep reverberating wail from the boat's horn.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">After climbing over a fence we find ourselves in a small commune that has been smuggled out of Jamaica since the tearing down of the Berlin Wall. The walls are filled with vibrant graffiti and the ground is sandy. There are stalls selling chicken stew, orangina, curried rice, iced beers and t-shirts with ghetto blasters printed on them. A beach volley-ball net, a skate ramp, a concrete basketball court, a beach soccer stadium and a ping pong table. Rastafarians are making friends with people; challenging them to the sports; offering them drugs; and rhythmically calling out "Reggae see-deeee's, Cum get ya Reggae see-deeee's. Onlee five Euros."</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I own the ping-pong table, easily beating Rastas, Brits, Germans and Poles. A whole new life reveals itself to me. A montage movie trailer: I see myself in four years, wearing a pair of worn out black sambas and a sleeveless top of a German punk band. My face, arms and legs are a rich brown; an indistinguishable tan from UV rays and lack of washing. I'm in a group of kids walking with bottles of cheap Vodka down a small street towards a house blaring with the sound of distorted guitars and blown-out speakers. Next I'm cycling over the grooves of the tram-lines sliding in and out of control through traffic to deliver flyers and small bags of speed. I'm stood on the roof of a building smoking a spliff and talking in German to a dirty-blond girl. We're watching the trails of cars and buses and ambulances mirroring the volatile meteor shower above us. I'm involved in a riot, a policeman is batting me down. I find a brick on the floor where I've fallen. I pick it up. I raise my arm. I am sat in a van, hands tied behind my back. I am dragged out of court. I am laid in a white room on a tough bed. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Get a McDonalds and it tastes like shit. Try on some overpriced woolen jumpers. Made in China not Tibet. See a pregnant woman working in a liquor store. Kick a piece of bread at an attractive woman who probably works in an office. Navigate a train to Potsdamer Platz. A bomb has exploded in a bus and there are fire engines everywhere. The whole situation is handed efficiently and hardly manages to disrupt our sight-seeing. Go to an affluent consumer complex; the walls are, again, made of glass and stretch up high into the sky like a skyscraper; the ceiling is a glass orb resembling that of a leisure centre; the water fountain is average; and the big screen televisions are showing trailers of childrens movies.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Drink a big German beer at a bar, tip the waiter, steal a mozzarella and tomato ciabatta, climb on a climbing frame, catch a train, catch a tram, run home, go to the kebab shop for some water, sit at the bar, play table football, meet a Polish guy and go up to his room for a joint.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Pitor is tall and lanky, he makes his money by smuggling cigarettes, designer clothes and marijuana around Europe. He gives his friend directions and sends him back to Poland with the money that Dan pays him for a box of fags. He rolls a big spliff and by the way he has lost his voice from shouting too much. He has a friendly but hoarse whisper. I experience vertigo as I tap out the ash from the seventh floor apartment. He is paranoid about the smell of smoke so he sprays a fake Lacoste aftershave all over himself, Dan, myself and the doorway. He stands on a stall to try and catch a moth in a plastic bag with a safety pin, but he falls over knocking me onto his bed.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">We go downstairs and harass the debating team. They are playing table football and won't give us a game so Pitor shouts abuse at them in German. Eventually we get a game and they thrash us 8-2. Their talisman is an autistic child genius, with no bone structure, the fashion sense of a Charles Dickens novel and Tourettes. He is constantly jibing us in such a nerdy and inpenetrative way that in our stoned states me and Dan don't bother to mention his trembling arms and irreparable social incompetence. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Leave an empty bottle of water on the table as I walk to the lift. This annoys him.</span></b></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-11605272240447931622010-06-03T17:28:00.002+01:002010-06-03T17:34:55.741+01:00Berlin<div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Berlin. 6:45 AM. Walk under a subway tunnel for about thirty minutes looking for a train station. Get in a taxi instead and go to the hostel. The canteen is filled with kids and cheese and pieces of ham with sweetcorn and chilies in. Sleep on the sofa for a bit and walk towards the massive tower in the centrum. See an apparition, God walks across the road in front of us and enters a working mens club.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Get approached by a Bosnian asking for money in centrum. Give her a strawberry, and look in all the car dealerships. Look at Bentleys, Ferraris, Mercedes and Volkswagen campers. Walk past the American embassy and a 6 seater bicycle that goes around in a circle. Throw strawberries at the SS police. Make a mockery of the tank memorial and squash a strawberry on the plaque to mourn the bloodshed.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Take a photo for some Polish girls and smell terrible. Get lost in the Holocaust memorial maze and shout stuff in English. Get a KFC and argue with the stupid women who serves me. She gives me a zinger tower meal, but not a wicked zinger tower meal, so although I get a hash brown and cheese in my burger I don't get two hot wings or some gravy. She can hardy speak English the dumb bitch. Walk around for ages and get vaguely lost on the tram back to the Generator Hostel.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Have a wank in the shower and fall asleep panting on the bunk bed. Wake up and a mexican walks into the room shortly followed by a Canadian couple. The fake Americans persuade us to go on the pub crawl so a posh English girl takes us on a train to a bar called Zapatos. The front is a rock club with a metal band blasting away, the back has a ping pong table and sofas and a dog and people smoking spliffs, sniffing coke and drawing graffiti. The back garden has three separate bars; each playing a different genre of Jet Set Radio music. There is a fire in a bucket and a man is offering to sell speed, a small bandstand has benches on the top. Up the four flights of stairs that stink of piss a man with a grey beard is working on a painting. An elegant couple and a bohemian boy are sat with him drinking red wine. His art is all over the walls and its all pretty nice to look at.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I challenge a guy to a ping pong match and I'm drunk. He plays for a while before smooching a sexy sexy girl and passionately kissing his dog. The guy with the joint comes over and lets us play doubles. He's on Dan's team against me and Tom. He's called Lazer. He chucks us the joint and watches the ball go past him with no effort to hit it with the paddle. Because its a pub crawl we have to leave and the graffiti guys look disheartened that we are with the guide.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">The next bar is average, underground and expensive. Really stoned now, its hard to talk to these people with weird, Canadian, Spanish and Sweedish accents. Dolled-up blond prostitutes are hanging around outside the bars with skirts. The next bar is all white, with mirrors everywhere. Me and Dan can't get out of the place because every corridor is a dead end. Find some steps and they lead to a dance-floor. Me and Dan start to get into it, dancing and looking around. These girls are all really thin, these guys all have spiked gelled hair, these kids are all underage! Eventually we decide to sort ourselves out and leave. Get lost walking around looking for Tom and the group or food, or a tram. We find a tram and luckily some girl reading a book and a man in a suit tell us we're headed towards the hostel.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Back in the bar with a pint, four pretty, but also obviously underage, girls approach us. "I'm young and dirty, buy me alcohol". We tell them to 'do one' and sit with some English girls. They're Northern, one is ginger and another has lost her voice. They're here in Berlin for the Techno scene but are not raving tonight. They go outside for a fag and come back in with a ten foot german man with greasy black hair and a leather jacket called 'The Generator'. He keeps on pretending to fart and lets me beat him at an arm wrestle. Then when Tom comes back with the Mexican, The Generator starts to do Arnie and Hitler impressions, complete with goose step and finger mustache akin to Basil Fawlty. The girl with no voice keeps on trying to stroke my hair, she's looking at the hole in my jeans and trying to give me presents; a blue tit earring and a white flower. She's telling me dirty things but I'm not avon any of it. Prefer to go to bed and listen to Belle and Sebastian on my phone.</span></b></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-32772584567230493142010-05-12T18:35:00.001+01:002010-05-12T18:35:30.138+01:00Coach Trip<div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Look behind me triumphantly at Tom. My ticket says number 24 on it and the hot Japanese girl he had been talking about is sitting by the window in seat number 23. After finding out that she is in-fact Chinese, and a dissident of the Communist party with a thirty-six year old boyfriend studying a PhD in Manchester I still don’t know her name, and it is too late to ask. Coach Trip Tip: Whenever you meet somebody ask for his or her name, as to avoid awkwardness later on in your friendship. She feeds me chocolate cookies and at every five-minute stop Tom feeds me a ‘Glamour’ wafer-thin cigarette. Dan is taking pictures of Lithuanian graffiti.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Crossing the border, two armed-guards carry out a passport check. They examine the Latvians’, glance at the front cover of the English and Germans’ and steal the Chinese girl’s passport. Coach Trip Tip: Be White-British or expect the worst. Villinuis looks like a mixture of mainland Greece and Grand Theft Auto Vice City - the latter mostly because of the brilliant blue sky and wide roads. Eastern Poland gives the impression of post-apocalyptic ruralism, with sparse washed-out farmyard scenes and a distinct lack of lusciousness in the landscape. Warsaw is a city. It has McDonalds and infrastructure. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">The Polish girl in the service station speaks no English. I have no Polish Zloty. She doesn’t accept Card. She will also not accept; English Pounds; European Euros; Latvian Lats; Casino chips; or my library card. I eat the last of my sausage, crisp and bread, dry-mouth inducing sandwiches and sit uncomfortably feeling sorry for myself for about five hours, falling in-and-out-of sleep every time the bus driver attempts a five lorry overtake, approaching the brow of a hill, in which case he is forced through instinct to break heavily in order avoid the imminent death of all on board and a hefty insurance bill to be footed by the coach company. Coach Trip Tip: Do not get caught in the repercussions of an Icelandic volcano’s ash-cloud, it could cost you a twenty-hour coach trip and possibly your life.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Western Poland looks like a forest of trees with intervals of Motels, surprisingly offering prices in Euros. By the time we get to Germany, approaching Berlin, everybody is stressed to the extent that middle-aged women are sweating in the vein of masturbating adolescent boys, but with the pungent scent of a midsummer’s daytrip on the London Underground. The air on the bus is stale and the mood is of outrage as a women attempts to collect money for the complimentary teas and coffees that she had tricked us into drinking. On a small television screen with tinny speakers, Indiana Jones with Latvian dubbing has finished playing. Getting off the bus feels like you’re graduating from school, receiving your bag mimics the receiving of certificates and saying farewell to the passengers reminds of the people in your form group that you just never want to see again. Coach Trip Tip: Proximity to fat German slobs, who steal your sausages while you’re asleep and tell you to turn your music down even when it is Belle and Sebastian and it is soothing, do not do the country justice.</span></b></div><div><br /></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-10943135690935594062010-05-05T00:34:00.000+01:002010-05-05T00:35:41.150+01:00Tourist Guide to Riga II<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>Thursday: go out for a tour of the good shit. We start off at Mcdonalds. After meeting Adam we see these two guys in army costumes walking next to each other like synchronous faggots, they have bayonets and Rupert shouts at them. Then we go up a massive tower, it’s a hotel, and from the 26th floor Riga Old Town looks like Jet Set Radio Future. Every single building looks like something different; as if loads of kids made models of houses out of matchboxes and pebbles, and then some architects decided to replicate them with bricks and mortar. Then we go to the Russian black market, its shut. But in a Jewish memorial square, we become cornered by five flashing police cars with sirens and a black limousine sporting the Israeli flag. We try to sneak out of the danger zone and we look out for sniper rifles and camera crews. It’s not as glamorous as that, but the man in the limo does turn out to be the Israeli Vice President. Tourist Tip: Avoid the Latvian police, they’re angry and have guns.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>In this big supermarket called ‘Stockman’ about a million Bourgeoisie Latvians are frantically walking around like puppets consuming expensive goods, whilst Santa Claws-esque jingles are broadcasted over the Tannoy system. We ascend the five floors of fun and leave straight away. On our way out Rupert spits water at women from the escalator and then throws a whole bottle on Hollie Higgins.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>We go out in the evening avon beers and foods and we meet some cool Czech guys and a Swedish sports presenter. They turn out to be creeps though, once they have met the girls they turn a bit lecherous; getting up in Hollie and Anya’s face touching their legs. The Swede was a nice guy but he was guilty by association so we ditch him too. Tourist Tip: Some men are only looking to get laid, be careful. After a few more bars we are all dancing, well Laker is going mental and Dan isn’t really dancing at all. A fat bird is giving it the filth to Rupert and a gook is playing it cool with Hollie. After a few hours of partying and arguing, Dan has gone back to Anya’s for a blowjob and Rupert is farting, spitting and hitting on Hollie. Somehow they are both in the top bunk snuggled up together by the morning.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>On Friday we go to the Russian Black Market again, this time its open and Anya is our translator. Tourist Tip: Try to meet a Russian girl from Chat Roulette before visiting Russian-speaking areas. Dan tries to take a picture of one stall and the guy tells him he wants to eat his balls for fucking breakfast in Russian. There’s an assortment of spades, shovels, kitchen knives, shears, hunting knives and all kinds of weapons to make me feel like a scaredy-cat. Most of the stalls look like the comprehensive contents of my luggage while some look like an unlucky driver is going to be cruising around with no stereo or speakers in his car. I buy loads of badges meanwhile Laker is getting chased around town by the Russian Mafia. </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>On a train to Jurmala: just normal stuff happens. At a restaurant there we have a lush meal with English music and Latvian beer. A fat cat joins us for supper and then we smoke some melon shisha and have a laugh. We crash an office ‘team-building’ exercise by chucking rocks at them and a French couple cycle away from us fervently when we ask them how to hire a bike. Tourist Tip: Some Tourist tip-books will send you on wild goose chases.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>Anya’s apartment is like a palace, the ceilings are higher than the Eiffel Tower and the walls are whiter than Snowdonia. I cant appreciate this though, I’m eating a takeaway pizza and drinking some beer but my stomach is playing tricks on me and my bum is burning. We play Uno for a bit and then start doing shots of ‘Russian’ vodka with lemon. Me and Tom go discharge hunting in the bedroom, the sheets are all over the place but the juice eludes us. I find a bidet and it sorts my life out. The massaging warm jets feel like clotted cream to my red-raw strawberry bumhole. Now the party is really going and we go to a Nazi bar where we perform a ritual with candle wax upon ourselves. After that me, Rupert and Hollie stay in a club until sunrise. I read out some Russian chat-up lines to some Latvian girls on the podium and talk to an Italian lesbian. Hollie is trying to get a kebab when we go home, but she just settles for a handful of somebody else’s pasta from the fridge. Tourist Tip: Always look out for scavenging drunks, padlock your food.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>Most of Saturday is spent arguing about what we’re going to do about the Volcano. Short of a plug we decide to try and buy a Latvian car. This is a failure. Anya leaves and it brings a tear to all of our eyes. </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>We correspond with some Latvian students from Falmouth and meet them at a houseparty. The eggs that they buy come in a packet with a six-packed hunk on the packaging and three weirdo beardo men are sat on a sofa with one girl. One girl says that she doesn’t have a problem causing her to finger herself every time she does a wee. The French bar is heaving again, heaving with shitheads, one big oath is actually walking into people and grunting “FEE FYE FO FUMB”. At Cuba some dancers mesmerize us as we sip banana daiquiris. By the time we finish drinking and finally decide to dance its’ quietening down, after a couple of minutes of grooving the place is virtually silent. Me and Tom go to a club on our own. Tourist Tip: Don’t be shit at dancing.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>For a while we eat a mixture of luscious and unsatisfactory Latvian foodstock and visit some art shops. Everybody is taking photos on cameras so I give them a run for their money on my phone. I decide to send some of these pictures to Knoors photo agency, offering them the full rights to each image for one million Euros. We watch English football at some Irish pub.</b></span></div><div><br /></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-86355955357487848262010-05-04T20:21:00.004+01:002010-05-05T00:42:40.788+01:00Tourist Guide to Riga I<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Helvetica Neue';"></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Helvetica Neue';"><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Avon a burger at Wimpy via Taunton Dean services. The bun is wholemeal, the burger is burnt, the ketchup is vinegar but the coke is cola. In the car I’m listening to pop-punk and talking to Dan on the phone. When I get to Bristol Dan has socks, shorts and shirt on; looking like a spastic and smelling of beer he takes me to a party. There’s loadsa people with bulging pupils, chatting and gurning on Mkat. A short stubby specimen of a woman, has a husband, she is drinking white wine spritzerss and wearing those gay horn-rimmed glasses that don’t have lenses. She later gets escorted out for spitting at a skinhead and swearing at girls. Because we’re boys; we talk about football.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Wake up in the middle of the night to a horrible fright; a small cat is vibrating on my face, giving me itches and making me pissed off. So I lock it in a room with the dog. With Dan, go to the mall, drink some samples of tea, eat KFC, go to the pub, beep at some ramblers, pick up a Chris Hoare, kick a ball, skatepark, eat lasagne, greet Rupert and Hollie, greet Tom and get a taxi to the airport.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">At the airport we get high. Lying on a sofa made from three wooden chairs, my hood partially covering my eyes, I start to see everything through a fish-eye lens. People’s heads are bending and the world is round. When I wake up we rush furiously to stand in a queue for ages. A ginger man shouts at us and then pushes in. The massage chairs are heavenly – Tourist Tip: well worth a quid. Sleep for most of the plane journey. Uneasy. Sleep at the hostel. Go out for drinks with Adam from the hostel. Get pissed as fuck and the beer tastes nice. Two hot girls (hot dancers, but actually dressed and looking like skanks) get up on stage and dance to “I’m Horny, Horny, Horny, Horny, Horny”. Rupert, when they have dismounted the miniature stage, then gets up and prances around for a while, in and out of the curtain, but no one in the joint gives a dam. A Latvian steals our drink and sticks his finger up at us. Tourist Tip: go on the pub-crawl, it’s cheap and gets you drunk.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">In the morning, look at statues of blockheads: army men with guns and then find Dan and Anya. At an Armenian restaurant the speciality soup features unidentified rodent testicles and leaves a semen-like residue as you lap up the creamy white texture. Rupert tries to impress the waitress with his LARGE 1.5 litre bottle of mineral water compared to the measly 333 ml bottle that she serves him. All of the other food is amazing, Armenian A-grade cuisine. Tourist Tip: Don’t have Armenian soup, even if you’re not in Armenia. </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Walk around for ages looking at stuff, mismatched buildings, Stalin’s Birthday Cake, The Opera House, some parks and an out of date football stadium.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">PM: Get drunk in the hostel and its karaoke; some Japanese chicks are singing the Spice Girls, Danish guys are singing about ‘being in a Barbie world’, Rupert is going on about Bodytalk in a high-pitched shriek, Dan has a Brand new combeinharvester, we all should stick to the literal Sound of Silence after doing Simon and his mate Garfunkel a huge disservice, and Laker is a fully-blown Teenage Dirtbag. Dan and Anya stay in our room but don’t S-ing.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Another night we get pizza out and the toilet has action music of its own. I feel like taking my poo is an adventure. A blond Australian girl, who is inlove with a Scottish crackhead, follows me and Tom home. Whilst watching Barcelona on TV we sort of engage in conversation with her. When she leaves we listen to Dntel and go to sleep. Tourist Tip: Girls can be boring, even if you’ve never met them before.</span></b></p></span><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-29762182714226542332010-04-07T00:31:00.002+01:002010-04-07T01:19:59.103+01:00sometimes when you live in Dawlish<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>Wake up and doze for around two and a half hours. Go for a piss hoping that my cum-stained boxers don't get noticed by my mum or sisters. Get back and take a sip out of my bedtime mug of water, it tastes fucked, like nail polish remover. Another sip. It's turned to vodka and I think I've become a trashy contemporary Jesus Christ. I'm talking to Katie on the phone and she is showing some builders her juicy pussy, but Dave is at the door so I have to go.</b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>My knee is fucked so I can't really play football properly. Just end up kicking the ball at little kids and goading the astro-turf groundsmen. Take Stefan home and we try to get a free coffee from Freddi at Baileys Cafe Lounge, but some supervisor women or something are working too so we just leave.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>At Dave's World of Warcraft is fucking shit and Dave's Bulgarian internet friend sounds like a nerd. Dave sounds like a nerd. Dave Chappell Senior comes home and we have roast chicken baguettes. Dave persuades his dad to have a drag race with him down the lanes. Senior's car feels like a spaceship, we must be going at least two hundred miles an hour and my head is glued to the heated neck-rest. The engine sounds well loud and my stomach feels like a bees nest has been opened inside it. My eyes are blurring and Dave's car is a distant speck in the wind-mirror.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>Take the sports car for a cruise down the Warren to impress holiday-makers, have a drag-race in the car park and run a red light. Me and Dave kick a ball at fat northerners and arcade rides. I smash a pint glass and Dave upsets a toddlers mummy.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>We go downtown and play basketball a little bit and talk to Stefan. He goes to have fajitas so we try and steal some energy drinks from the arcade. Get no energy drinks and lose fifty pee in the gambler. See Jeff Davies in a smart suit and possibly inebriated. </b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>Watch the football at the Langstone Cliff Hotel and then watch some soft porn and read GQ afterwards. Pleasant journey home, eat some roast dinner and watch loads of Southpark. Don't even wank merely go to sleep</b></span></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-84869767134076938422010-04-04T12:16:00.002+01:002010-04-04T12:23:50.145+01:00Spaghetti Bolognaise<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>Imagine being sideways and a big crushing vice device is crushing; a massive bunch of onions with the skin on; loads of garlic bulbs; a live cow that is 'mooing' and a fuck load of tomatoes. enough to feed the third world.</b></span>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399186310602363555.post-80176360617954364692010-03-22T22:00:00.003+00:002010-03-23T01:31:38.699+00:00AGGREKO<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Have you heard about what is going on at the reservoir? There's a sewage tank, an electric fence, an invisible pile of chopped wood, a number-plate recognition camera, a miniature waterfall, a recurring taxi with flashing lights, a 'danger of death' sign, a big body of water, a concrete diving board, a desolate car seat, a smoking spot, an abandoned farmyard, a house that people live in and loads of ominous signs saying: "PRIVATE GROUNDS NO ENTRY".</span></b><div><b></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Have you heard about 'AGGREKO' it is a big blue generator enclosed within a high-security fence. The building next to it has two CCTV screens displaying the road outside and some person has littered the area with an assortment of coke cans, evian bottles, smart price ASDA crisp packets, a Mr Men mug and a vulgar lecoqsportif polo shirt.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>* * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>A guy who plays keyboard is getting high with a fat kid in a nirvana hoody. They are eating fish and chips watching a film about the atom bomb. "Mate imagine being as strong as an atom bomb" The grunger says to the cool cat. "You'd be shit - you're incapable of anything until you implode on yourself and then you leave a smell or something that keeps on killing people for like, ten years or more". Inhaling as the end of the cigarette burns: "I guess man, but if it was on Halo you'd be a mean motherfucker".</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>Later on they walk to the beach and see the keyboarders ex girlfriend. He tries to say hello, but her gaze seems to sweep past him, resting awkwardly on the fat kid for a split-second before getting out her phone and pretending to talk to her best friend.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>* * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>A bus driver is pissed off. His Sky+ refused to record 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' and the pasty shop was sold out of steak and stilton. Loads of shit-faced students are on his bus talking about how hard their academic essays are and the elderly people are hobbling around the aisle bumping into the poles, hitting the "Stop" button more often than is useful.</b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>Crashing, smashing, ball-bashing; the driver yearns to bounce his passengers around the insides of his bus like the green and yellow tic-tacs that he shakes around his small plastic container.</b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>* * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b></b></span>A boy is wandering around the town at night, on his own, he stumbles upon some shotgun shells. He assumes its just the remains of some backward farmer's encounter with a badger or something as equally vapid. A taxi-car flashes passed him. </b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>* * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>The keyboard player and the fat kid get onto the bus because they are too stoned to drive. They sit at the back and the ex girlfriend sits at the front of the bus, she gets on at the next stop. The keyboard player says that Beth has been acting strange, the grunger agrees. The keyboard player says he wishes he didn't have to see her everyday at uni, and the grunger says nothing.</b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>* * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b></b></span>The bus-driver glances in his mirror and sees a blond hardbody sat opposite him, she keeps glancing back to see the road go by out of the back window. The driver has had enough of his usual route. He wants to get frisky, the greasy bastard. He drives down a lane and is cut up by a crazy taxi. He follows it past an abandoned farmyard, alongside an electric fence, through a number-plate recognition camera, around a sewage tank, past a pile of invisible chopped up wood, ignoring a desolate car seat, past the smoking spot and stops at a big body of water in front of a black and white sign reading: "PRIVATE GROUNDS NO ENTRY".</b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>* * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b> * *</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>The boy is scared because as the road enfolds in front of him more and more gun pellets are made visible, shinning brilliantly in the moonlight, twinkling like stars but more dangerously. A bus drives by. He doesn't know what to think, so he just runs. He can hear shouting in the distance, but he is more concerned with the birds fluttering in the over-arching trees above him. Every sudden movement cuts deeply into his brain.</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>The boys on the bus are panicking because they know this is not the scheduled turn-of-events. The ex girlfriend comes and sits with them on the back row. She tells them both that she has been sleeping with the grunge kid, although he already knew this. The keyboarder is not bothered by this revelation, another day he may have been, but at this moment in time - stranded, held hostage by a horny bus driver in the middle of nowhere - he feels it to be an opportunity: for he has never had a threesome. He suggests, with a huge implication of guilt on behalf of the grunger and the girlfriend, that if they are going to die out here, then they may as well fuck out here first.</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>The bus-driver who has been snooping around the reservoir looks up and sees the blond girl take off her top through the window of his bus. He desperately runs towards the vehicle moving voraciously and ungraciously kicking up piles of dust all around him. A portrait of repulsion; his mouth is panting and his eyes are blinking incessantly. </b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>The boy comes to the end of the road and unsurprisingly finds a big old bus parked in front of a sign reading: "PRIVATE GROUNDS NO ENTRY". The taxi-car is hidden to him, but nevertheless it is still there. Three men in suits are seen coming out of the building next to 'AGGREKO'. Three shotgun shots are heard and the lecherous bus driver is fucked. The boy sits down cross-legged and waits for his dream to end. The threesome inside the bus is awkward and the grunger has lost his hard-on. When the three men in suits walk onto the bus brandishing their long shotguns, the keyboard player loses his erection too. The girlfriends hole closes and the suited men's fingers squeeze their triggers. The boy imitating the Buddha still hasn't woken up from his nightmare and the three men in suits have no qualms in reminding him just how real this situation is.</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b>The suited men chuck all five bodies into the sewage tank, tow the bus into the big body of water and get back into their taxi. They confer, but none of the detectives understand why this keeps on happening: none of them know what is going on at the reservoir.</b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><b><br /></b></span></b></span></div></div>freakiestjoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01604899019885960094noreply@blogger.com0