Friday, February 19
Friends!
Yeah, we should be friends, well.... Facebook friends. You can add me on facebook and we'll be friends. You're not much of an updater are you? Nevermind, I can just hide your feed. And don't go commenting on my pictures and stuff - we hardly know each other! But yeah, we can be limited profile facebook friends. It'll be like old times, well this time. The time we met. What I'm saying is we won't ever be in the same room again but we can still be friends. I mean, feel free to follow me on twitter but don't be surprised if I don't follow you. See you around, friend!
Monday, February 8
The Bad Weather Kid
It was thought of as mere bad luck that the boy was born during the biggest storm of the decade. Born into red-faced screeching mother said it was like she gave birth to the storm and father chortled.
Years passed and the coincidences mounted: The toddler had a cold during each thick snow drop, a babysitter pointed out it would rain as she washed his hair and his tantrums grew so did the storms.
The storms got worse as the child grew older and became angrier. It was understandable that a boy would be angry if he never saw the sun, never able to play outside.
Mother and father would make excuses: “It’s global warming”, or “bloody British weather.” Looking for an escape from it all they went on a cruise and the three of them were lucky to survive the outcome.
School children caught on quickly and the boy soon became the ‘Bad Weather Kid’. No one said it to him directly - not since Timmy was struck by lighting.
As a teenager he became volatile. The locals of the once sunny seaside town he grew up were driven away by precipitation and in the years of puberty the cliffs eroded and the empty homes were consumed by the ocean.
With the town abandoned, only father drowned.
The crushing guilt made the boy solemn and storms were replaced by a grieving steady rain. Mother would refer to her son’s condition as “his gift” but after the lose of her husband she decided God must have given him the gift for a reason and maybe they we’re being punished for not making proper use of it.
She sent The Bad Weather Kid to Africa. He’d tour the continent and bring rain to all. Droughts would end and crops would grow. Her boy was the answer to famine and she only wished she realised it before father died.
Her boy arrived and everyone waited for the rain... But there was nothing. The boy experienced clear skys for the first time in his life and rather than celebrate he complained of migraines. Mother decided it was best he stay, as at least they were no longer having a destructive effect or so they thought. The drought drew longer, the sun shone harder, what little crops they had - perished. He was the ‘bad weather kid’ after all.
Once they returned to England mother withdrew from society. At 15-years-old social services took the boy away and soon reported his strange effect to the government. The testing and prodding didn’t last long. The boy became furious and the storm encompassing the nation.
Too bitter, too angry, too grief-stricken – the psychologists said it would take years to control his emotions and by then the country would be devastated.
They raked their brains looking for an answer but not that one. No one dare suggest such a thing. Not on the first day at least. Someone whispered it in the first week but the rest ignored it. By the end of the month the defeated sleep-deprived experts slouched in their chairs and the Prime Minister said it.
He leaned forward and asked: “What if we killed the boy?”
Years passed and the coincidences mounted: The toddler had a cold during each thick snow drop, a babysitter pointed out it would rain as she washed his hair and his tantrums grew so did the storms.
The storms got worse as the child grew older and became angrier. It was understandable that a boy would be angry if he never saw the sun, never able to play outside.
Mother and father would make excuses: “It’s global warming”, or “bloody British weather.” Looking for an escape from it all they went on a cruise and the three of them were lucky to survive the outcome.
School children caught on quickly and the boy soon became the ‘Bad Weather Kid’. No one said it to him directly - not since Timmy was struck by lighting.
As a teenager he became volatile. The locals of the once sunny seaside town he grew up were driven away by precipitation and in the years of puberty the cliffs eroded and the empty homes were consumed by the ocean.
With the town abandoned, only father drowned.
The crushing guilt made the boy solemn and storms were replaced by a grieving steady rain. Mother would refer to her son’s condition as “his gift” but after the lose of her husband she decided God must have given him the gift for a reason and maybe they we’re being punished for not making proper use of it.
She sent The Bad Weather Kid to Africa. He’d tour the continent and bring rain to all. Droughts would end and crops would grow. Her boy was the answer to famine and she only wished she realised it before father died.
Her boy arrived and everyone waited for the rain... But there was nothing. The boy experienced clear skys for the first time in his life and rather than celebrate he complained of migraines. Mother decided it was best he stay, as at least they were no longer having a destructive effect or so they thought. The drought drew longer, the sun shone harder, what little crops they had - perished. He was the ‘bad weather kid’ after all.
Once they returned to England mother withdrew from society. At 15-years-old social services took the boy away and soon reported his strange effect to the government. The testing and prodding didn’t last long. The boy became furious and the storm encompassing the nation.
Too bitter, too angry, too grief-stricken – the psychologists said it would take years to control his emotions and by then the country would be devastated.
They raked their brains looking for an answer but not that one. No one dare suggest such a thing. Not on the first day at least. Someone whispered it in the first week but the rest ignored it. By the end of the month the defeated sleep-deprived experts slouched in their chairs and the Prime Minister said it.
He leaned forward and asked: “What if we killed the boy?”
Wednesday, December 2
Job Application
In relation to the job posting tell us about a public figure you admire and explain why:
I’d say my personal hero has to be Jesus because I think we are a lot alike. What I admire most about him is not so much his teachings or sacrifice - I just think that, like me, he was a bit of a late bloomer.
My dad’s a very pushy man, another thing we’ve got in common, and he thinks I should be more career minded at 23-years-old and know what I want to do. I pointed out that Jesus didn’t know what he wanted to do until he was thirty! And if it’s good enough for him then it’s good enough for me.
I take great comfort in the fact that if this job sucks I'll eventually find something that'll work out.
Also, he had a cool beard.
I’d say my personal hero has to be Jesus because I think we are a lot alike. What I admire most about him is not so much his teachings or sacrifice - I just think that, like me, he was a bit of a late bloomer.
My dad’s a very pushy man, another thing we’ve got in common, and he thinks I should be more career minded at 23-years-old and know what I want to do. I pointed out that Jesus didn’t know what he wanted to do until he was thirty! And if it’s good enough for him then it’s good enough for me.
I take great comfort in the fact that if this job sucks I'll eventually find something that'll work out.
Also, he had a cool beard.
Wednesday, November 25
Pike and June: An Inspirational Story
June was looking at redundancy. The hospital was making cutbacks and they didn't have any patients for her. A trained facilitator, she’d help paralysed patients communicate by holding their hand over the keyboard. But lately nobody needed her help.
This made June nervous. On rainy days she'd find herself praying for a bike accident. Surely someone was due a devastating spinal injury?
Eventually the boss called June into his office and she knew this meant the end. She walked down the long corridor passing the coma ward and an idea struck.
What if one of the coma patients was actually paralysed? She quietly examined them but no-one showed any signs. June should have accepted her fate and moved on but she was desperate.
Why not pick a coma victim and pretend? She's the expert, no one could disagree with her. All she ever did was hold the patients hand over a keyboard until it felt like they were trying to push a button. She could do the job just as easily without a patient’s involvement. She'd probably be better at it - June's spelling was exceptional. What would the coma victim care? She'd make them look good - articulate.
June picked Christopher Pike, a man in his late thirties who hasn’t moved for eighteen years. Pike would be her saviour.
The hospital was overjoyed at the news Mr Pike was conscious. June's job was safe and Pike's family loved her. They always knew their Chris was still there. June felt a bit guilty about this but all the hugs made her feel much better.
June found it surprisingly easy pretending to be her new patient. Mrs Pike would mostly talk at her son allowing June to simply type affirming words on Pike’s behalf. If ever a question June couldn't answer arose then Pike was just “feeling tired” and needed “rest”. Sympathy will you get you far.
The media attention was not anticipated. At first a local news story, then national, within days it was all over the world. June felt a bit guilty about this but all the attention made her feel much better.
Before June knew it this motivational story made her a hero. She was the person that recognized Pike's condition and Pike was always complimenting her. Eventually their life story was bought by Steven Spielberg and Julia Roberts was playing her in a movie. June felt a bit guilty about this but dinner with Julia Roberts made her feel much better.
Life was good until the day Christopher Pike woke up. Maybe she could have bribed him to carry on. There was enough so both could be rich. But why should she share? Pike was just a puppet - she was the master.
It only took a few minutes. Eighteen years lying down makes you very weak. Far too weak to hold off a pillow over your face.
Christopher Pike died aged thirty-nine. June felt a BIT guilty about the murder but the guest slot on Oprah made her feel MUCH better.
This made June nervous. On rainy days she'd find herself praying for a bike accident. Surely someone was due a devastating spinal injury?
Eventually the boss called June into his office and she knew this meant the end. She walked down the long corridor passing the coma ward and an idea struck.
What if one of the coma patients was actually paralysed? She quietly examined them but no-one showed any signs. June should have accepted her fate and moved on but she was desperate.
Why not pick a coma victim and pretend? She's the expert, no one could disagree with her. All she ever did was hold the patients hand over a keyboard until it felt like they were trying to push a button. She could do the job just as easily without a patient’s involvement. She'd probably be better at it - June's spelling was exceptional. What would the coma victim care? She'd make them look good - articulate.
June picked Christopher Pike, a man in his late thirties who hasn’t moved for eighteen years. Pike would be her saviour.
The hospital was overjoyed at the news Mr Pike was conscious. June's job was safe and Pike's family loved her. They always knew their Chris was still there. June felt a bit guilty about this but all the hugs made her feel much better.
June found it surprisingly easy pretending to be her new patient. Mrs Pike would mostly talk at her son allowing June to simply type affirming words on Pike’s behalf. If ever a question June couldn't answer arose then Pike was just “feeling tired” and needed “rest”. Sympathy will you get you far.
The media attention was not anticipated. At first a local news story, then national, within days it was all over the world. June felt a bit guilty about this but all the attention made her feel much better.
Before June knew it this motivational story made her a hero. She was the person that recognized Pike's condition and Pike was always complimenting her. Eventually their life story was bought by Steven Spielberg and Julia Roberts was playing her in a movie. June felt a bit guilty about this but dinner with Julia Roberts made her feel much better.
Life was good until the day Christopher Pike woke up. Maybe she could have bribed him to carry on. There was enough so both could be rich. But why should she share? Pike was just a puppet - she was the master.
It only took a few minutes. Eighteen years lying down makes you very weak. Far too weak to hold off a pillow over your face.
Christopher Pike died aged thirty-nine. June felt a BIT guilty about the murder but the guest slot on Oprah made her feel MUCH better.
Tuesday, November 17
Simon says
Simon says Terry never owned a suit and wouldn’t expect us to wear one at his funeral.
Simon says the family wants us all to wear casual clothes: “As if we were just going to the pub with Terry one last time.”
I chose conservatively, a dark short sleeved shirt, black jeans. My hand stretched past the Nike trainers and selecting office shoes instead. I wear them to the pub in case we go to a club after - it’s within the spirit of the rules.
I arrive and all are suited and booted. Even Simon has the audacity to come in a tie.
“What happened to casual wear?” I ask.
“This is casual,” Simon says.
“When did you last wear a tie to the pub?”
Simon says: “It’s still a funeral mate. Besides, it is a Bugs Bunny tie.”
I don’t listen to what Simon says anymore.
Simon says the family wants us all to wear casual clothes: “As if we were just going to the pub with Terry one last time.”
I chose conservatively, a dark short sleeved shirt, black jeans. My hand stretched past the Nike trainers and selecting office shoes instead. I wear them to the pub in case we go to a club after - it’s within the spirit of the rules.
I arrive and all are suited and booted. Even Simon has the audacity to come in a tie.
“What happened to casual wear?” I ask.
“This is casual,” Simon says.
“When did you last wear a tie to the pub?”
Simon says: “It’s still a funeral mate. Besides, it is a Bugs Bunny tie.”
I don’t listen to what Simon says anymore.
Tuesday, October 20
Tube Announcement
11:27pm.
Sitting on an underground train I finish ruffling through the free paper and focus on the driver’s announcement.
“-I want you to know I only meant to scare her,” the calm voice said. “It was never supposed to kill her,”
My ears picked up. How long has he been talking?
“I thought burying her would be hardest but keeping it a secret this long has destroyed me.”
I look on at the dozen other passengers all transfixed on their portable entertainment. The confessional washing over them.
He continues: "I’m sure you’re disgusted by my tale and I do not expect forgiveness. I accepted my place in hell long ago.”
The speakers go silent. Should I be worried? Scared? Ring the police? I feel bad that what I really want is the first part of the story. The gossip.
Our train slows and the speakers crackle back to life.
His final words: “This station is Mill Hill East. All change here.”
The carriage empties as my fellow passengers shuffle onto the platform - unaware of what happened. I guess I’m no different.
Sitting on an underground train I finish ruffling through the free paper and focus on the driver’s announcement.
“-I want you to know I only meant to scare her,” the calm voice said. “It was never supposed to kill her,”
My ears picked up. How long has he been talking?
“I thought burying her would be hardest but keeping it a secret this long has destroyed me.”
I look on at the dozen other passengers all transfixed on their portable entertainment. The confessional washing over them.
He continues: "I’m sure you’re disgusted by my tale and I do not expect forgiveness. I accepted my place in hell long ago.”
The speakers go silent. Should I be worried? Scared? Ring the police? I feel bad that what I really want is the first part of the story. The gossip.
Our train slows and the speakers crackle back to life.
His final words: “This station is Mill Hill East. All change here.”
The carriage empties as my fellow passengers shuffle onto the platform - unaware of what happened. I guess I’m no different.
Saturday, October 10
The Jolly Codger
Captian Blackbeard was an excellent recruiter.
“Tax breaks aside,” he’d say, “there’s three perks to being a pirate. You’ll travel the world, work with animals and enjoy a great pension scheme!”
Blackbeard never had a reputation for nurturing talent and failed to pass on his map drawing skills.
Fifty years on I realise I should have pushed him for training. My X looked fine but what way to hold the map? How’d I forget to write north on the thing?
“East!” I confidently proclaimed to the trusting crew.
A one in four chance? Maybe. I’ve made it through tougher odds.
“Tax breaks aside,” he’d say, “there’s three perks to being a pirate. You’ll travel the world, work with animals and enjoy a great pension scheme!”
Blackbeard never had a reputation for nurturing talent and failed to pass on his map drawing skills.
Fifty years on I realise I should have pushed him for training. My X looked fine but what way to hold the map? How’d I forget to write north on the thing?
“East!” I confidently proclaimed to the trusting crew.
A one in four chance? Maybe. I’ve made it through tougher odds.
Monday, September 28
Disney Porn
Fred was delighted to have his first porn audition.
"You need a USP" his agent said, confusing simple Fred.
"A unique selling point," she explained. "Think up a character, an angle, make it marketable!"
She laughed when Fred said he’d go to a fancy dress shop for inspiration. Clothes aren’t many people's first thought when it came to naughty videos.
Fred searched the racks until he came across a blue sailor suit. Inspired, he rushed to the counter and bartered. He only wanted the sailor hat and shirt. No trousers.
The woman insisted the trousers were part of the outfit and items could not be sold separately. He was too excited to argue and paid the full price.
At the audition, Fred posed in his bottomless outfit. A blue sailor hat and shirt.
Donald Fuck was born.
Fred, er… I mean Donald, was an instant success. The Disney Corporation almost immediately sent cease-and-desist orders.
He ignored Walt’s lawyers and they let it lie until Donald won ‘Best New Cummer’ at a prestigious award ceremony.
Disney then threatened to sue him but Donald’s lawyer explained a family company like that wouldn’t want to give him any more exposure.
Donald forgot his legal worries until the phone started making a clicking sound. Soon after men in suits started showing up and making notes, keeping an eye. A black car was parked outside his home but it was probably always there. Right?
Never good at taking a hint Donald still went to work the day after a suspicious gas leak took his new home.
Although speeding he didn’t intend to skip the traffic lights. Nor drive off the pier.
Donald Fuck was DEAD.
Some say it was suicide, the pressures of fame. Others say the brakes were always dodgy. Some suggest the brakes were cut.
"You need a USP" his agent said, confusing simple Fred.
"A unique selling point," she explained. "Think up a character, an angle, make it marketable!"
She laughed when Fred said he’d go to a fancy dress shop for inspiration. Clothes aren’t many people's first thought when it came to naughty videos.
Fred searched the racks until he came across a blue sailor suit. Inspired, he rushed to the counter and bartered. He only wanted the sailor hat and shirt. No trousers.
The woman insisted the trousers were part of the outfit and items could not be sold separately. He was too excited to argue and paid the full price.
At the audition, Fred posed in his bottomless outfit. A blue sailor hat and shirt.
Donald Fuck was born.
Fred, er… I mean Donald, was an instant success. The Disney Corporation almost immediately sent cease-and-desist orders.
He ignored Walt’s lawyers and they let it lie until Donald won ‘Best New Cummer’ at a prestigious award ceremony.
Disney then threatened to sue him but Donald’s lawyer explained a family company like that wouldn’t want to give him any more exposure.
Donald forgot his legal worries until the phone started making a clicking sound. Soon after men in suits started showing up and making notes, keeping an eye. A black car was parked outside his home but it was probably always there. Right?
Never good at taking a hint Donald still went to work the day after a suspicious gas leak took his new home.
Although speeding he didn’t intend to skip the traffic lights. Nor drive off the pier.
Donald Fuck was DEAD.
Some say it was suicide, the pressures of fame. Others say the brakes were always dodgy. Some suggest the brakes were cut.
Sunday, September 27
The rapist
Judy was shocked by the news her new neighbour was a rapist. He wasn’t ashamed to say so. He even gave her a business card that read John Bolder The Rapist. She probably should have calmed down before burning down his house. Judy felt terribly guilty the next day when Fran asked: “Did you hear about poor John the Therapist?”
Would Like To Meet...
A police woman would be his perfect wife. She’d be athletic, she’d have a regular income, her night shifts would give him time to himself.
Timothy could see no reason to not quicken the proceedings and meet his soulmate as soon as possible.
He entered the park, disrobed and waited. He smiled as the faint blue lights drew closer.
Timothy could see no reason to not quicken the proceedings and meet his soulmate as soon as possible.
He entered the park, disrobed and waited. He smiled as the faint blue lights drew closer.
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