Requiem for Little Benny Hedges fficeffice" />    Little Benny Hedges was spat from between his 15 year old mums thighs one murky evening. The father missed the birth as he outside smoking a fag and gabbing on his mobile, flogging weed to his generally chatting rubbish interspersed with “innit’s” and “wickeds”. The father announced his arrival in the maternity ward with the rustling of his tracksuit bottom. Young Benny Hedges was named after his parents favourite brand of tabs. A loving gesture. A sign of true love. Little Benny Hedges was born into a world of satellite TV, baseball caps, chips, loud TV talk shows, high rises and worn out carpets. He was often looked after his grandparents as his parents where to lazy to get their sorry arse out of bed before midday. Once when the grandparent went to holiday (an all exclusive weekend in some Spanish resort where they ate fry up’s everyday, burnt to a crisp under the sun and made sure they managed to view all the Premiership games that  the local Only Fools and Horses bar showed) Little Benny Hedges spent two days sitting in the same filthy nappy. His parents only noticed when they spotted flies buzzing around his backside. When they endeavoured to change his nappy it took them 3 hours. To drown out Little Benny Hedges noises they used to turn Trisha up and the sound of people rowing blared out of their 42inch widescreen TV. Little Benny Hedges diet consisted of Wotsits and tea. He only went out when his dad went to sign on or when the man in a suit turned up to see if his mother would be returning to school to finish her GCSE’s. Anyway, two years on Little Benny Hedges was taken to a fireworks display. The night was a glow with explosions and colours. His father was with his mates, chatting rubbish interspersed with “innit’s” and “wickeds”, his mother was with her mates talking rubbish interspersed with “innit’s” and “wickeds”. I nthe ground, ready to be lit was a super doper fuck off sky rocket which was to be the grand finale of the evening. Little Benny Hedges stumbled and galloped to the rocket, oblivious to the eyes of his parents who were to bust smoking, drinking and discussing tittle tattle. Little Benny Hedges tied himself to the rocket and, using his fathers lighter which he had stolen he lit the fuse. The fuse fizzed and the rocket vibrated and Little Benny hung on and something scientific took place within  the shell go the firework and soon Little Benny was fired into the air, racing towards the stars, his parents becoming tiny track suited speck in the ground. The rocket exploded and threw Little Benny through the air. Luckily he landed on something soft. He was alive and he had escaped. He got up and strode forward, purposefully to begin a new life.   Little Benny parents never realised he was gone till they woke up at 1.26pm the next day.   You need a licence to own a dog buy any fuckwit can have a child, weird innit?

7.11.05 11:08 Permalink / 3 Comments / comment

Disney Land After Dark fficeffice" />    n on her heels MTo many, a family holiday to Disney land, Florida, is the pinnacle of family holidays. It is a status symbol, a badge to wear in front of friends, family and colleagues. Something the parents can show off about over carefully planned dinner parties of chilled Sancere, salmon and giraffe and the kids can boast about in school to poorer children, those who holiday in Butlins or God forbid, tents. However for the Smith family of Stourbridge, their dream holiday to Disney land turned into hell on Earth, when one sunny June evening they found themselves locked inside the park, after dark. The crowd’s had left, the underpaid workers and Mexican wetbacks had finished cleaning and had all retreated back to their Disney sponsored hovels to feast of pizza, sasperella and 456 channels of sport, loud chat shows and infomercials. The site, which during the day was awash with the giggles of children and the sound of wallets opening, was now, literally, dead. When the Smith family realised they were locked in they didn’t mind as they could explore the site, eat food form the vending machines and a night I nthe park couldn’t be that bad, could it? And anyway they may even get their story on TV, be something to tell their friends about back home. They were making their way down Main Street when three shadows appeared from around a corner. The three shadows got closer. Smith child #1 recognised the figures, it was Huey, Dewey, and Louie, Donald Ducks nephews. But there was something different about them. There big eyes were blood shoot and their gait was unsteady. Huey had stubble. Dewey had a flick knife in one hand and a red headed match dangling menacingly from the corner of his mouth. Louie just looked plan cracked out of his head. The crazy ducking were flying high on uppers and rock and they were looking for trouble. When they started hassling the Smith family for money they fled and the ASBO ducks gave chase. The Smith family burst through ha door and found themselves in a shadowy bar where sleazy keyboards and horns oozed from the speakers. On stage was a down on her heels Winnie Mouse, wearing a leopard skin thong and shaking her arse for what’s it worth. Characters eagerly stuffed Disney dollars down her thong unknown that this money would be squandered on heroin. Mickey sat at a bar stall, a cigar hanging from his mouse mouth while groupies surrounded him. Now in some kind of obvious shock the Smith family exited the bar and looked for salvation. The drug-fuelled duck triplets were still in hot pursuit, thirsty for a night of adolescent high jinks and a spot of social disorder. Ducking down a dark alleyway the Smith family stopped to take stock of the situation. In a window across the street they made out movement. Mr Smith edged closer, hopefully who ever lived here could help. He peered through the window, and there before his own two eyes he saw a the following scene of depravity: Cruellea DeVille, dressed in an ankle length dog fur coat and naked underneath stood watching as Pinocchio used his nose to repeatedly enter Poccahontas from behind. All this was being filmed by Jimmy Cricket and in the corner stood an array of Disney characters wacking off to this vision of wooden nose puppet sex. Mr Smith was aghast. He didn’t recall any of these shenanigans being offered in the luxury family fly- by -drive –by- Disney all inclusive Golden Ticket Family Break he had ordered at the local travel agent and he made a mental note to write a very stern letter to the Travel agents as soon as he returned home. He was mentally writing a strongly worded letter of complaint when he was distracted by a scream. He spun and his wife was being man-handled by a seven dwarves who seemed out of their tiny minds on a cocktail of blood-lust and cheap moonshine. Mr Smith and his children beat back the dwarves with fists and rescued their mother and wife.   Finally, they managed to find a hiding place, high in a church steeple. Below them Disney burnt. The characters, all the stars and some minor ones were rammaging through the streets of dreams. Pluto was seen defecating in the middle of the street while 101 Dalmatians embroiled themselves in a hardcore spit-roasting dog on dog orgy. Bambi was kidnapped. Peter Pan was spotted putting ruthies in Cinderella beverages.   Tears streamed down the Smiths families faces.   The Disney dream slowly died before their 8 eyes.

28.10.05 13:50 Permalink / 2 Comments / comment

Beatle Fingers I am a genius. fficeffice" /> It must be said. Genius.   After getting the DNA of John Lennon (I stole some DNA from a rude picture of his at the sex museum in Amsterdam) and Paul McCartney (I got his DNA from one of Heather fakes legs, there was a small piece of McCartney hair hanging round the lip of the artificial limb) I retreated to my shed, got out my test tubes and bunsen burner and began work.   It was tiring work, sweat dripped from my brow. Coffee was consumed and cigarettes were smoked.   Dates on the calendar were ticked off.   But soon, soon my creations were ready.   Alive, they were alive.   On my workbench stood two tiny clones of the worlds greatest singer / song writing partnership. Yes, they were alive and before my eyes stood two tiny mop-headed scouse men dressed in their Sgt Pepper outfits both sporting ‘tasches. I picked them up and put them in their new homes, two shoe boxes with Barbie furniture.   I made them tiny instruments.   I played them modern music, drum and bass, hip hop, ragga, deep house, gabba, indie guitar rock, cock rock metal, world music, bhangra, trip-hop, space dub, bionic-jazz. I introduced them to computers, turntables, loops and other shit that wasn’t around in their day. They immersed themselves in the “new” music. They drank thirstily from the goblet I had offered them.   I then instructed them to write me hit songs, big fucking hit songs that would make me millions.   To ensure they couldn’t escape I grafted them on to my hands and now as well as having the number 1,2 and 3 spot in the hit parade I have the two small Beatle clones as second thumbs on each hand.   If  I grafted them onto the same hand they would only wind each other up.   Next week I will clone Bob Marley and Old Dirty Bastard.

18.10.05 12:48 Permalink / 2 Comments / comment

A true story.fficeffice" /> My girlfriend and I had an idyllic relationship. Moonlight strolls along sandy beaches, strolling hand in hand through summer fields of buttercups where young lambs leaped and frolicked, the sun warming their little woolly backs as the seed of my desire grew into a tree of pure love. We were star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet (but with out the inter family animosity and the suicides), Bonnie and Clyde, Godzilla and that woman he stole, Charles and Camilla. Songs would be written about us. Sonnets sung. After courting for a few weeks, my girlfriend asked me back to hers to meet her family. I was a wash with excitement. I donned my smartest clothes, my shiniest shoes, I slicked back my hair, purchased a large bouquet of the most fragrant blooms and exchanged a large sum of money for a nice bottle of wine and some fine Belgian chocolates. I liberally doused my self in some eu de cologne. I arrived in good time, checked my breath and knocked on the door. I was greeted my girlfriend who looked stunning and in the background I heard the soft hum of family life. A dog barked and from around the corner a Labrador emerged. I was taken aback; the air was knocked from my chest. This was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.  Its coat glistened in the light and his nose sparkled like polished piece of onyx. Its eyes were summer pools of coolest blue and he was looking straight at me. I fear my face-changed colour as I blushed like a shy schoolgirl. Throughout dinner I could not take my eyes off the dogs beguiling beauty. The conversations of my girlfriend and her family became secondary static as all my thoughts were consumed by the four legged enchantress that was sitting in the corner, licking it’s piss hole and looking at me with those smouldering eyes, goading me, tempting me. After dinner as I stood in the garden smoking a cigarette she came to me and entwined her soft furry body between my legs and nuzzled at my crotch. It was then the planets collided and Eros pricked my heart with his golden arrow of amore. I went home that night determined to make a life for Linda the Labrador and myself. Under the dead of night I broke into the house and stole the love of my life. I left a note explaining my actions to my soon to be broken hearted and distraught ex-girlfriend.  Linda and myself spend our first night in a hotel gently making love. As dawn came up we sat there in bed, well I was in bed, Linda was in the corner licking her arse, smoking cigarettes, warm and content in the knowledge that our love would last forever. However three days later Linda ran off when I was taking her for a walk. Rumour has it she is now  living with an Alsatian called Brian.   I went back to my ex-girlfriend, head bowed and begged for forgiveness and she called the police and I was arrested for dog theft. I lost my job and am now living in a hostel that smells of piss, cabbage and chips.

11.10.05 09:17 Permalink / 3 Comments / comment

Tabasco Jones' Pop Tabasco recalled the words of his father and fond memories of him trundled amiably back into his head. At time like this, it was nice to be able to retreat to the comfort blanket of warm childhood memories. And to be fair most of Tabasco early memories of his father were happy and jolly, running on beaches, flying kites, playing football, happy, smiley memories. He always remembered the nuggets of advice his father often offered him and anyone who would listen. Nuggets such as:fficeffice" />   ·          Never sleep with a woman who’s hands are bigger then yours ·          Never allow a woman who Adams apple is bigger then yours to  touch      you “down there” ·          Never trust a man with three first name ·          Never trust  a jockey, especially one with ginger hair.   Golden nuggets to live by.   However the milk of memories began to turn sour,for Tabasco’s father grip on reality and sanity was slowly becoming looser and he was teetering ever closer towards the precipice of MADNESS. Like all children, Tabasco looked up to his father. He was a colossus, he could do anything, lift cars, cook, he had an IQ of 567, there was no chink in his armour. He was a DAD.  However this veneer was slowly cracking but Tabasco refused to see it.   One day Tabasco came home from being somewhere other then home. The veneer cracked and he witnessed it with his own two eyes. His dad was sitting at the table drinking his own piss. This was a pointer, this action told Tabasco something was not right.   Over the next few days his fathers behaviour became more erratic.   He would stroll down the streets dressed as member of the Khmer Rogue. He tried to buy stuff from shops with toenails and dead pigeon as currency. He stalked the neighbour’s cats and tried to kill them with fire.  He re-ancted the video for Cliff Richards “Wired for Sound”, with roller boots and everything down the high road. He tried to assassinate the postman. The final straw came when he kidnapped the local vicar, tied him up inside a van (a van that was decorated in purple fur) and tried to perform an Exorcism.   So for his own safety his dad was carted away to the local loony bin without trial and that’s were he resides now, alone except for a 23 foot beard and the illusion that he is the re-incarnation of Lassie.   Tabasco always remembered the last sane words his pops said to him before he was incarcerated. “Son,  I want you to become the world foremost detective and one day you will travel back in time and save the world from extinction. Extinction at the paws of a vampire monkey horde. Save the word Tabasco and make me proud.”

22.9.05 14:15 Permalink / 5 Comments / comment

Californian sea otter Morgan was abandoned as a pup, and taken into care by the MontereyBay Aquarium's Sea Otter programmes, which attempts to rehabilitate parentless otters. But like so many products of the care system,it all went wrong. When he was released back into the wild, Morgan became a serial killer paedophile... of baby seals. Morgan used to shag the seal pups and when he was done with them, hold them under water to drown them. He raped and killed about 20 seals off the Californian coast, at one time even attracting a copycat Son-Of-Morgan rapist wild otter. After a year, naturalists finally managed to recapture Morgan. They considered castrating him but then decided that would leave him a non-contributing member of otter society,  taking up valuable space in otter habitat. So they kept him in captivity, where he willonly be allowed to have sex with female sea-otters. No doubt Morgan finds this rather dull.

22.9.05 12:52 Permalink / 2 Comments / comment

His suit waggled with the soft evening breeze. Scuffed shoes and a zombie gait, paper folded under a listless armfficeffice" /> I couldn’t bring myself to care when I saw him ghost to the edge of the platform. Further more I couldn’t care, nor did I move, when I realised that he was waiting for the 6.52pm train to Victoria, but not so it could transport him to zone 1, no, he was waiting for it so he could step in front of it and let the speeding chunk of metal disintegrate and splatter his body at 80 m.p.h., obliterating all his worries, insecurities his problems and his skull all across the tracks and possibly platform 3 and 4. I would of helped but I thought, “Selfish fucker”. Think about the driver having to see your bulging eyes as he ploughs his train at you, unable to stop. And think about the driver going home and blinking and seeing your blood and innards splattered across his windscreen and his dreams waking him up for months to come tormented by a headless corpse in a suit and think about his wife who will divorce her husband in a years time as he hasn’t recovered from the shock and he just wasn’t the man she married and in the bedroom he had lost his vigour and his stomach was slowly growing as he was drinking more and he just retreated into himself, never shaving, letting life pass him by, never seeking help, just existing. Then I realised if this chap jumped, the line would be shut, I’d have to get a bus and I’d be late. His act of self annihilation would cut back on my valuble  drinking time. “Selfish fucker” I thought as I leapt from my seat I na vain attempt to stop the man. Just as I was within reaching distance from him, he leapt and my attempts to save him were greeted with a mouth full of brain and blood splatters. The selfish, selfish bastard.

19.9.05 15:47 Permalink / 2 Comments / comment

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