A trip down to the shops.
Sunday, August 31, 2003
 
Ireland Memories



This picture for some reason I love. I have others that I adore but this one just tops them all. Maybe because the day was so nice. It incorporates scenery, water and a really sweet little car ferry, bless it. Enough space for about 6 cars if my memory serves me right. Just a really nice day. What with that and the flid (not p.c I know, but apt) getting us a cheap ferry crossing due to the badge it all combined to enhance the enjoyment. Oh but because of the cheap ferry crossing the flid had to stay in the car!!!
 
STOLEN
Without waiting for a response from Vanessa I stole the idea of the map, I liked it I pilfered it :(

Sozzly muchly Vanessa!
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
 
Pre Judging
They say you should never judge a book by its cover.

I went into a fish and chip shop/chinese tonight in a very fenny area. I shall just describe this area in more detail to give you a real flavour. The village is a straight road, surrounded by fields. Normally when I drive through this village there is a pig at the side of the road eating whatever pigs eat. On one occassion I was driving through the village and a person rode bareback on a horse out of a side road up inbetween the houses, quickly followed by an unteathered shetland pony. There was no warning of this pony and cars screached to a halt whilst the little pony ran as fast as it could to catch up with the horse and rider. Anyway... Whilst in the fish and chip shop a young boy that I have seen on numerous occasions came in the shop in a real rush and slammed his body against the counter. I immediately thought 'here we go'.

Having worked in the village for about 2 years I know of this family and its reputation. I have witnessed the whole family (well the kids) running around the streets all night. Whatever time you drive through the village they are on the street. Kids ranging from 15 to about 1 (in a pram), in the street, shouting, screaming generally being deviant kids. I know enough that the kids are from traveller stock (aka pikeys, bless 'em). They all live some where over the fields. The kids are not often in school, and there is bound to be social work intervention of some kind, but not having checked on this fact I can't be sure. The kids are all fairly scruffily dressed and fairly intimidating when you walk through them.

Back to my story...
So this kid rushed in, slammed himself against the counter. I turned to look at him and he was a scruffily dressed 13 year old, who had a list of things to buy and a red and white striped plastic bag in his hand. He had slid himself in the gap between myself and the wall. The shop keeper handed me a package of the chips, and I turned to walk out of the doopr checking I had my car keys in one hand. The child then spun round at the same speed that he came into the shop and headed for the door. I thought he had forgotten something or couldn't be bothered to wait for me to get out of the shop.......... What he was actually doing was opening the door for me to get through. Disgustingly my reaction was 'Ooooh, thank you', not just 'thank you'. It shocked me so much that this what I perceived to be a lout opened the door for me that I couldn't speak other than an oohh for about a second, gathered myself and said thank you.


Remind me never to prejudge!!!!!! Bless Him, obviously been taught manners if nothing else.



Or.... He thought I was too old to be able to open the door and hold the chips and car keys, in that case, rude little sod.



Friday, August 22, 2003
 
Sex and Chocolate.


I broke a life-long taboo earlier this summer. For some their shameful want is a woman that will do things their partners' refuse, for others it is food that they crave, shoving vast wads of the stuff between their teeth a lurid ecstasy. I already have many vices, but they have become boring, usual, run of the mill, I'm always chasing that original buzz but never reaching it. I needed something new, something exciting and fresh, and so I drove to an Esso garage Snack'n'Shop with the sole purpose of finding my new high. I knew exactly what I was going in for, what I was going to do, but not what was going to happen.

I knew that the Snack'n'Shop held that which I sought, I was, and still am a semi-regular face, recognised and chatted to by a good percentage of the assistants that staff the tills and the magic petrol buttons that turn on the pumps. Oh how I wish to caress those sweet sweet buttons under my own slender and experienced fingers, but alas I shall never stoop so low. That's not to say that the peasants working there are second-class citizens, a few of my acquaintences work in petrol stations (not like Alan Partridge, no) see above; I chat to them and everything. In fact it was they who were to provide the key to my new-found perversion.

They say that the cream always floats to the top, and that is never truer than in the case of magazines. There is a pecking order to the magazine shelves.The daily newspapers, lowest of the low preside on the flat plate below the shelves, not even deemed worthy enough to be put within easy arms reach for those with bad-backs or the wretched elderly that infest these emporia of over-priced comestibles and motor-oil. Next up are the comics and childrens' publications, on the bottom shelf but given more respect than the daily opinion-rags. This makes sense as they are within easy reach of children, the core demographic for such periodicals. Then it's gossip magazines and computer-related publications. Although it doesn't seem to make sense having Bella next to XtremeFX-PS2 but there is method in such madness. These are the most popular products and must be within reach for all and sundry. The next shelf is where we get a sniff of our prey, for this is the shelf containing volumes such as FHM and Bikini&Car. It's the top shelf that contains the true cream of the crop. Pornography.

I entered that Snack'n'Shop with one aim, to buy a copy of Fiesta, a couple-oriented artistic digest containing pictures, stories and reader-contributions all devoted to the beauty of women of all kind (even incredibly ugly and malformed ones). Normally this is an activity frowned upon, the admission of viewing, let alone owning pornography something to be shameful of. I didn't care, I wanted the rush, the feeling of achievement garnered from throwing society's rulebook defiantly at its groin. The sun was high in the sky, the shop was so busy a long queue had formed at the till, but I had stepped through the door and these people were not going to stop me doing something that I have wanted to do from the earliest age I can remember.

The pornography at the particular Esso Snack'n'Shop I was in had plain paper covering the shelf, only allowing the titles of the dazzling array of monthly and bi-weekly organs to peer over the top. This was enough for me to see the cheery red title of my goal and the teasing top of a model's head. I reached out and slipped the magazine from its counterparts and gazed at the cover; she was dirty and I was loving it, the point of no return. I was fully committed, so the only thing left to do was to join the end of the queue with my trophy in hand and wait for the opportunity to pay before I sneaked a peek at the forbidden contents between those shiny, wipe-clean sheets.

The line of people had naturally followed Vic's-Law (a phenomenon well known to science) and chosen the most awkward place to queue possible, right in front of the racks and racks of chocolatey, gummy, chewy, crispy and generally nicest tasting products. I had to yield, just a small item of chocolate would be okay and was well within the princeley budget that I had available to me. Time passed and I was given many odd looks and frowns of disapproval, all of which I loved. I was sticking two fingers up at the system, much like the young and old ladies in the magazine I proudly held (although you couldn't always see where their fingers were).
The time eventually came for me to pay for my goods. This was not an occasion that demanded spiritless yielding and meek blushes, and so I augustly laid my tome flat on the counter with chocolate atop, chest puffed with pride. I was buying pornography, shamelessly and in full view of at least twenty people, two of which I saw regularly, I felt elated.
"Is That all?" Came the bemused response to my flambouyant gesture. A blond woman with short hair, maybe twenty-seven faced me. She knew I was a regular, and she knew that this was not a usual purchase of mine.
"Yes thank you." I respond almost vociferously. "Just the chocolate and the dirty magazine."
There, I'd said it. She totalled the prices and I handed her a high-denomination note before she even had a chance to tell me how much my strangely related goods cost. She gave me my change, thanked me and I left with the magazine in one hand and the car-keys I had retrieved from my pocket after depositing my change.

Once back at the car, just a short distance from the Snack'n'Shop and in full view of all beyond its glass facade I took a quick look at the pornography I had just purchased in such a rush of mental chemicals. It was my trophy, a thing of beauty and mystery, a mystery shattered as soon as I opened on that first page.

I have been back to the same garage to purchase pornographic literature again, but like most things the initial high I achieved has never been attained since. I would never look back though. My swiftly growing collection of Fiesta is a testament to that. I bought porn and I loved it, you should do the same.

Wednesday, August 20, 2003
 
Married Men
Ok... what is about me that attracts married men or men in long term relationships?

Do I have home wrecker in some ink that only men can see across my forehead?
I admit that in the past I have been guilty of a dual relationship. When I was 14, I was aware that the boy I liked was in a relationship with this ‘girl’ who I couldn’t stand. I therefore decided one evening that I was going to get my ‘man’. Get him I did, we spent the night together (yes I know I was 14!!), we walked back to his parents home and ran into the girlfriend… I left.

After that I became a serial monogamist. No other extra curricular activities, well none that I can think of off hand. Many short term relationships ended after I saw someone I thought better. Most of the time I was wrong, but hey I was young, its allowed.

In my early 20’s I embarked on a 6 year relationship. This relationship was good for the first 4 years, slowly things started to go wrong. Initially I began to go out whilst ‘he’ was away. I went to a pub with a friend and ended up being very VERY drunk, being put in a taxi and sent home. This started the problem, I ended up in my house with the taxi driver, I have no idea what happened, other than I did not have to pay for the taxi journey home.

Then I began to go to clubs with my friends and one night in particular I went to a club and found a man that I thought was lovely. He and I spent the evening chatting to each other and texting each other whilst standing a short distance apart. He was with his friends and one friend in particular was his girlfriends brother, this made our planning very interesting to say the least. The liaison was all set up by text in secrecy. It was a lovely liaison, very nice if I do say so myself. Anyway this was over a year ago and the man in question and I still keep in contact, and he is still with his girlfriend and I have fortunately got rid of my man, things could get serious with he and I in a fun time way.

However, I have again been party to a dual relationship, well not a relationship for me, just some fun, but I knew that bloke was with someone. Then there were a couple of others, I can’t be bothered to detail them.

Just recently when I go out it always seems to be married men or men in long term relationships that want to be with me…. WHY????

I don’t want that, how do I stop it? How do I stop looking like a home wrecker. I don’t know what to do about it!!! Any suggestions greatly welcomed.

Tuesday, August 19, 2003
 
Quick save - Hidden costs.


I have just returned from a branch of super-market chain whose name suggests pikey under-currents from the start. Kwik-Save is only a short walk from my front door, maybe two minutes if you meander, and as a result is the nearest shop to my house. Upon moving in I considered this a plus, just two minutes from milk, bread, mayonnaise, and best of all two minutes from a stockist of blue Rizla and Samson tabacco. How little I realised what a double-edged sword this truly was. Now I know. Now I'm aware of the teasing siren that store truly is. It promises so much, but what does it deliver? Almost nothing, certainly less than it promises.

They claim to make a drama about their prices from the Dynasty-rip-off adverts that offend my television during particularly pikey-programmes, but is that really the truth?
Today I purchased some tortilla wraps, some mayonnaise, Lurpack spreadable and a two-pint bottle of milk bringing the total to the princely sum of five pounds and sixteen pence. Is this a good price? Would I be paying more in Asda, Tesco, even Sainsbuys? We shall see.

Hellman's Mayonnaise cost me one pound and twenty nine pence at Kwik-Save. A saving? I think not. I know for a fact that my nearest branch of Sainsburys are selling identical jars for only ninety-nine pence, yes, less than a pound. Did I make a quick-save? No. Did I make a drama? No, although I could have done, and quite rightly too. Kwik-Save, or Rip-Off? The latter.

One pound and sixty-nine pence for a small tub of Lurpack spreadable butter, a quick save? Unfortunately this is more expensive than I would pay for in a corner-shop, in a garage, even a service-station. Was this butter churned using the pendulous breasts of vestal-virgins? Was it bled directly from the veins of Jesus Christ himself? What possible reason could there be for such a high price in a shop whose very name suggest low-prices.

If I were to dare set foot in The Pound Shop and discovered items for one pound and fifty pence I would be apalled. Well, likewise I am apalled by Kwik-Save selling products for more than the reccommended retail price. I don't complain though, as I appreciate that they can sell their items for what they wish and it is my own stupidity that leads me to buy them. No, that which has led me to complain is the plastic-bag policy they have.

We are all aware of super-markets. We are aware that they sell products and allow us to carry those products home in a plastic advertisement for the shop just visited. Why then does Kwik-Save think that it is appropriate to force us to purchase this advertising for them? A penny for a cheapy and advert and three pence for one with greater stuctural integrity, this is revolting. Is the customer truly held in so much contempt these days? It doesn't happen in America, and why does it not? Because they all have guns. When the customer might have a gun in their pocket, only then are they always right.

Do they deserve my custom? No.
Do they still get it? yes.
*weep*
Friday, August 15, 2003
 
Let the bleatings begin.


I have issues with sheep. No, it's nothing sexual, although I don't condemn such things and if people want to do that sort of activity with consenting sheep or lambs far be it from me to stop them. I'd rather it wasn't shoved down my throat, and whilst I know that some out there like to don 'the sheeping wellies' and do the deed such things will not be mentioned in this particular entry. At least, not anymore.

My particular issue involves the farming of sheep on the British Isles and the colonies thereof. Sheep can contain Foot-and-Mouth, Scrapie, Prion disorders, those dried pieces of poo that hang off their arse-wool, surely such a flawed species deserves no place on this green-and-pleasant land? The land should remain green-and-pleasant, not pocked with white specks that give the impression of a discarded 'sanitary-protection', studded with piles of brown ovine anal-deposits.

Don't get me wrong, I know it's easy to do, but I really don't have anything against sheep as a species, I just don't see where they fit in the grand scheme of things with regard to Britain, The Channel Islands and The Falkland Islands. I appreciate the fine things that they bring us, things that I am truly thankful for and would not wish to live without.
I can't deny that wool is essential, so long as it is not abused.
Dear God, where would we be without lanolin?
They have spawned multi-dollar industries.
And of course sheep bring us wonderful games.

But why the hell do they have to do it here? Are we not a developed country filled with a partially-educated populace? Farming is beneath us, and sheep are beneath even that. I'm not encouraging a genocide, no. The French can look after our sheep, or the Americans, anybody rather than us. Once the exodus has been completed we will be able to reclaim our countryside once more and free the sheep-farmers. Finally they can become valid members of society, no more rejects and freaks. Some shepherds have gone on to live very constructive, if not short lives.

With the demise of 'One Man and His Dog' I can see no valid argument for keeping this woolly-litter to befoul our fields for another day. If my words are not heeded you will all live to regret such inaction.

Go on then. Heed!
Monday, August 11, 2003
 
Shame.


In the heat of the moment we all do things that we are ashamed of. I did that very thing today. A friend of mine informed me that a friend of his, the first girl he had ever had a crush-on, had died in a car accident. This isn't usually something I would write about on the blog, but it is one of a series of events throughout my life which I remember and can only be left aghast at my reaction.

His friend had a head-on collision with a Volvo whilst she was driving in a Fiesta. The crumple zones on a Volvo allow it to absorb impacts, and the comprehensive airbag system is second-to-none. Fiesta's are shit and will collapse like a tin-can if struck by even the slightest obstruction at speeds slower than walking pace. She didn't stand a chance. Her driving instructor got out okay though.

That was the point at which I started to laugh. I knew it was sick, macabre, wrong even, but I laughed, chuckled and couldn't stifle it. I look back in absolute shame that sickens me to the core of my very being, and find strength in the fact that I made sure he was aware that I was actually upset for him and the laughter meant nothing.

This seems to be an on going theme with me when it comes to tales of sadness, misery, bereavement, atrocities. The laughter slips out, and I know it's wrong. What's the alternative, cry? It just seems like such an unecessary and inappropriate reaction.

Like the time I had to tell my sister that my grandmother was dead. I was crying like a skewered child beforehand, but when the time came to tell her, the words:
"Grandma's dead."
They were accompanied by a giggle.
Jesus Christ, what was I doing laughing at that moment, the one moment I shouldn't be? What made it worse was that my laughter meant that she didn't believe the awful truth. It took several times of telling her, through the laughing for it to sink in.
I apologised profusely and was in no mood for laughter shortly after the event. It didn't make up for what I had done.

There was the time when I heard that a terribly afflicted gentleman was dealt a fate possibly worse than death. He was blindeaf (all one word) a partial mute, the mutterings coming from his ragged mouth nothing more than grunts and groans that made him seem like a zombie, or a drug-addict. His only form of communication was through his hands and the gestures that he had learned to make.
He was on a farm, for whatever reason; I myself am not aware of it. Nor am I aware why he was near a baling machine at all in his condition, but alas he was. Both arms were torn from him and mangled beyond recognition, certainly beyond repair and reattachment. His life was saved, but was destroyed in that one instant. I laughed.

What is wrong with me?
Thursday, August 07, 2003
 
A web of lies.


I must allay the rumours that have snow-balled around the web like an obscene photograph of Britney Spears. Vic Jameson is the man (I should know), Jim Carrey is a fool with a completely different facial structure. Only a fool would think otherwise, but it appears we are surrounded by them. The rumour? That Vic Jameson resembles Jim Carrey.

To prove that this rumour is profoundly untrue I shall cite several examples of people who I concede may look like Mr. Carrey, followed by conclusive evidence that I do not, in any way, whatsoever. Furthermore I shall go on to discuss in greater detail the psychology of those who are so deluded as to think I, Vic Jameson resemble Mr. James Carrey, and show how wrong such a mind-state is.

Example (I)

Click Here (opens in a new window)
This is an everyday picture of Jim Carrey. He's a mess, both physically and psychologically. His desire for acceptance through comedy has clearly taken its toll judging from the facial growth and unkempt hair, styled using the 'palsied-brushing' technique. Whilst not clear in the picture his clothes are soiled with a mixture of human and animal excrement, adding to the overall aura of repellence. How he achieved such an appearance we'll likely never know, but can only pray that he never calls round whilst in a similar vulgar state.
Click Here (opens in a new window)
Now compare the previous picture of the human-wreckage that is Jim Carrey to the above likeness of Big-Brother-3(UK) loser and anal-retentive Mr. Alexander Sibley. A remarkable likeness I'm sure you'd agree, however the differences between Sibley and Carrey are vast. Alex Sibley was (and probably still is) persnickety to a fault. Urination in the shower, bruising oranges, defacation in public, shooting tramps for sport, all were unacceptable to Alexander Sibley. On the other hand Mr. Carrey indulges in all and more of these revolting pastimes, such activities that make his poor mother spin in her grave. His 'maternal pre-necro revolvement capsule' ensures that she spins for at least six hours per-day, rattling her brittle but still-living body around like a stinking bingo ball.

Example (II)

Click Here (opens in a new window)
Displayed now for your displeasure should be yet another picture of the 'rubber-faced' imbecile, Carrey. Hair flicked sideways in defiance to those naysayers who know the truth; that he's a pitiful excuse for an actor, a comedian and a human being. Can the humour of our globe now be turning towards a fondness for such lowbrow entertainment, akin to watching a grown man beating a baby.
Click Here (opens in a new window)
Anybody acquainted with the soap-opera Coronation Street will also surely be acquainted with the character of Roy Cropper (shown in the above link, real name David Neilson). You know the one, he's married to the transexual and looks like a kiddie-fiddler/stalker. You will notice that the similarity between Roy and Jim is remarkable, although the former is infinitely funnier than the latter. Mr. Carrey's new look must surely be another symptom of his diseased psyche. Who in their right mind would choose to look like this? Oh yes, this man.

Example (III)

Click Here (opens in a new window)
I think we're all used to his image, and this is just another example of James Carrey, simple, sad, pointless, deserving of blindness. Resembles Jerry Seinfeld perhaps, or a wannabe porn-star? He was cutting his genitals with a razor blade when this photograph was taken, but beyond deeply pathetic physical and facial comedy he can express nothing else. Could the small Filipino boy retained in his colon be the cause for the appearance of slight sadness in the eyes? The child later died.
Click Here (opens in a new window)
Now we get to the point, an image of the exalted Vic; myself. Oh look, a face that looks nothing like that of Jim Carrey's. Not surprising really given that the rumour was based on nothing but supposition, hear-say and circumstantial evidence, much like OJ Simpson's defence.
This should vindicate me and clear my name of all charges laid against me and my appearance. Mr. Carrey, I dislike you even more now.

A short study on the deluded

Can people really convince themselves of something that is patently ludicrous? From the evidence present on this very blog it would appear that the answer is yes. What links this delusion and my knowledge of it? This blog.
Conclusion:
The internet is a dangerous tool and should be used wisely. Many are ignoring this fact and abusing their position as a free member of society. The only answer is Martial Law and a vast censorship and purity screening of cyber-space. Only when our screens are free of such rogue elements will we once again be able to surf in blissful happiness and bask in the wisdom and leadership of your Uber-Supreme Emperor; Vic Jameson.

You will do as you are told without question.
Monday, August 04, 2003
 
Claiming Ownership
Well I am not really. Just wanted proof that more than the lovely desirable (as Tess would say) Jim Carrey lookalike that is Vic, isn't the sole contributor to this bleedin' site.

Having expected certain people at an undisclosed time yesterday I set about cleaning the house (well moving papers from one site to another in order to make it look like a sense of order was inbred). I cleaned the house. The animals and mother continued to make it bloody messy again. I receive a cryptic phone call from the woman we shall call Lizard, cryptic and confusing in the sense that Lizard called using Jim's phone.
They had just set off... 3 hours or so after the original time ... never mind more time for cleaning, sitting and getting in the shower for the third time today. Its too hot and I pity Lizard and Jim having to drive a fair distance in that heat, in a car that is not equipped with air-con.

Second phone call from Lizard, Lizard has orally satisfied Jim whilst stuck in traffic twice, not only to fulfill Jim's desire, but in Lizard's words, to quench her dire thirst, however what the lusty physicists seemed to forget was that after the gratification was over the end product was a salty liquid, and even more salty in the heat, an excess of salt from other excreted solutions. Lizard and Jim are some where on the M1 after being in a traffic jam. They were reliably informed that they were miles away from the hell hole they were planning on visiting and now had to do do a cross country detour to get on to the correct road. The informer was trying to give them the option of relenting and going straight back to their communal abode (for the week). Lizard and Jim however, chose to take the legitimate offer as a personal insult and became very afronted by the suggestion. So cross country they travelled.

The informer after the last phone call felt very grossed out and chose to go for a shower to try and cleanse her body and mind of the oral act that had impregnated her mind in particular - too many visual images.

After showering, I got into the car to purchase food for Lizard and Jim. 20 minutes to wait and fill whilst the pizza was being prepared and cooked. I took the opportunity to fill the batmobile with the fuel it needed to continue being the mean machine that it is. Whilst filling the machine, I looked over at the vista in front of me, and saw something that would make the batmobile perfect. I paid for the fuel, bought some drinks, pointed to the programme that the batmobile needed. Then had to choose a frosted beer mug, as the batmobile's programme was obviously the most expensive one.

The batmobile and its passengers went towards the machine, typed in the numbers and drove into the large chasm, whilst in the white chasm it began to spurt a slightly creamy foaming substance on to the batmobile, suddenly turning my mind to the events that were disussed earlier in the evening. the white foaming substance was replaced with swishing plastic rods, the flashing light signaled that the batmobile should move forward into a bright dazling area where once inside the entrance sealed up and a large robotic arm appeared to blow the batmobile and spread the clear water like substance that covered the batmobile.

Flashing lights again indicated that the batmobile should move on. It drove to the pizza place sparkling and gleaming. I got out and brought the very hot pizzas into the car and was reliably informed that Lizard and Jim had called and were in Yaxley, the batmobile and its passengers sped towards Yaxley...

Upon seeing Lizard and noticing that Jim was lounging on the poor wee car's roof, Jim was told to get in the car and follow me....

The batmobile and I continued on our journey with Lizard and Jim in tow, however, Jim could not keep up with the batmobile's speed and significant staying power on the road, not to mention the batmobile's fantastic driver. This started the short visit that Jim and Lizard took part in....
 
What, An actual 'blogesque' blog entry?


I need to immortalise this moment in the most fitting place for it, the internet. It will feel among friends once unleashed among the likes of Black-Market Babies and Lowbrow, like in 'Born Free', what a beautiful film.

London, Saturday.

Sadly the club that I attended last night took away my self-medicated, non-prescription hyperhidrosis antidote. This left me, as I'm sure it would with many suffering the same condition in some apoplexy, nonetheless I persevered with life in an excrutiating skin, the constant torture like a punishment from God. With as best a smile I could muster considering the surroundings I was brutally searched in a homo-erotic act of non-consensual violation. I have yet to shower after the experience and have felt dirty ever since.

Ascending the beatifully mosaicked stairs with the swastika motif I felt like the hangman's noose would be waiting for me at the top, his masked face no doubt still managing a leer when he tugged the lever, plunging me to my death. 'Oh well.' I think. 'It could be worse...' My mind struggles for anything that could possibly be worse. Finally it hits me. 'I could be TSR with an amputee fiancee.', although I have nothing against that particular lifestyle choice, it just doesn't do it for me. The thought sends a shiver down my spine like the morticians knife that will probably be used to exctract my vertebrae for 'medical purposes'. These 'medical purposes' are wide ranging, one man I knew had a kidney used as a stress reliever by a doctor upon his untimely death at the hands of a homocidal umbrella. He had been walking down by the beach in Miami when a sudden gust of wind lifted a sun-shading parasol from the sands and send the point directly through his left eye and out through his right nipple. What he thought as the umbrella pierced his head couldn't have been short of prophetic, but alas we will never know.

Have you ever heard Bangra-techno? It's an East meets West phenomenon that has swamped London. It entails taking a popular Bollywood tune, putting a techno beat to it, mixing the lyrics a little, adding some ambient noises and then unleashing it on unsuspecting club-goers. I wouldn't have minded this multi-cultural abomination had it not been for the fact that this particular brand of music had infected the club I was in that night. The panic of a whole day without my medication was making me queasy, so I thought that perhaps a drink would calm me down. A bottle of Smirnoff Ice, (lemon of course) was requested, but what did I get served with? Yes it was lemon Smirnoff Ice, but that gave little consolation as it was handed to me.
A plastic beaker of Smirnoff Ice.
Yes, that would be a plastic beaker of Smirnoff Ice.
I was incensed to say the least. What, no bib? Perhaps the high chairs at the bar really were that, high-chairs. What did they think I was, a child? You had to be at least eighteen to get in for God's sake. Was the mentality of London youth really that base? I took me a few minutes for the full implications to sink in. I felt even more queasy, but a bilious episode in front of such esteemed friends was out of the question. Bagpipe players can keep a constant flow of air through their instrument, much like digeridoo players, could I manage a closed-mouth vomit-swallow cycle, but for how long? Thankfully it never came to such a conclusion.

The conclusion that was reached was much rosier. Our disdain for the club and its chimeric music was displayed in a trilogy of full-moons, and not of the celestial type. Photographic evidence exists, but the film remains locked in a Ministry of Defence warehouse due to particular actions that the Official Secrets Act does not permit me to discuss. The ride home in the taxi resulted in more breekless exposing, both through and out of a moving vehicle.

Once back in our haven the truth finally dawned. Here also I was to be treated as a leper, unclean, a foul monstrosity who has the gall to indulge in such an odious activity like so many places before. The stack was laden and another straw was balanced precariously on top making its bearer shudder under the mass of golden fibres. I obliged. Of course I was never going to defy the requests of a valued friend, and I fully understood. In the yard, sucking on my Marlboro Light, purchased at the drunken request of my girlfriend and expert lover Theresa I was refreshed by the coolness of the night air. I was awed by the beauty of the stars, their pattern now so familiar to me yet captivating every time I glance up into the night sky for a moment. I almost forgot about the absence of my medication when wave of red ants swarmed in one wide column diagonally up my body; or so it felt. The heat had returned, even on this cool night, lying with near-contentment and gazing at heavenly orbs my body rebels. Oh to not have the internal thermostat of a defective combi-boiler, to never feel the futile need of wanting to pull your own skin off to release the abominable heat that penetrates to the very marrow, boiling it as if my bones were red-hot irons. Dear God, why have you forsaken me?


Sleep came easy after some incredibly satisfying sex in a strange bedroom, on a strange bed, making sure not to befoul the strange sheets. I love Theresa, and as she lies asleep behind me right now I can't believe how lucky I am to have met her. I could continue, but words become inadequate...

London, Sunday.

We walked under the baking sun, but my lack of a jacket, the unrelenting caress of much welcome breeze and the possibility of a slight degree of becoming accustomed to it in Ibiza helped to keep things under control above ground. Above ground was joyous, especially when a long stretch of shade beckoned myself and Theresa to bask in its cooling hug. Above ground I was happy, with the woman I loved, disagreeing with the cleanliness policy of Bow council. Yes, above ground I did enjoy.

If you have heard of Paris you then surely must have heard of its famous Metropolitan. If you know anything of New York then you will be well aware of its legendarily dangerous Subway System. The ounce of knowledge in the head of even the slowest simpleton in the world has about London will contain some kind of twisted awareness of the London Underground.
Under ground.
This is where thigs go wrong. I can see my own faults, or at least a few of them. One is that when the heat sweeps over me like a wave of chemical-burn and the hyperhidrosis begins on my face I get tetchy. I say tetchy, I would also include cantankerous, 'crabby', morose, crotchety, irascible, ornery, vinegary, short, hot-tempered (sorry, pun) and pertinacious, which was the main reason for my reaction that was involved in the encounter that this blog entry is truly about. The moment that must be immortalised, a high point in a usually low level life. I admit now that I was in the wrong. I knew I was in the wrong, I just had to try it. I'm not usually overcome by impulse, and maybe it was the heat, maybe I've always wanted to do it, sick of being the leper possibly, but that still doesn't excuse the fact that I was a total c*nt.

We entered Mile End tube station, Theresa and I, hand in hand, but as soon as I passed under the white tiled archway I knew I was going to become Mr. Hyde, it was only a matter of time. A severely retarded and ill-mannered lady (at least I think she was female) managed to give us the correct tickets needed for our journey and we took one each. We approached the very vagina-like gates that led down to the ovoid-profile tunnels, slipped our tickets in the slot and the flaps opened for us invitingly. I entered, and once beyond the inviting opening they closed behind me abruptly; trapping me down here, in this labyrinth of tiled, hot and claustrophobic channels.

We take many things for granted in this hovel of a country that is slowly falling into the grip of an extreme fascist regime determined to turn what little we have into a police state. Being outdoors on an Autumn day and kicking a pile of yellow leaves high into the air so that a gust will blow them into a friend's face whilst I smoke a home-rolled cigarette is a wonderful thing, unless you are the friend involved. Stepping outside my front gate with an illegally-sold Superking when just popping to the local Kwik-Save to purchase some milk for your tea addiction is an activity I am often found doing. But what if all the other people felt the same as the man I am about to tell you about? That would be made a capital crime. The hangman's noose could be a real possibility then. Then the smokers of the world would be shunned, turned out of their homes like the in the paedophile riots on that pikey council estate where they harassed and hounded a paediatrician due to poor education. The top deck of a bus used to be a haven for us. We could travel on public transport and not worry about the horrendous body odour of the gentleman sitting directly in front of you because it was masked by the smoke, the beautiful smoke.

The tube is a no-smoking zone. All of it. Ever since the Kings Cross fire it has not been permitted anywhere beyond those vaginal flaps. The signs were everywhere.
No Smoking.
Do Not Smoke.
Smoking Is Not Permitted...
Even the announcer conspires by managing "Passengers are reminded that there is no smoking anywhere on the London underground system."
Under the stifling, heat retaining ground, and to top it all off not even a "Thank You" on the announcement. The final straw landed. Bones splintered and the beast fell. Snap.
'Well F*ck you all.' Thinks I. 'I'll show them. I'll show them all!'
We were standing on the platform and I requested my rolling tobacco from Theresa's incredibly attractive handbag.
'It's no smoking in here.' She says, but I think she likes the rebellion and so hands the pouch containing tobacco and king-size blue rizla to me.

I rolled the cigarette expertly, smoke it and stub it out on the platform. Not even a dirty look. The heat was getting worse and my face had begun to bead heavily with sweat. The train came, we got on and upon exiting I rolled another cigarette and smoked it on the way out. Again, nothing was said. My trip to Holborn had been a failiure. I was wanting a reaction. I was wanting indignancy, a comment, anything to have given my act any meaning.

Our tickets allowed us to return, and we traversed the passages to the correct platform with ease. The heat was back now that we were under ground. I didn't want one, but another cigarette was called for. Rolled, lit, smoked, stubbed out under my incredibly nice trainers and not commented on in the least.
'Bastards. They clamoured for their signs and their announcements and when somebody blatantly disregards them in a fit of utter stupidity they don't even bat an eyelid. How dare they?'
The train comes, we get on and I roll yet another cigarette. So much smoking and the heat is making me feel ill but I'm even more determined to get something that makes my endeavour worthwhile.
A lucky break? The crux? Yes on both accounts.

At a stop, I forget which one, a couple get on and stand near the doors close to where I am standing, slightly damp with sweat from the underground's heat. The man is wearing sunglasses and a Manchester United baseball cap, red. I found this amusing initially, but I couldn't tell whether he was giving me a dirty look behind those sunglasses or not. The woman, I remember nothing about, she was insignificant in this event except in my smugness after the event. The doors closed, the train started to move in its usual jerky fashion and I blew out a plume of crisp, fresh, white smoke.
"You do know there's no smoking on the train?" He said.
Fabulous, he's done it. I have succeeded in my pointless mission. This could be over after my simple reply and a dirty look, but my joy knew no bounds as things advanced.
"Yes." I replied.
"Will you put it out then please?"
A please, I'm sorry that won't get you far. I stub for nobody, especially when entrenched in my pertinacious mind-set. If we were playing chicken I would never even twitch the steering wheel.
"No." A simple reply to a simpleton's question.
"I don't see why you have to do that here?"
Am I masturbating into a copy of Fiesta? Defacating on the carriage floor? Beating a man to death with a stiletto shoe? No, I'm smoking a cigarette.
"Because I want a smoke." I lied. I've got what I wanted.
He takes his glasses off and Theresa backs to the other side of the carriage. I see his true self in his eyes, almost what he is thinking. He is thinking like I thought every day for the first twenty-five years of my life and will again after this event, but not today. Not now. The next stop is here, the stop after the station the man got on at. He goes to say something.
"..."
I cut him off right there.
"Look, just shut the fuck up and get off the train." I hope I had the desired emotionless face, but the threatening voice was perfect. He paused, turned to the open doors and ushered the woman he was with out of the train. I dropped the unwanted cigarette on the platform just before the doors closed.

Oh my God, what have I just done? I felt incredible, justified, scared, powerful, rebellious, the heroic underdog, the bully, guilty, so many emotions rolling around, and all intense to an uplifting degree. Theresa returned to my side and we discussed the event that had just occured. I was taken away by the feelings that were stringing me along on a natural-high.

I have my medication again now, thankfully my store at home contains enough for few weeks at least. I know it was the wrong thing to do, but that's what I was wanting. I rebelled, and the one thing that it taught me is rebels are total f*ckwits. I am sorry, but wouldn't change a thing about it, even though I occasionally gloat at the thought of him backing down to me in front of his wife? Girlfriend? Sister? Whatever. I'll be in their conversations that night. They'll be talking about 'That thuggish brute on the Tube.' and 'I bet he had a knife, thay all do you know?'

The memories will last on both sides. Finally, I'd like to thank the man for not giving me the kicking I deserved, or knifing me, becasue they all have them you know?




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