Dry Sailor Boy

My first gig: review

Life conspires to be ridiculous.

The evening promised great personal adventure, my quest and challenge – stand before an audience for the first time, narrate my stuff, and know inside my mind, know that if I did somehow back out with an excuse then I should forever be a kind of fat phony, that waster of everybody’s time with his long moans about…well, about what exactly. man? What is your bloody problem? Exactly…

I had e-mailed the owner, posted what a clever boy I was, and she said:

‘Come down on Wednesday.’

But surely Thursday night is the open mic, I thought, but no matter, and thank god I had not researched the flyer, and thank god I had no understanding of the term ‘spoken word.’ Words spoken – you old chaps might even now be saying; well, I say, you are all proper old fuddy-duddies and completely wrong. Spoken word is performance poetry, rapping – very popular with the young fellas and cool in all the right ways, but the thing is I had spent the day preparing one of these pastiche erotic medleys with the

‘Fountain spattering the walls like an inexpert decorator’ type dialogue.

‘Dude, what kind of poetry do you lick?’ he said, the young fella, the compeer and, you know, a proper gent.

‘Prose,’ I replied

and what with being all dressed up in a suit jacket like I was evaluating antiques, just the room fused when I spoke, and not necessarily in the right kind of fusion way. Twenty year old spliff rapper poets wearing trucker hats – they lined down the one side, an audience of women poetry aficionados lined down the other, and me spouting the foulest filth

‘he fucked her like a dog’

almost horror stuff. I should have explained I was trying to be funny maybe, but I was sweating behind that microphone.

‘Nobody quite knew what to make of you…’ she said, and he said, and I said

‘Yes, I have been there before, my friend…’ I said

and should wear a silly hat, telegraph properly, prepare people’s minds as to what to expect. It is especially difficult because when you get to forty-four you don’t have the right clothes to signal, or moves and stuff and the men who do, well it is simply the middle-aged man in trainers rule, or the Paul Weller rule – I swear by it. Whatever, there were a dozen plus – rolls of laughter in my ten, fifteen minutes in the spotlight, though I’ll drop the fox killing story next time, it was an edgy enough performance without it, this being Brighton and all. Nobody seemed to mind ‘my second anal orgasm,’ or ‘like a skewered horse,’ and the boss lady said

‘That was absolutely fantastic, I loved it, and the Thursday crowd would have loved it too. I’d like both of your pieces for the magazine.’

So, good, a good result – and really great – with contacts and a half dozen new friends x


Diary – draft out the first person ‘I’

I have some kind of nostalgic tic. It means I feel shame if we drink too much. It is real pious, po-faced behaviour and I turn myself the bowl of curmudgeon and despair right at the point when everybody is supposed to be smiling. On the other hand – if my mind feels the celebration is well-deserved, some kind of ruddy post-exercise treat, if I feel I have earned the right for drunkenness – I am exuberant: an idiot, stupid, pathetic hypocrite, male bully.

The three of us were drinking wine. Already we had endured a silent Sunday roast after brownback at 19 years – he challenged my supremacy:

‘What kind of man can’t thread a fishing rod and line,’ he said.

‘I can’t find the correct instructions on youtube,’ I had said.

‘Just accept that your father’s mind is wired to the right-side,’ said my wife, or words to the effect of ‘bless the kindly weirdo,’ y’know.

I was a prat, of course, but today got the rod out of its cloth and am almost a fisherman, although the reel only sends line away from me at this stage, I dearly would like to know how to winch the line toward myself, to shore, exactly. Then I shall catch a fish.

So feeling rotten, I think it’s called the hangover, I pedaled down the shore for an April swim in ice. I am practically there with the swimming, what with now not smoking I can swim forever and stroking west away from the pier I was able to forget about the act of swimming, at last, and I could play in my mind, managing two, three minute episodes working up to five minutes on stage, or story-making:

The thing is I have a kind of audition to read at an arts club place. I have anxiety, of course, it is artsy people – but this is the way to go with short stories. I’ll hit ‘em with some of the funny stuff, I suppose and generate heat and warmth. I almost have my scripts together. The voice is good, I mean the voice is part of the deal if I can get it right. I might fail, lose all timbre or weight in the delivery, I’ll be okay.

Just need a thespian type outfit. All my gear looks like I was born to mix cement, and not smoking and currently cheese-addicted, well some nights I wake and I’m rotund like the surgeon from ‘Casualty’ with the curly hair, proper round, and these new pills…get back to sleep.

It’ll be alright, eh? This is the way to go, eh? The arts club, people who like poems and pens and words and paper? Hanging around waiting for submission responses is too hard, you know, boring, and my introvert self shall have to go meet my extrovert same, on Wednesday night, wish me luck x.

Career Changer


Great First Drafts, I’ll fix grammar and structure later, maybe x

He took his first shaky steps into middle age after the doctor prescribed him a month’s worth of the PPI pills, and as a consequence he no longer possessed the rasping gullet, the raging esophagus that had gripped him with every swig of the claret. It seemed as if his internal organs had now been entirely drained of foul acids, drained of bile, as if an alkaline sack of flour had been emptied, dumped by those cutesy, and bold Gaviscom firemen into his central furnace network. He gave praise for medical science, and prayed for scientists good and evil throughout all time. As for his side effects, he was still able to walk up and down the staircase and also drive to the supermarket like a real man, and although a guinea pig to science he yearned too like an occult yoghurt commercial, what with his new sensation of feeling bloated, Margaret. Not that there was ever any confusion in passing a stool. For his poo, his shit had always been together, and remained so yes, and then he looked in the bathroom mirror:

‘Oh my God,’ he cried, ‘I am in appearance, as if science has stuck a bicycle pump up my backside, my stomach, it has swollen and my eyes like perched upon a balcony, and possibly I calculate there remains about two years with the penis views down there on the third floor, toes possibly an entire decade.’

Temporarily he was forced to call time on his beach modeling career, this handsome man for whom it was all the harder for him, not like the uglies, everybody else, he had always been one who so previously had traded upon his gorgeous looks, where once all he needed to do was simply enter any office, or showroom, or a canteen even and the entire ceiling shone, radiated the heat of a dozen happy, and stimulated cheeks. Now? Now he would go collect the car hire from the …car hire depot…and not a glimmer of a smile emerged from any of the desk jockeys on display, perhaps,

‘Oh to be a Bonoboo monkey’ he cried, ‘oh if only I should make love all day like a monkey.’

But no, instead in his despair he fell down the hill, rolled to the beach, and spread upon the pebbles, sobbed a small pool created alongside his swollen body, and then he felt the sensation of tiny feet bouncing, heard a joyful giggle rising and the tinkle of coins in his discarded baseball cap.

‘Why why yes,’ he cried ‘I am a beachside bouncy castle, providing pleasure for all the young people of the world.’

Some hours later a young Tamil urchin chap noticing this business opportunity, tethered our hero using chain and tossed a foul grey blanket across his chest to protect this investment against the elements. The investment who with a small twist of his jowls was now able to sustain his form upon discarded the kebab, dominos Pizza, Mcchicken wings thrown by the teenagers whose squeals accompanied him through the darkest hours of his burgeoning career….

Adoption dr1

When I told the wife we were adopting a twenty four year old man she acted very aggressively towards me:

‘But I want a Scottish Fold,’ she said, with her teeth , really.

‘Yes, and I need a man,’ I said, ‘a partner, for writing plays and being friendly with. He needs me goddamit!’

‘Well, where will he sleep?’

‘In his room, of course. Look, now’s not the time for fannying about, ‘ I said. ‘ I am going to B&Q then I shall meet him off the ferry. Make sure there’s some Guinness in the house when I’m back or there will be bl….’ At this moment I paused. Had I overstretched, over-reached my ambitions? If you catch my drift with this damned English Langage.

‘Blood, you say,’ she said. ‘We are drinking wine tonight. Wine, wine and wine,’ she said.

‘You slut,’ I said. ‘ I want beer.’

We rolled on the rug, like cockroaches head to toe, fighting for our lives. I dug my teeth deep through her vaginal defence blanket shield, sealing her like a clam, a boiled clam, imprisoned by my powerful bite, yet somehow she managed to cock grab and I was swung head cock first out and through the bedroom window … etc tbc 

Writer Grief

As a great writer it is often most pleasing to enter myself – in an anonymous capacity, enter into so-called flash fiction competititions upon the world web. However I am simply quite devastated that working title ‘The Trip Advisor’ came in last place on this occasion with a single vote, you may judge for yourself, perhaps I must pay closer attention to my art and those of you who say that a story shall not simply write itself are correct however tiresome the whole process of placing one word after another becomes:

PROMPT – Naked Dinner

The Swing Club – provides fine dining and a club card discount voucher. Well, the entire package, in fact, glides through the letterbox and crash-lands at the bottom of the stairs. I am elated, greeted by the sight of an embossed invitation, being that finally at the grand age of fifty-seven and medically retired I am now able to combine my passions in those twin comfort zones of gastronomy and sexual intercourse, twinned boxes which have always been my two greatest areas of expertise, and most certainly a man’s primal desires must be ticked. Not that the good wife hasn’t kicked up a fuss with her usual ignorance:

‘Eating foreign muck’ she says, ‘fish bones and shit?’ She says this wearing a fluffy pink dressing-gown whilst seated at the kitchen table.

‘And eating fresh vegetables, quite possibly,’ I quip, and yes, some might call me haughty, yet I can only say that at this moment in time a vision of mature artichoke flashes behind my eyes, indeed in the mind most probably, and I lick my lips with the crumbs of toast still fresh on my tongue. ‘Also darling,’ I say, ‘this may be our last opportunity for random congress with absolute total strangers,’

‘What perfection,’ she replies, ‘and shall we, shall we make love today?’

‘It is your choice madam,’ I say ‘be it the table or a bedroom floor,’

‘Ironing board,’ cries my princess, and quick as mist I burrow, deep under the staircase, preparing for the most exquisite ride of the velvet crush and cushion.

I must briefly add that Linda is my second wife. Marjorie having unfortunately drowned herself at the kitchen sink, and it was during the grief-laden, and entirely voluntary organ recital lessons that I provided post-service at the church that the poly-bond between young Linda Rightstaff and myself evolved: slowly at first, a love story emerging, away from the prying eyes of our fellow members of the New Christ venture scout group.

Linda, my Linda certainly enjoyed her slush puppy that night and the take-away pizza we shared on the bumper cars, and said that whilst foreign food wasn’t quite her beef she would always be up for one of these bukakkes. Six months have now passed and after many long practice sessions with the spatula, and the tins of ambrosia rice pudding, we are prepared for a more public display, we shall deliver a performance.

Enrico takes our coats at the entrance to the swingers’ luncheon and bubble spa event. My attractive wife framed naked at the porch stands like a lampshade in shoes. Fragrant as a peach she holds my hand, as I snarl and sniff. I am:

‘Your filthy fox and broom handle.’ I say this to her eyes.

The Bukkake contest itself is nothing so much to write home about, unless your intention is to expose the open society, the libertine frontier of which I am a leading part edge. I myself, by way of appetiser, writhe amidst a half dozen freshly caught naked grandmothers and Linda cheers me along, waving the red pom poms and encased in her favourite wartime gas mask, her costume. Otherwise she sits quietly nude upon the stool and painting, awaits her turn with the Chippendales. I, of course wear the elephant’s ears and slap the old ladies’ backsides with my trunk on attachment, until finally the boys arrive, and I, this day, I wear my second place rosette with pride. The food, frankly disappoints, consisting of those disposable trays of peanuts, crisps and the like. My gourmet interior remains entirely unfulfilled.

Porage Oaf

I spent the entire day shouting at people: my son, my wife, my daughter. I was a complete animal, must be hormones, a blood blockage in the seminal glands, who can say? Indeed, I fear the knackers van shall arrive at any minute. This will be my last post.

‘Where is he?’

‘In the front room, watching sport. Beware, he is naked and drinking beer.’

‘I am so sorry, lady.’

‘We are all sorry.’

‘Let me through.’

‘Is that him?’

‘Oh my god, clear the way. Tasar tasar tasar.’

‘It’s okay, it’s okay, nobody panic, fetch the body sack.’

‘Here’s my card lady, you know where to find us. You have forty eight hours to change your mind.’

‘How can I ever thank you?’

‘All in a day’s work.’

I think I said – I have been asked to read at a big event. This is a very cool situation, eh? AND tomorrow is my birthday. Pretty pretty cool. xxx


As I woke at (1)dawn the (2)damned kids arrived from their various clubs and (3)dens. Then, arising for the cats I (4)drank tea and pedaled (5)down the hill to meet this (6)doctor man who was, in the greeting of me, very civil, posh and medical, counting my eyes in the petri (7)dish as I relayed to him my entire life story, and seems, he says, that I have been a fool loitering for a year with the raging gullet condition. He washed both of my eyes in soapy water at the corner sink and he prescribed old peoples’ pills, said I was alright as a fella in almost every other respect that he could think of. I thanked him sincerely, yet I did not shake his hand feeling sorry for him, him having a whole day ahead of shaking with the invalids and lepers, the other patients no doubt shall not be quite as civilised as myself. I do know these things. So I left the man and joined the nine o’clock shoppers under a blue sky, a fresh breeze, bought flowers at the greengrocers and croissants at the bakery because I am like the Love Story, the boy is me.

‘Life,’ I breathed, ‘is entirely wonderful,’ and I cycled past the bus. It was at that exact moment that the wheels of the bus scooped my left trouser leg and I, I…


Back home now and two months of grimness have lifted with the email in my box. Some Brighton festival type outfit have asked me to read my stoopid stories to an audience and I have much peace with the news. Phew eh? Like the Mark Twain quote where he urges you to give writing three years, and if success eludes you after the three years it is best maybe to stick with the chopping wood. Well, a combination of the two might suit me best, but I have to say my little cloud has lifted and I feel a spring in my step tonight, in the one leg at least, quite the evangelical, might be dancing to Leo Sayer later on, god bless the dead etcetera and I would, like the evangelical urge anybody with a dream…oh do shut up [hic] goodnight xx

Creative Spirit


Quite the honour to be asked/narration before our esteemed nation/an oration on the occasion/at least/ a spot of poetry at Grandma’s funeral and I practiced in the bedroom with my mouth and vowels:

‘”Do not weep, I am not asleep, I shall always be your granny, your mammy…” I can’t read this shite,’ I said, ‘it is not up to my standard. Indeed, my own family, they are all such peasants.’

‘She has been offered a job in CERN Serne,[idiot] astrophysicist, you know.’

‘Bollocks, she ain’t. Fuck it,’ I said.

Yes, yes. But why oh why oh why can this family, my family, can they not just make up and have one funeral. Why do we have to have two funerals? One is on the 28th March and the other on the 4th of April? Why oh why oh why oh why…a family feud, and it spins out among my elders and betters. I better take my place behind my mother, and gun the others down when the time is right, heh heh [metaphor, m'lud]

That’s my news on the blogroll..blogroll.

In other news, creativity returned this morning and I composed the first poem since the recent drought attack. Here she is:

Shall I stick the morphine up my ass
was the question that I asked
on the website, they call it bluelight
where all the best junkies and the scum
here they hang, exchange information
as to the availability of tramadol
across the nation
That sort of thing, industrial cocaine, sedation
destined for the dentist market
I think they take their share
stick it somewhere
before the coppers come along
and send them all to Wandsworth
Shall I stick morphine up my ass?
Nobody replied
I might have died with morphine up my ass
The two pills left behind by my dad
who never shoved these pills up his ass
I don’t think so.

Then, quick as a flash I became inspired to write a second even more prefect poem

Drill Valley

I live at the bottom of the hill
in the valley of the drills
among the DIY Eskimos
who attach coat hooks to their igloos

Both works of art require some editing, I feel.

Horatio P Fesus
a pseudonym


See, unlike your typical fool I approach the literary agencies in reverse. Seems the XYZ type literary agencies probably don’t get many submissions at all. So I start with Xema Warrior Press and can bask in my endeavour for the rest of the day, although that one time I got rejected within ten minutes, that was a total pisser, although usually they just don’t reply at all, and I’m thinking cars and windscreens here and submissions being the little black flies hurtling toward the glass. What a mind, simply awash with similies, metaphors, just ask I’ll give you a metaphor – okay a face like a frog hahah ah all very good. Recently my posts have been heading geriatric in voice what with all this death planning. Well enough, I am forty three years old until April and there’s another forty three years left in me after that. I am going to Mars, yes yes on the convict ships I’ll be the TEFL navigator spooning the hotpot down the galley, bandana wrapped round my muscles.


‘What’s happened skipper?’

‘The women convict pound, I, I, I dropped the padlock key down the aircon.’

‘You mean the mencons have the key? [BEAT] Where’s my space bazooka. I must defend the honeys.’

‘Go Jackson.’

‘Yes sir!’

Also I entered a flash fiction on the Writers’ forum but currently has zero votes. I should have read the muck really. I have a sense it is quite jolly but not sure it makes any sense, no middle or end or story or plot. Oh it will be fine, just takes a month or so in the drafting.

Gullet pain continues and waking nightmares after ladypal said her husband’s oesaphaggis exploded foaming blood out of his nostrils and ears like he’s the deer hunter, I can’t sleep, this must be what bullying feels like, I don’t know.

Oh…oh…reckon this time I have done quite a reasonable job on the submission, not good quite yet, think I’ll be perfect round about P. Okay…well Sally’s a billionaire now, eh? I remember when she were simply one of my minions in the OU classroom. I should dig out that master Beardy story I did for the girls, very titillating it was. I think I’ll write some Tichborne conspiracy type stuff with pigtails and vicars, ghastly ghastly xx seeya.

Jolly day

Probably last of the old fart series, get back to younger voice: tch


As you know I am probably going to die from some kind of spicy, throat or gullet digestion disease that inhibits my ability to drink a bottle of wine every night or even possibly any wine at all ever again. My electronic cigarette faces a diversion via my naval, whilst my neck shall be entangled among steel probes and scraped by some foreigner with a medical degree. In time, I will have to puff wind through my belly which is almost impossible, but looks entertaining:

‘Look darling ha ha.’

‘Ha ha ha.’

‘Draw a pair of eyes on my belly…’

‘You look like a pig ha ha ha ha.’


Being as the only people who seem to read my blog are foody types with the chick pea conditions…I mean you only have to place a picture of delicious food at the top of the page and they will read it…being as that is the case, I thought I should introduce a culinary element to the script.

Last night it was my wife’s turn to cook and because we had our regular guest in attendance I insisted upon the formality of a table, although my main daughter ate in her bedroom. I laid the table myself, with four plates.

Yippee, it was Caribbean jerk chicken night and I watched as my wife jiggled her wide backside to the reggae tunes played through her i-shoebox whilst I sat at the table spinning a fork like Goering’s revolver, something something.

Indeed she danced with the cooker like a voodoo slut. No, no, no, yes, gyrating before the hob, waggling the hot wooden spoon, no, no.

‘Chicken,’ she sang and stirred the beans in a pan of jus, juice, or water.

I patrolled across the zones, and said in a voice like a weasel nerd,

‘You need to thicken that gravy.’

‘Piss off,’ she said.

Service came and I was served delightful sweet potato, insipid ris, pico pico beans in water and a chicken thigh coated in spice, finally relenting I ate three thighs whilst Jackson my mutant boy hog devoured eleven or something quite horrific. The Lithuanian girlfriend at his side she said:

‘Is too spicy for me,’ like a damned European: flaky, milky hermaphrodite weaklings the lot of them.

This at least gave my wife and I something to talk about as later we drove to one of our favourite petrol stations to collect puddings. The only incident of note here was the rather awkward situation in the car park. Parked alongside sat a couple of rather rough, but sweet chaps to my right, the driver returning from the shop at the same time as my wife (I , of course had remained in the vehicle for security’s sake).
So I said, winding down the window, like as a courtesy:

‘After you, young man, you go first,’

And he said,

‘Oh, why thank you, ‘ which was nice, but then he just sat in his car and did not do anything.

Meanwhile my wife and I had to pretend we were having a conversation, so we didn’t look foolish. Then we pretended to argue. But still the driver would not leave. He just sat there as well.

Finally I bit the cow by the horns and throttled reverse away from the shop in dramatic style and fortunately we were not followed. A story that retold shall certainly enliven any festive gathering to come.


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