Dry Sailor Boy

Modern Vest


For many years I have quietly spear-headed a fashion revolution with my vest. Urged on by WordPress communities I shall now detail my passion for the twin set, sky blue vest and pant combination. I am indeed driven to write this most informative article and I am not alone. We proclaim from our rooftops that the wearing of vests has emerged as the subtle indicator of a modern gentleman. Even below, where roam the scum and cart wheels – on your high streets, ladies, we are among you, the knowing wink shared between gents with the tell-tale underbrace ridged against the crisp white shirt.

Meanwhile, for me, back at home there is something very satisfying with the tuck of a vest into the robust charcoal y-front.

You reader, of course, may only picture my sturdy frame stood here at the dresser; the doily: brush and comb with which I am able to describe the most perfect of partings upon my plate. The addition of brill cream and talcum powder that billows like a pillow of powder from the Victorian antique poofter acquired at Portobello. Delightful Gardeners’ Question Time plays on the Bakelite wireless and the pigeons outside chirrup their most elegant melodies.

Where was I? My hair is now arranged to perfection. I have the pants and vest upon my chest. I pause briefly and perched on the edge of my chaise consider the dreadful state of world champagne. I must step over towards the Stilton chest of drawers where-in are bundled the 1700 pairs of grey socks.

Which pair and which Christmas I must ask myself? The garters hang from their string stretched inside the door of the 1812 Viennese wardrobe. Socks, braces, pants, and vest. Hair, smart and presentable as I detailed. Next come the shoes. I pause at this moment and call my wife – downstairs in the kitchen, for guidance in the matter.

‘Moleskins darling,’ she replies from aside her own agar.

Of course.

I do not expect the little woman to appreciate how she is completely misinformed. Next – the hand-stitched pink shirt and tie from my tailor Benjamin. Now, I hear you say, ‘Windsor or wanker?’ I have always tied a wanker, never in all my years have I worn the traitor’s knot. ‘I too am a wanker,’ I said to his archduke highness.

In conclusion: I discover there is no pink shirt available. It is of course, I reflect, the weekend for Molly as well. There is very little irritation from this quarter, and as a man through all time, I don the agricultural check shirt and muse – for the Lobb leather derbys are upon my feet already. When did this happen? I scratch the hairs of my slim thigh and stand at the window frame. Again, there is debate on the issue, like with your milk and tea. Which comes first, the ‘feet or flannels’ you people might say. I know many American ‘gentlemen,’ those progressive show ponies dress with the trouser first. I maintain tradition, climb the stool, and most gingerly slide corduroy over my toe-caps.

Outrage Blogger

When I read the hit counter on my WordPress account that my journal entry of accidentally catching the Barbie doll’s head up my ass stood at one million, I was most surprised. How could this be? Were there really a million folk out there who wanted to read about an ordinary day with the vacuum and my terrible visit to see Mrs Heinroft next door to extract the figurine from my passage.

I was kind of surprised to find just Mr Heinroft at home. I remember how he shuffled to the door behind the frosted pane as I shivered on the other side, stood in the snow, wearing only my negligee.

‘She’s not in,’ he said and folded his newspaper, made that fairly revolting click with his dentures, his eyes consuming my contours like a chicken bucket. No, I was not standing for his lascivious manner and wrapping a rug around myself I tip-toed along the sidewalk toward the fire station, where I believed a professional might be found to….

Bleh bleh bleh

Brighton Alcopolypse, Blockbuster dr2

[can't narrate wip, wife's in the room :/ long, genre-busting opening sentence.]

Mr Arkwright senior, a dark horse in his personal and professional life, possessed industry networks that stretched back through time, and long before young Stiffe came to dominate the world bear market, as such. I think it was probably one of the last telex messages ever sent that Arkwright waved in his hand, high above the factory workshop.

‘Girls, I have saved the business,’ he beamed with pleasure.

The seamstresses, hunched over the sewing machines, squinted up towards their bald messiah stood there on the balcony. Sunlight streamed over his shoulder, and his wife, wearing the tortoiseshell spectacles, she was kind of like his secretary, she rushed out from behind of her desk and put a hand on the old boy’s shoulder. She did not want the chap making a fool of himself in front of the staff, no. Lifting her glasses off of her face, she read the telex. It was like a bingo ticket on Christmas day.

‘One hundred thousand units, stuffed and armed,’ she said, ‘armed, what’s armed?’

‘Each miniature teddy bear requires his own miniature bandoleer and an Ak47 rifle,’ said Arkwright.

‘Oh, of course,’ said Mrs Arkwright, ‘one hundred thousand red teddies, we shall be rich.’

‘Rich? What are you talking about woman.’ A faraway glint reflected in the old man’s eye. ‘This job is for the party, the ninety year anniversary of the Long March.’

Soon, leaks emerged from the factory floor, and the press were upon Arkwright,

‘Is this the greatest financial capture, irony of sand like Brighton beach selling sand to the desert tribes?’ said the journalists. ‘You know, but with bears to China?’

‘No,’ said Arkwright to the crowd of pigs, amidst the flash bulbs, gathered in his office, ‘it’s not like that at all. These are bears, they are not pandas.’

The first delivery vessel departed from Shoreham harbour. This ship was the renowned Isvestia, and as residents shall know, harbour impounded since ’99 for the unpaid parking tickets upon the highway. Of course she had a rusted bottom this ship: all crusty down there through underuse, like crumbs of steel it was, and there occurred a terrible tragedy, you’ll recall. The ship sank half a mile off the coast of Sussex. Its back broke, and the bow rode high into the moonlight like the jaws of a wolf, yes. The twenty Filipino crewmen at the stern rushed to the rail and leaped into the black water. Meanwhile their Soviet commander remained stoic at his post and puffed his pipe of tobacco. The authorities heard all this commotion, sparked the giant searchlight at the end of Brighton pier, and seeing these bloody refugees in the sea, the gunners set to work.

‘Pomp pomp pomp, pomp pomp pomp,’ went the bofers guns.

‘Hurrah for blighty,’ cried the crowd of onlookers, red-cheeked and fresh from a day at the races; the women rushed the strand to strip the corpses of their flip-flops. Yet amidst the jamboree of slaughter, this crispy hull of the vessel grazed the main gas pipeline to Siberia. An enormous whoosh erupted out at sea, and deep underwater compression waves pulsated a dreadful force out and back into the steel sides of the containers on board. One tiny crack appeared in the bottom left hand corner of the blue container, with its contents as we know, marked Arkwrights Toy Manufacturers and slowly the first red teddy bears floated to the surface. Weighed down by their AK47s and wellington boots, the surviving bears struggled through the slicks of oil that coated their fur.

Zhang Wei, bear commando, the size and colour of a coca-cola can, led the fellows and spotted the sizeable beacon of the Volks railway station-house, down at Black Rock. This is in Brighton. Zhang felt the thunder of the inch high breakers as they crashed to the pebbles. He took a single breath of air, and half-submerged in foam, recalled his desperate will to endure and drove himself onwards to the shore in a powerful sidestroke. Behind of him, Li Qiang bear snuffled, and he suffocated, a strip of Asda bag wrapped around his throat.

‘Li,’ cried Zhang, but it was too late for Li and his tiny, limp corpse washed up on the beach. A Pomeranian pooch prowled at the water line and grasped the little chap in his jaws. A savage mutt, it ragged the bear’s head from side to side, held in its disgusting black lips.

Zhang fixed the dog in gun sights and with a rat a tat, the bullets slashed through the beast’s eyes. It yelped, and blood squirted like a plastic flower. The masters rushed to his aid clutching their tennis ball and leash. Zhang and the bear Li Jun crouched side by side, dripped salt water and aimed high, their bullets penetrating the upper thighs of these two men-doggers, who fell to the pebbles with mortal wounds. By now a dozen teddy bears had established a beach head and clambered to the railway station. At their left side the roar increased as a crazed crowd with their lollipops raced towards the scene. A steady stream of bears mushroomed at the bridgehead, and surrounded the railway station, secured vantage points on either side. To their right lay the terrifying concrete morass of the marina, and ahead of them the seemingly unscaleable heights of Marina Drive. So began the first battle of Brighton.

Short memoir published Wasafiri, UK

Scroll past, or please see the link:


Published in literary magazine Wasafiri – my short-listed 2013, and a bit sad, story. Presented, as sent with hideous formatting issues, draft 62 and imperfect. I made a later version with a couple more prepositions, yup.




[Normal service resumes]

Having posted the ‘novel’ I have redesigned re-designed the blog as a professional platform with only select and tasteful articles on display. Please enjoy my forum of fun. However, I have not as yet up-dated the bio, or destroyed every ‘whilst’ and ‘meanwhile.’ Worst of all, I fear the blog entries are better than the shit literary I sent to the literary agent.

Next I shall place the shit literary on the blog and post the blog to the literary agent. Oh, and the first one I sent, I asked the LA to ‘publish the book.’ That’s not their job at all, is it? What a fool. They must be laughing into their dustbins.

I got half-way with the [blog] edit. Go back a year on the posts and you’ll find pure, undiluted filth, pornographic pictures, grandma in a bikini, my orgy with the dachshund sisters…

This is a pay-per-view service. Please send cash only to: Mat the Erotica, c/o Brighton Arts Club, and I shall pop down there in a month or two on my bicycle to collect my mail, although the boss is very intimidating, establishment scheduled for demolition in January 2015. [Bit sad, eh; a big regeneration of the London Road area.]

New Book

I bought a book from America. The Amazon chaps flew it across the pond, first class and now secure in my armchair, and with a small glass of sherry at my side I read ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,’ the memoir of a lady who works in the crematorium. Yes, I believe it is a best-seller. The author may well be a well-known figure in the United States, and is at her best describing process and kind of good at spinning her anecdotes, although less than effective when she moralises on our ‘hypocrisy’ over death and dead bodies. Here is a small extract:

‘Hilda was ninety years old, and the family requested the home wheeled her out for a private viewing under lights; in the chapel, no less, a discreet observation at $175 plus taxes. They sent a bag of clothes, and I laid the naked broad out on the gurney. I got to work, assembled her an outfit…

“Oh my gosh, a g-string, some people,” I said.

“Some people, huh,” said Mike the boss. “She won’t be needing those. Why, you keep them, honey,” he winked. “That’ll be nearly the whole collection you got there in the Betty Page.”

“Thanks Mike,” I said, “maybe I might do a little show for you and the…boys, you know, later on, by the coffins.”

“Hang on, I need to fix the temp controls on the furnace.”

“Hurry back handsome.”

Hilda, she was not looking quite so handsome. Edema had spread to her chest, and her feet were swollen like a clown. I fetched the surgical shovel, disembowelled her entrails, attached the embalming pump to her left nostril. Brown guts and blood fired out of her asshole.’

It is that sort of book, and means my career as a writer of horror fiction is secure for a century to come.



There is probably about a week left to watch the BBC4 Cosmonauts documentary on iplayer. The footage is fabulous and the Yuri Gagarin sequence brings a lump to the throat.

Vy dolzhny byt’ pervym chelovekom v kosmose!
‘Hey chap, how about we secure you to a V2 rocket and hurl your bones into space?’

Po moyey chesti ya gorzhus’ sluzhit’ sovetskomu narodu!
‘Yes sir, sounds like a tremendous adventure.’

Natsiya gorditsya . Otkrytiye grad bol’shoye videniye master raketnykh inzhenerov Narodnoy Respubliki!!
‘Good boy. Are you sure you are actually an orphan?’

V beskonechnost’ i daleye.
‘My parents live in a tiny willage.’


Four days later he does it, flies around the moon and becomes (and is very beautiful too) the greatest human in the world although Soviet text books to this day ignore, white splash entirely the fate of a Cuban bonobo strapped to Sputnik 1 . I baulk every time I see those rare re-entry photographs revealing a hideously seared monkey. Pink torso, a face blasted like Chuck Norris loose with chap-stick. How he perished to death.

However, Tragically too, less than a decade after orbiting the sun, Yuri flies a jet stoned out of his mind apparently and crashes the jet into a ploughed field. The vodka in his system ignites the parachute, a ghastly tragedy and the Communist free world is plunged into mourning. Yes.

But refecting, and I say to you, why can’t today’s generation fly jets stoned out of its mind? Who are these people in control of our jets? Seems Prince Harry can always fly what he wants. My only memory, a mere memory of space adventure – began on the M4 in a Fiat Panda, the sister aside of me and Lynard Skynard on the wireless, when we literally took off for something like four seconds. I couldn’t feel my legs or feet or anything. For a moment I forgot the concept of ‘steering wheel’ (whilst) crossing the heights of Salisbury Plain. Moving on swiftly. Of course I didn’t do that, ever. Nothing.

Yet my brave auronauticals there is hope, salvation in the form of drones. The newspaper at the weekend reported that some admiral of the skies says that in twenty years we’ll all be flying drones. Naturally armafeddonists among you picture a terrifying world of random terror strikes. Pakistani gamers 7000 miles away pilot a dynamite stick through the lavatory window in Kansas and you, you struggle, trousers around your ankles, discovered the next day with only half a stick of dynamite up the passage, yes.

‘I forgive him everything,’ says your daughter at the eulogy, ‘Even if he makes me sick…’

All things bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small.

So, to space. For conspiracy theorists among you I’d check out the legend of the Lost Cosmonauts. Seems it was all Bermuda Triangle type guff, but those stories with the voices from space and heartbeats, wow, all that David Bowie kept me blowing at the brain for quite a night flight, many times, might set you off also with the creative juices and pen, all the best, my authors.

Definitive Recording 1940: ‘England, my England.’


Legion, dr1, ch1. Still bumpy

Nobody would believe me, except you believe me because I have told you all about how I trained, swam many lengths, and finally as Autumn approaches I have made this journey that shall change the course of my life. Perhaps I may appear ridiculous shivering in my tight shorts here at the trucker stop yet I have twenty euros and the satisfaction in knowing that I have swum the channel solo. The first crossing from Brighton to Cap Nez Griz – winking at me once every twelve seconds. I winked too for her, my Marianne future that beckoned like a comfortable woman. What does this mean? I don’t know. I mean only a lighthouse winks at me these days. However, at last I am baguette nourished and a magnificent continental. Once Primark St Jean opens at eight o’clock tomorrow morning I shall purchase an entire wardrobe and stride into the Legion’s central recruitment depot in Paris.

Goodness knows I have said so much in this first extract. Time for a cigarette.

‘Asseyez-vous,’ he said.

‘Dankevel,’ I replied, careful not to arouse his suspicions and watched his eyes behind the desk that he had surely carried through many fields of combat. His eyes like slits and glinting he stared toward and through me. I responded in kind staring back with my beautiful espresso dark smouldering eyes till he looked away and spat on the concrete floor. Most certainly I knew, I had passed the first hoop of initiation, reclined upon the stool, and scratched through the hairs sprouting from the throat of my floral shirt. This first warrior in a kepe had made a great impact upon me until ten minutes later another trooper arrived and saluted his superior,

‘Folgen kamarade,’ he said.

For the last time I crossed the drill square as a civilian and we entered the gymnasium. Below the beams arranged along every wall I saw the plastic seats and seated on each was a recruit such as I. In all one hundred desperadoes had arrived for a life of adventure and masculine brotherhood, (and)(.) here, in the centre of the gym, hung a single rope. Motioning me to take a chair the soldier marched toward the two other NCO types stood aside the rope.

A whistle blew.

‘Vous,’ the command echoed and a derelict Belgian in a shabby tracksuit approached the hemp obstacle. He gripped the rope and began to climb yet before he was even halfway he grimaced, cursed, lost his grip and tumbled down to the boards. Handled roughly by the soldiers, he was thrown out of a rear door and into the street, never to be seen again.

The same arduous process was repeated. This time it was an Arab chap who clung bravely to the rope. Indeed he had achieved an ascent almost two thirds of the way to the top.

‘Non, non, non,’ said the soldiers.

But the recruit would not budge, and as he swung alone my neck ached with his endeavour. Almost a minute had passed. The tension became unbearable until the soldier below him reached into his holster and shot the man down from the rope. If not the bullet in his skull then the fall most certainly killed the man. The whistle blew again and a finger pointed my way.

The key to success was a lateral thinking process. Cleverly I removed my shoes and socks, and barefoot climbed like a monkey commando, slappinged the roof of the gym with my palm.

‘Oui,’ came the cry and I shimmied back down to the ground atmosphere.

The soldiers all smiled militaristically, and each one shook my hand. I had completed level two of the legion induction and was guided towards a far door marked Le Canteen for a nourishing stew and next section of my training, which I shall detail at the earliest opportunity.

United or not, beautiful song played on BBC


Listen, I know I am 107 years old and the wife is nearly 97 – next month, but when are people going to calm this plague of AMAZING. Everything is amazing.

‘How do you feel?’

‘I feel AMAZING.’

‘That is AMAZING to hear, and such an AMAZING performance. Back to the studio.’


Frankly, it’s all the wife and I ever talk about.

‘It’s just a plague darling, what…what do you think?’


‘Don’t piss in my slippers. Pay attention, I am having a rant.’

‘I think you should go upstairs.’

‘NO, a rant.’


‘Upstairs, upstairs. I shall not go. Look at me, look!’

‘Well well well, at your age, amazing.’

‘FUck you.’

‘And mind the frying pan, darling.’

‘Aghhh aghhhh aghhh my aghhhh my willleee agghhh, it burns aghhh.’


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