Dry Sailor Boy

Morrissey Concert Review

Ah ha ha, too excited as usual, better edit the bloody thing

Morrissey Review dr1

Reader, I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I had missed too many of my heroes. Ian Curtis tragically had hanged himself and yet Morrissey never did, so with much excitement we trailed to Hyde Park to watch the Mozgod in the flesh. I imagined I might be asked upon the stage to duet with Johhny Marr or perhaps that spiky chap with the goatee who had now replaced him.

It was a crowd of thousands, many dressed in the style of Morrissey in his heyday, spectacles, the cardigan whilst I wore only my tribute tribal anorak and the brogue shoes. Taking my woman by her tiny hand I pushed through the crowd, my wife spilling her beer as we tripped past the clouds of the cocaine joints and rested with only 7000 people between us and the stage.

My wife pulled her seventh beer from my anorak pocket and the PA system erupted back into life after the dreadful shit that we had already endured, Foo fuckers and Siouxsie Sioux as about as excited as a dead cat to see us etcetera.

‘I am hungry’ said my wife.


‘Starving. I can’t stay here without some food.

I rushed back through the 40 000 people stood behind me and rapidly purchased an enormous handburger to shove in my wife’s face.

‘There you are.’

And she threw it on the floor, or I dropped it just as the guitars burst into the sweet uplifting melodies of ‘Still Ill’ and I turned and left the woman and ran screaming into the mosh zone with all my boys, oh it was delightful pleasure. I was blow kissing, bopping about, screaming singing hugging all my Morrissey sisters, brothers and then…then he stopped playing Smiths songs and the whole thing became entirely boring.

I searched for my wife and I found her sat crying in a puddle.

‘You left me, you left me, you left me for Morrissey.’

Of course I denied any such thing.

‘You my darling are in my eyes like a fire that burns my eyes with such burning passionate erections, your personality I mean I adore every single whisper of your sleeping soul, oh shit.’

‘I love you too, ‘ she said.

We returned to the crowd but it just became too much. Morrissey at this stage lay on his face humping the stage like a little whale and then being so fat and sweaty he took off his shirt and flung it at the crowd, and singing all this crap I had never heard of, all these virgins in front of me, for God’s sake I yearned for the Proms, anything.

‘Piss off fatty’ I heckled

And then like hailstones I felt the little fists upon me, I was assaulted by the entire crowd. I knew we would have to get out of there damned soon I might be necklaced by a scrunchee or some other terrible….you know you know. I grabbed my wife’s hands and we fled for our lives.

Not even 2nd place in the beauty contest

As I know I have written a rash of Mermaid lit of late. This was the first, and I could maybe thread it out to sense…received two bloody votes on the forum – one vote from me to see if anybody else had voted for me plus that one fan of great prose. It’s a relief I didn’t win I might have been stripped of my crown, anyway hush because my other mermaid story is so much better and I wouldn’t want the great writers of the world stealing my other mermaid story, would I, no.

Mermaid, c550 words

1857, Singapore. Down at dockside I walked the planks strung between the junks and the scum. I watched a flotsam of discarded infants drift past the opium decks, and smelt the hashish pedlars with their pig tails and their crazed, staring eyes. This was no place for a lady, unless it was a lady you were looking for, or a ladyboy, or a boy, and I tell you my brothers I have had them all, in my days at sea and with time in port a man comes to thinking about his experience, about that special memory he might pass to a grandchild on his knee, one day.

It was a dark night and the old Javanese took me by the wrist.

‘Fish,’ he said, ‘fishy fishy. You want fishy fishy?’

I turned to Topeye, my sailor. I said,

‘He’s got the fishy fishy.’

‘I love fishy fishy,’ said Topeye.

Only a lantern lit the floor space of the bamboo shack. It rolled with the tide, gave lubbers the sea sickness, but not me. I’m a Jack. I am a Jack tar.’

Sat cross-legged I could see the faces: Asian, Palomino, Russian and only us two Americans sat in the farthest corner. A sitar player crossed from the doorway and he took his place aside of the main performance floor, and I have to tell you…us men, there were maybe twelve of us, we were stripped to our underpants, or the complimentary performance thongs, when they slipped into the room.

‘My God,’ I said to Topeye. ‘I can smell them both.’

There were only two, and at first it was finger nails I saw, waving through the air, mesmeric fingers that trailed an exotic weave in time to the pluck of oriental sitar music. Damn fine, I can picture it now. And then I saw her face, a siren more appealing than any waitress in New York harbor, any libertine of Bordeaux, any hula lady of the Sandwich islands.

I felt the volcanic stirrings in my loins. Loins for so long dormant, encased in the rough hemp of hammock, hemp that strained almost to the planks of a deck. For months I had tossed and slept on my back.

Like seaweed and rolling rice she danced on her belly, a perfumed beauty of the South East seas. Professionals, they took half a room each and our side, not that I looked so much, our faces were shrouded, mouths dripping in the halo of a tabacca smoke that breathed. I gasped as lifting her chest I saw the vision of her long blond locks resting on the finest titties like molluscs. It was then that the music stopped. This was the moment for which we had paid a dollar a head. You could hear it first, the swish and swash and then the first slap, and the gasp of a man experiencing the ultimate in ecstatic pleasure as a tail swept his lap.

There were groans, moans and I was not convinced I was indeed even ready, as the full weight of a fish’s tail crashed down upon my core. My dears I have to say I cried that day and the scales were like spikes in my thigh, I removed these over a month at sea. But, by Neptune she was a beast of mystery more desirable than any salmon of the brook, as Neptune is my witness.


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.’

Two Piggies

Working, and not having the time to indulge my drafts. So I found the back catalogue, and liked this one, once upon a time. However, it maybe fails the sense bump – not hopping pictures into another’s mind. I would like to read it out to a crowd, and it might work. There’s a repetition somewhere, but I can never find it twice. :)

Two Piggies

You stopped me, got me,
caged me, fed me.
Did you end me?
I am joking
you ate me at the fireside, remember?
I suppose you trained me.
We were happy when
like two wide whales
we wore jammies and fucked,
bred, breathed hereabouts.

We did not go outside
what for?
Dullards lay across every porch
and we, you keep it to yourself, reader;
we knew the crew only too well
so we, at home, we made our own parade
but (yet) as I recall, Pinky
you, or she kissed me
my Perky me,
my lardy
after the cake, you, she croaked
(whilst I remained
here in pain, awake to baking.

When will it end?
Only I am way past sale, darling
might shift ham,
honey, go see you
and how I see you now.
Somehow we skipped,
do you remember how
by our fridge fantastic
where we laughed?
Together again:
my love,
I cannot message you this plan
from a sofa
built for two piggies.

Big Dogs in Persia

Dr 2…still editing, top half is smoother. Still, I miss my first drafts: these things turn monstrous, 2000 words…

Big dogs in Persia…

We did not keep a dog. We kept only my cat. He was called Percy, whilst a wild ginger (tabby), she kept her (own brace of) kittens outside at the back of the house. She would scream at me when I stepped too close to her lair, in that cat growl which I (then) mimicked, and maintain to this day, for example if I am surrounded by cats. I can disperse an entire crowd of cats. Percy – my cat, he disappeared one summer ‘on the road,’ said the house boy(.) and I imagined my pal hitch-hiking his way to Tehran (visiting)to see the Shah, and later I pictured his snooze among a harem of Persian pussycats, perhaps with a box of ‘After Eights’ tucked in his paw (or maybe Turkish Delight). You see. Meanwhile, back home and alone I was a well-read and worldly little boy, who had books to play with, and toy soldiers, and a brother if there was a power cut. Eight years old, I lived a mile away from the largest oil refinery in the world.

All the sahibs lived in this, my suburb of enormous bungalows with the high ceiling fans, and giant air-conditioners located in the walls. Sometimes even a locust might crawl through the grill. However, step out of the house and another mile away, looking out through our gates I could see the mud huts of the Arab village shimmering in the heat. Turn my head, and I would see our side of town, the long shady avenues that linked these our bungalows, and under the avenue trees Iranian students reading their textbooks back to front, sat there with a tree each, cool(ed) in their jeans and flip-flops.

Jamie Mcilvaney had a dog. He named his dog Killer.

‘Why d’you call him Killer?’ I said.

‘I just like the name,’ he said.

I liked it too. It was a good name.

‘I wish I was called Killer,’ I said.

Lots of families had yard dogs, like Killer – in their compounds. Dogs kept those students at a distance, and Iranians didn’t like dogs the way we did.

I walked round to see Jamie. But he would not answer the front door. So I reached up, popped the latch on his gate, and stepped in the back way.

Only, Killer was sun-bathing in the yard and he jumped up on me and roared into my face. It felt like an age, that time, with the dog’s eyes barking into my eyes. He was heavy too, but he did npt kiss me, and I’ll thank him for that, because Jamie’s house boy whacked him with a very big stick. You will remember what I said about these people and dogs. They don’t even use forks.

Though I (do)reckon Killer had some friends about the place. Ten years later I was sitting in a red van, up the top of the beach, finishing the biggest joint we ever rolled – that day in Devon. This, as you know, is principle limber activity for surfing big waves. I was green in the face. Green, and with a black wetsuit, and a board, stumbling down the beach in a cross-shore wind. And I see him – a mile away at the other end of the beach, galloping like a guard dog, like a ‘Run Joe, Run’ dog. Obviously I knew he wasn’t (not) coming for me, but somehow (by) beach radar, dog knows, intensified my appeal he was coming for me, and all of a sudden one hundred yards away, hunting after only me with his (appetite and) teeth. I ran into the water and he splashed in after. But dogs can’t duck-dive and I got away to sea. It is, I know, pretty dramatic stuff. I have catalogues of dog stories – one chased me in my car in Fuerteventura. So, just to say I shall get my own dog soon, and I will call him Killer.

Little Woman in Love

My god I feel dreadful. Realistically I should not allow myself anywhere near a keyboard. Who knows what damage I might do? I am such a dangerous man, a fiery pen tiger, I might burn the screen with my prose. What else is Friday for – asides from complete self-poison with barley wine. Yum, yum…and today is Saturday and perhaps in half an hour I might poison myself, and my little wife, a little bit more.

‘Come out, come out of your hole,’ I say to the little woman, and here she comes scuttling across the floorboards. I think I shall play a trick on her, oh she is so cute:

‘Fee fi fo fummm, aha ha.’

‘No, no…’ she squeals.

‘Ah hush your rattle, frau,’ I say, ‘it is only me, hop on to my knee top and stroke my hairs.’

‘Oh Matthew,’ she says, ‘your hairs are so soft.’

‘Turn over,’ I say, ‘I want to brush your bottom with my thumb.’

So she spreads herself upon my kneecap, and lifting her white dress to her waist I see a tiny pink bottom rising, and falling, under my thumb. She coos. It really is a quite perfect arrangement.

Teaching diary: Finns & Italians

midweek drafting, no time, still a bit oddly – sandwich episode spins out in the draft – from one sentence to an entire life of sandwich horror :) editing down…

A heatwave and midweek: I am worn noddy, teaching up at the big school and jumping, splash diven into the sea at lunchtime. My sandwich, he watches me from the pebbles. I wave, and he waits…for me.

I sun dry, manly, and say ‘I shall never get rich in this business,’ I say to sandwich, and rub this arm with only a grey sock. I say to sock ‘and know, my dear, I fear…we shall never even become a properly pair, and are only properly poor, in our one single lifetime together.’ [what...]

White, sliced weakling I made: he is held.

‘Why fear me sandwich? heh heh heh, heh heh,’ I growl, and am top doggerel of the beach.

Yes, yet, for me, in this business that is the me philosophy, there remains an afternoon thrill to come, when back in classroom 2B, I catch a bright one in this, my line of sight hooks.

The young fella comes from Helsinki – and crackles, his mind like a rocket: such wit and dry with it, subverts everything that he sees and hears –

The Rabbit’s Bride is a god damn metaphor,’ he says, and lesson done, he scraps his way out to the sound of my whistle in his ears, to the playground arena – where he is stocky, punchy…a combat jacket brother who hangs with the girls. He is brooding from under a flick.

Later we play ‘Rich Me 2025.’ However, my atmosphere becomes raucous – so I cool proceedings with a douse round of ‘Terrible Life Futures’ where students have an opportunity given…to detail a catalogue of horrors from some point in their distance time, kind of like:

‘I live in a tree in Gotemburg park. I eat trash with my pigeon brothers. We am slave to criminal mastermind.’

‘That is a perfect future, Alicia,’ I say.

With Finns and Swedes I also teach rote diction – some version of:

‘Young people, pleased repeats after me:

the elves were left to defend the chickens by themselves…repeat the elves, by themselves eat the chickens and some girls…from the shelves…these elves…they should behave themselves.’

etcet etcet maybe…

When playing ‘Rich me 2025,’…wow…Laurenzo from Rome, tap-types those long fingers upon his jaw; he is very dramatic, and says –

‘Ia hava noa needa fora moneya. I composa ona mya violina the greatest synphonya in the worlda.’

‘Wonderful Lawrence, you are our, my inspitration, but remember please, my boy’ I say with these palms, these yellow teeth, my anger mountain: ‘pull yourself together, boy’ I remind him to his face. ‘It is…recall, my English language – remain flat now, for you musta controla the bounca of your wordsa…at all times.’

Ciao x

Erotica storytelling, 18+ please

Give him a break, it’s his first attempt…keep that head still next time xx

Amazing Achieve

‘Dahling, dahling…I have 300 followers…’


‘I love you.’


‘Well. 250 nutritionists and fifty people with blogs.’


‘Onwards and upwards. I think you may have put on a little weight. Have you considered “Army Workout” with payment spread over a convenient 12 month cycle of pure fitness, go go go.’

‘Go fuck off.’

‘Catch, the remote control.’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

More ELT Lesson Plans


ELT Lesson Plan


Requiring a short text I goggled ‘the short story’ and up popped, from some loathsome comic, ‘the greatest short stories in the English language.’ I think it was the Atlantic Quarterly and these tales – or riddles, were actually, in fact ‘American,’ short stories..? Naturally I persevered in the belief that the students might benefit from the simpler language, structure and general, more basic sense of ideas, emanating from the ‘folks’ across the pond. [haw haw haw, haw haw haw]

I chose only the stories that were labelled as ‘4 minutes’ or less [the link] and yes, goodness knows it is challenging enough to listen to my own family for thirty seconds – let alone some nasal bore pen lick with his IQ and wild pubic beard eyes. Yes again. The first story was called ‘The School by … …….’

This was my favourite of the stories, much preferable to that barrel chest Hemingburg, or the Atwood woman moaning on about the human condition and men wanting sex all the time and women having dreadful lives. I wanted to scream:

‘Have I not read you, your Prisoner Cell Block H Maid Tale…and is that not enough…for you? Go roll…you, away you, you…clever dick.’ [what..?]

Anyway Maggie was tipped into the rejection, ‘ha ha slusher ha ha you’ pile. Yes…

The School, a wonderful little tale where everybody dies – in a funny way, it is funny, although LLarsson – in class – became extremely agitated, frustrated:

‘But, vis is tragic, no?’

‘No, it is funny: it is called, they call it…homor. Read it properly, they are all dead,’ I said.

Also, next I spoke to the kids, in my voice, spoking: ‘If you can get through this next one, you can say for the rest of your lives that you have read Ray Bradbury books.’ Which they did – read the extract. I lost the back page of my copy so never found out what really happened at the ‘End of the World,’ though tried asking several of the students, but none of them was none the wiser.

By far the greatest success had been the day before – for narration and comprehension, I recommend the Brothers Grimm story about the girl sitting on the rabbit’s tail. It might be ‘Clever Gretel’ or something else. It has the lines

‘Come sit on my tail, girlie,’ said the rabbit.

‘No, no’ said the girl.

‘Come sit on my tail.’


‘Sit on my tail.’

‘Yes, yes. yes,’ which was a true crowd-pleaser, both inside and outside in the corridor where the prefects, and all the other teachers, had gathered.


The girl marries the rabbit. She misses her mother so builds a straw version of herself to fool the bunny. The rabbit beats the straw girl, and believes that he has killed his wife. He has straw on his hands. Gretel never returns to clear up the misunderstanding.


The Rabbit’s Bride

There was once a woman who lived with her daughter in a beautiful cabbage-garden; and there came a rabbit and ate up all the cabbages. At last said the woman to her daughter, “Go into the garden, and drive out the rabbit.” – “Shoo! shoo!” said the maiden; “don’t eat up all our cabbages, little rabbit!” – “Come, maiden,” said the rabbit, “sit on my tail and go with me to my rabbit-hutch.” But the maiden would not. Another day, back came the rabbit, and ate away at the cabbages, until the woman said to her daughter, “Go into the garden, and drive away the rabbit.” – “Shoo! shoo!” said the maiden; “don’t eat up all our cabbages, little rabbit!” – “Come, maiden,” said the rabbit, “sit on my tail and go with me to my rabbit-hutch.” But the maiden would not. Again, a third time back came the rabbit, and ate away at the cabbages, until the woman said to her daughter, “Go into the garden, and drive away the rabbit.” – “Shoo! shoo!” said the maiden; “don’t eat up all our cabbages, little rabbit!” – “Come, maiden,” said the rabbit, “sit on my tail and go with me to my rabbit-hutch.” And then the girl seated herself on the rabbit’s tail, and the rabbit took her to his hutch. “Now,” said he, “set to work and cook some bran and cabbage; I am going to bid the wedding guests.” And soon they were all collected. Would you like to know who they were? Well, I can only tell you what was told to me; all the hares came, and the crow who was to be the parson to marry them, and the fox for the clerk, and the altar was under the rainbow.

But the maiden was sad, because she was so lonely. “Get up! get up!” said the rabbit, “the wedding folk are all merry.” But the bride wept and said nothing, and the rabbit went away, but very soon came back again. “Get up! get up!” said he, “the wedding folk are waiting.” But the bride said nothing, and the rabbit went away. Then she made a figure of straw, and dressed it in her own clothes, and gave it a red mouth, and set it to watch the kettle of bran, and then she went home to her mother. Back again came the rabbit, saying, “Get up! get up!” and he went up and hit the straw figure on the head, so that it tumbled down.

And the rabbit thought that he had killed his bride, and he went away and was very sad.


Serious – for intermediate and up – Rabbit’s Tale/the School/ Bradbury. The Atwood is too heavy – there’s Hemingway too – worth a check: Narration, comprehension, reading, speech…I asked students to transform 19c fairy to 21st grit – (follow the stages of the tale, like steps) great results with their bloodthirsty CW, lovely…


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 341 other followers