Dry Sailor Boy

Noro Virus

A greasy trawler hunts the cod. The ocean rises and it falls, and here on deck I am surrounded by the fishing rods, like pikes…and the pike men, they are the toothless fishermen of a fishing charter. The metallic urn feels hot and heavy in my arms.

‘Tea, sir? Sugar, sir?’ I say.

These fishermen, they laugh at me and I am tossed among them, slipping on the green dimples of the deck, and the urn skids across the sole, rests aside a wellington boot. There is spray in my eyes. I wear only my oil skin trousers. Where is my top, my top? I am bare-chested at sea, and simply the fishermen’s entertainment boy, their slave.

‘I am not your bait.’ I say, rising to my feet. They chuckle, and slap mackerel against my cheeks.

Aroused I awake, my mind in a total state of confusion, and then it comes, I hear it first , a rush, it comes out both ends, hyper-vomit, and I am almost proud as I make my fifth retch: potato, cauliflower all that revolting lamb diced and spinning down the drains. I embrace the plumbing, my arms elbow deep in the lavatory pan like a proper plumber man,

‘I love you, my sewer, your cold ice, my lips suck on the rim.’

But nobody comes. Nobody congratulates me for my illness. I have only my mind for company. Why did I buy the fishing rod? It stands there, it taunts me from the hallway. I hate fishing, I always hated fishing. Forcing myself, hours on end to read fishing websites. It just seemed right for an active safari type guy, a rod and reel, oh no, when will it end? When this entire house is entirely stuffed with my one thousand shit gadgets. My gadgets for hiking, camping, killing frogs. When will I wear my head torch again? I have six pen knifes. Thanks Dad, thanks a lot. Even the bloody SAS knife you left me. There was I – thinking you were a secret agent. Yes, it doesn’t take special intelligence to visit an army surplus store, does it!!

‘When will they come?’ I say. ‘I am ready.’

Spy yonder, the darkening shore hills, the Russians are coming.

Rescuing the two hundred pupils of the junior school – and the half dozen attractive lady teachers was a simple enough task with the air rifle. I was forced to leave the caretaker and Mr Herriot behind, not having the facilities to hand for mixed camping. However, I remain heroic, trailing as family into the Welsh mountains, with songs of folk maintaining morale on our long march. This day is day zero.

‘Mankela…we shall do our best.’

‘Good, good, now listen here children. We shall follow this road. It is called the M4. To the hills…’

Ryder Cup (2012)

Old post from the writer forum. You can imagine the rewrites, and the edits from my writer pals. Couple of people said I was ill, another told me Ballesteros was Spanish. I do rewrite these, edit these first drafts and mainly ruin them with ‘sense…’ which doesn’t make sense to me…supposed to be sending that ‘dog sex’ thing to a small mag…but, but publishing a crazy pet sex story…was hoping to leave the kids with more of a legacy, really, y’know. Happy Easter x


Wife suffered some kind of mental episode yesterday evening, suggesting we dedicate our lives to the golf club. Forty-eight hours I’ve had to tolerate her empty tins of Budweiser, woman pacing the bedroom in the bowler hat, stars n stripes two piece and fluffy slipper boots.

‘YOO ETH AY’ she taunted, a tiny fist rolling in the air. ‘Go Tigers.
…Which one’s that?’

‘Seve, the Frenchman.’

Those hours I moaned from the bed, burped, farted, drank my Heineken breakfasts.

‘What’s the score?’ she asked

‘Ten, six,’ I said

Later, she asked

‘what’s the score?’

‘Ten, six,’ I said.

Thought it was the right thing to do. Everybody watches the golf. It was like watching golf for two days. Sometimes the ball rolled in the hole, other times it missed.


Then she said

‘which category is this?’


‘Where’s Prestorius?’

I snapped, sang, ‘EUUUROPE, EUUUROPE,’ waved the spotty blue towel round my head.

That really got her goat and we began scrapping on the rug. I grabbed her plastic pistol, one knee on her chest, stuck the weapon in her mouth, backed off slowly and motioned ‘take a seat. Keep your hands where I can see them all.’

I’m no fool. Stood guard through the night and looks like victory is assured. She will sleep it off.

My first gig: review

I took this off the blog because the ‘real’ experience was ‘great’ and ‘smashing’ and a considered ‘review’ would pay respects to the other…the other…my fellow artistes…and be generous. I’ll get round to that tomorrow…but my pal wanted to know ‘how it went?’

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 three or four – 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 oesophagus 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….

Treading Water [Nonsense post series]


Quite like this one, will bring it round one day, sail into the wind…save the best bits :)

‘Time to get back on the wheel and submit shit, and then write some more shit and submit that shit too,’ I said to the little face I had drawn upon my fist.

‘Eat me,’ he said, and I did, and now all I can do is type. Type with the remaining hand until my wife arrives home and we, perhaps we, we might vaseline my mouth.

Still, I manage to foam a bubble, a tiny bubble, minutiae, here at my bureau – or rather I foam over this ‘writers’ forum where I sometimes visit when I am feeling very, very suicidal. Yes I may have dropped the compass on my foot, and damn I remain sore: dropped my guard too, just for a minute, yes, and have been needled by an alpha-nerd specco breath pioneer – on the thread:

‘He got me.’

Mat Morrissey (I said) ‘Thrum dum doo da day, some dizzy whore, 1804! Ha ha ha ha.’ [Is rubbish]

Washington Bob the Pen: ‘Gott in Heckle, we damn emigrate to escape such twat, that prick is Mat. I tell you he is ass hole,’ he said.


I hate writers. Not writers, but writers, writers like him with halitosis and handbooks, a whole shelf, those cautious craft engineers with the method and study, application to a shared endeavour: us as writers – it is the same upon the WordPress, where

‘As writers we are all buddies.’

‘Except Mat.’

To be fair they are actually called readers, the top bookworms, fanatics and are all very dangerous. They must be sought, hounded, destroyed, pitchforked in a hedge. The heads are severed, boiled, tarred, pickled and displayed over the gates of Exeter gaol, with their stiff bodies fed to the pack.

‘Save me his finger. I must have my trophy,’ says the Captain Mat, the chief customs executive, here on Penis Island.

‘Take me, take me to the moors,’ she says, Dipsy says, in her blouse.’

‘M’lord,’ says the Pikeman, ‘over’t Dulverton, reports a shadow spotted hound, they call him the dog of spots.’

‘What! Spotty…?’

‘No, the dog of spots.’

‘Can’t you people see I am busy with this finger,’ says the captain. ‘Listen Dipsy, I’ll take you to the moors, and we shall find this dog. We shall kill two dogs with one spot, ha ha ha.’

(Dipsy) ‘Ha ha ha.’

There’s a tight clique on the ‘writers’ website, about six of them in all, a right hand full, I’ll get them, get them all, and I shall melt their kindles:

‘Neeeeeh, not my kindle,’ says the worm.

‘Yes, yes, ‘ I say, ‘I am the nasty bitch, I live upon the moors, with Dipsy in a cave, with a spotty dog, ah aha, ah ha ha ha.’

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


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