Dry Sailor Boy

United or not, beautiful song played on BBC

Margaret’s Revenge, dr 1 ch1

I played some crit on a guy’s erotica piece, so he set me off. I’m sure I shall draft this to bits…it’s a good start, eh? Yes, it is x

Jack had been married to Margaret for forty seven years. However with her long-standing diagnosis of neurotic osteoporotic, and her lifestyle increasingly one that was wheel chair bound, good opportunities for satisfying and robust intercourse between the pair had become infrequent. Margaret was occasionally sympathetic offering her back by way of erotic visual stimulation, but lacking his spectacles this was for Jack a mere expanse of skin and he remained unsatisfied . Back to back in bed they lay like two hairy lampshadesstands and finding his spectacles in the lavatory Jack returned to the bed and studied his bible for answers to the questions, yet whichever page he turned the Old Testament only offered him a series of prophets with dozens of attractive and lusty wives and girlfriends. Moses, Abraham, even Jesus up the contemporary end spent his days in the company of delightful women, how could Jack’s horizons be so entirely arid? He was sixty eight years old, for Christ’s sake, not seventy eight. His wife snored beside her open window and he tucked the bible under his pillow reaching for the faded pile of pornographic literature inside the bedside drip cabinet.

Once more he became emotionally obsessed by the naked photographs of Eldorita plastered since 1985 across the pages of the readers’ wives section of Playfairy,

‘If only I were a simple staple,’ he thought, ‘I might spend an entire lifetime nuzzled against you, your delicious folds, you with your vagina in my mouth, my Eldorita,’ he whispered to the page.

The next day after his luncheon of dry crackers and grapes Jack hoovered the bedroom and made the bed, and finding his private cabinet wide open he squared and tidied his magazines which were disturbingly wet and sticky.

‘Eldorita,’ he mouthed silently.

His wife’s cat arched its spine against his sock, and surprised Jack hitched his trousers to his navel, till gathering wits he justly kicked the beast as it scampered down the stairs.

His wife sat amongst her array of medical pulleys and a cardiac monitor in the living room. Birthday cards littered the mantel-piece, and again the television was set at its full volume. She chuckled or gargled on a lozenge as her favourite soap doctor stroked his toupe during an engaging episode of Doctors . How completely ironic thought Jack and painfully bumped the hip of his easy fit chinos against the door frame. Where were his spectacles?

His wife tilted her head beneath the purple hair.

‘Cup of tea.’ she said.

‘I am leaving you,’ he said, ‘to buy cat food. I shall be back for Pointless at four o’clock.’

‘Cup of tea,’ she said.

‘Cheerio,’ Jack replied and slammed the door. He marched toward the corner shop when across the lawns only three houses away he saw the removal van and apparently his new neighbours depositing their belongings about the drive, or rather he saw two burly chaps in boiler suits, a man grasping a zimmer frame and…it could not be. It was Eldorita. Eldorita was moving into his street, and by gods her husband was partially disabled. This was the most fantastic day of Jack’s life and he skipped over to greet the couple.

‘Hello, hello, new neighbour – they call me Dog hereabouts, Dog P Le Hunte, crime fiction author, I live down…’ said Jack.

‘Why, hello Dog P,’ said Eldorita, tossing her black locks across her delicious deep-tanned shoulder, ‘I wish I ‘d found you a little sooner – given me a hand with all this junk.’

Her eyes were upon her rather short husband, and offering then withdrawing his hand, Jack ruffled the poor man’s hair,

‘HELLO,’ he stooped and said to his eyes, ‘WELCOME TO YOUR NEW HOUSE,’ and Jack gave the chap a thumbs up. The man only bucked and writhed in his rocker, foaming at the mouth, a thank you or similar dribbling from his geriatric lips.

Jack returned to the charms of Eldorita, her fine heels, her fish net stockings, the lipstick smeared across her chin.

‘My god, I feel I have known you all my life,’ he said. Twinkling from every crease in his body he proffered a hand. She too gave a claw and he lifted this hand to his lips and kissed the parchment.

‘The pen name’s Jack, he said. You can call me Jack, honey.’

The lunatic grumbled unintelligibly at his elbow and whistling Neil Diamond’s Cracklin Rosie, Jack swung his fine limbs toward the mercantile abode of Mr Singh.



The sea looks appears grey and bumpy on my left side as I pedal along the Brighton promenade. The lifeguard flags flutter in the south-westerly wind and I pass all the landmarks from pier to pier, noticing my pal Michael is still living in his tram shelter. I do not stop for him today and feel a tiny bit guilty about this. I’ll stop next time, I think, when I can give him a couple of quid.

The Regency apartments are behind me now and the scene becomes industrial and dock-yard. There are a couple of monster ships in the dock and I swoon. Also here is the billionaire’s yacht, seized a year ago at least, but still going nowhere. I swing right up into Portslade, which in my ignorance I might call the rough part of town. I lock up the bicycle and sweaty in my shirtsleeves, and a satchel across my back, I tumble into the reception of the adult learning college.

My man is waiting for me and we shake hands like men – which is the first tick in my box, being as this is my interview.

‘Straight off the bike,’ I say and he understands me, and I think we do alright. I answer his questions. The difficult situation question makes me scrabble about a little, but I get there in the end. He is likeable and I hope this is a good sign. An older guy, comfortable in himself – with a tie, the office manager.

‘What comes to mind when I use the term safesense’ he says.

Safesense I sense is a new term from the handbook, so I give it some bluff with the one, two, three – fire escapes, bullies and p p p p funny fellas, I pretty much say.

‘Not quite right,’ he kind of doesn’t say – ‘it’s all about if your student person says to you in confidence as the teacher, authority figure… “my husband beats me,” y’know?’ and, “Oh dear me,” you should say, “I am duty bound to inform the beatings and violence officer up at the college.”

Which seems fair enough to me, though you might construct an argument about people’s confidences and personal responsibility, but I think it is an evolution with teachers, or tutors getting themselves into trouble dishing out their mobile phone numbers – or not reacting to a situation when the signals are there…or finally legal, legal, legal. I think I covered most of it.

We spoke for maybe 25 minutes, and I do hope he calls me next week and offers me a few hours work with the teaching. I’d be disappointed if he did not. Well, I’d be concerned that I was completely eccentric, and next time won’t wear my lycra cycling shorts.

Robin Hood business venture opportunity

robin hood

I always get jealous of these people who write the fantasy role play games on the web. They are always quite keen for you to join in, but I never have a clue what is going on with all the planetary rules and Princess Xena’s laser chopper and stuff flying past your eyes. I get confused and leave. Being as I am very old I thought I’d kick off with something easy. Now it is important to stick fairly closely to stereotype and cliche with this or I get lost…and every writer should have a ‘Robin Hood’ story inside of him, don’t you agree? Originally I wanted to try all the Notts dialect stuff but that’s for down the road. I’ll research medieval peasantry too and we can have a blockbuster. Now, not too much drafting, mistakes are part of the fun. You may contribute a paragraph(s) or section and I’ll stick it in or if nobody replies I shall write it all myself. Otherwise go off and write your own Robin, which is fine. However, if only like one person replies I’ll just have to ignore the contribution, which is for the best probably. Right, here we go:

Robin Hood, intro dr 1.1

Everybody slept in the Nottinghamshire hovel. Mother, father, two boys, two dogs, a cow and the chickens all squeezed into the hovel. They lived in the woods. It was a paradise this hovel, and everybody loved each other, except the chickens who were idiots. It was a round hovel and had a hole in the middle of the thatch to allow smoke its passage to the sky. Mind you, the fire had gone out and if you were looking you would see all these shadows rising and falling under their blankets. It was early morning you see and father snored the loudest.

He coughed, and said something grumpy in his dream. It was like a ‘get out of my way’ kind of dream that men have sometimes, and then he lay silent, till a moment later he sat up and scratched the back of his head. He stood in the nude and looked about the darkness, found his tunic and threw it over his head, and stepped outside with the dogs scratching about his feet.

A couple of moments later he was stroking the old pony in his den. Father fed the pony a handful of oats from the bucket, stroked his mane and told Harry what a good fella he was and that he would bring him some breakfast soon enough if he was a patient beast. Patch and Ugly, the two lurchers scooped up the crumbs, their long tongues lashing around in the mud.

It was inside that father shook the two lads up to their wakefulness.

‘Jump sparras,’ he said and the little lads, the two white ghosts, they skipped outside in their night shirts for a wee.

Watching Telly 2

‘Welcome to the last in our series about the Edinburgh festival.’

What? It’s only just started…always the same.

‘Our first guest is Simon Thespy as usual who is currently …one man show …highlighting the comedy of the Greek playwright Juvenalio .


‘You know Simon I never knew quite how nutritious Juvenalio’s comedy is…’

‘Exactly, it is extremely funny and I have been performing his work since 1974, don’t you know.’

I like Greek. I studied Greek at school, I studied Greek at school. I studied Greek at school.

I do know, darling. I know. I know. Pass the bottle.

‘Some critics have suggested that I am myself Juvenalio, that I am somehow advocating that a man should make love to one’s slaves and some handsome young boys in the event of disharmony with the wife.’

‘Quite ridiculous press, by pygmy – Juvenalio is art.’

‘He gave us the expressions “bread today, jam tomorrow, there’s nowt as queer as folk, and also ub dub dub thanks for the grub.”’

‘Oh my gosh, amazing. Next on stage we have the not very funny bloke from Iran…’

‘Hello hello, I am from Iran.’

‘Ha hah hahha ahhah hahaha ahah h aha ahaha haa aha aha ha a’

‘…and welcome our next guest who is ironic in her country and western hat ha ha ha.’

‘I’m a girl
I play guitarrrr, some people think
I am dracalaaaa…’

‘Ho ho ho.’

[Gunshot in kitchen]

‘And an actress performing her one woman show about being an actress.’


‘We end the show with Africans. Here they are in their delightful bright washed tribal garb singing their tuneful clapalong melody called Africa…’


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[ww] 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.[edit repetition]


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.


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