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Maybe I should start my story here, lying beside an H-shaped swimming pool in Beverly Hills on my 27 th birthday, taking in the spectacular...

Saturday, February 18, 2017


How you do? 
Good moaning. 
God after moon. 
Hour you?
I fine. You fine? Okay. 
Nice to meeting you two. 

I an Juan Abdullah Chung. 

These my teacher Mr Jhonson. 
Mr Jonhson nice to meet to. 
Mr Jojhson nice teacher help English learn. 

Im a not busness man.

i student cambrigde shool for learn engrish.

Am writers my story. 

That not tomatoe that is telephone. 

Its a horse not aeroplane.

Mr jooHson negative teach toady. 

Tommorow teaching postive.


The two Frankfurters entered the diner first, followed by the Hamburger, the Berliner and finally the French toast. The thinner of the Frankfurters, bathed in eau de Cologne, considered the German chancellor's stance vis-a-vis the American-Belgian Waffles crisis with the curious detachment of a captain of industry at three removes away from the Munich beer hall putsch of 1923. The fatter of the two Frankfurters, his deliberations consumed, was more than happy to accommodate US-style additions, provided the syrup agreed to be one of his myspace friends. All four had gone Dutch to spite the French toast. Buttered on the untoasted side only, she was actually British and proud of it, no matter how many sprouts Big Brother Brussels left all over the plate.

To scotch the Welsh rabbit's plans, the Danish pastry had saved everyone's bacon by squeezing orangemen till the pips squeaked in each of the Six Counties. As part of a negotiated settlement, the Ulster Fry was to be covered in haricot beans and artificial sweetners. Pound for pound, it was still a full English whichever way your baguette was buttered. The Celtic Tiger roared. He had more important fish to fry: kedgeree for starters, then depleted cod stock and finally skate on a bed of thin ice, topped with a neo-liberal sprinkling of tax breaks for business class customers, all at M3 motorway prices. No self-respecting Pole would touch it with a bhaji.

Meanwhile, Asti Spumante was drinking espresso au terrace with an off-duty cigarette who had been forced alfresco by the frying pan, so the French poodle could give his "Make the Trades Unions Bleed" speech in all major European languages, except English. Tipped off by the waiter, the creme Catalan caught wind of the US subprime market collapse in good time to rake off 8.5 billion Euros for gateaux re-construction in the Black Forest. The Portuguese man-of-war, full of Middle Eastern promise, nevertheless continued to swat the Spanish fly. The cheap Sicilian red, who was never up at this time of day, had spent the night on the bio-diesel with the famous Russian salad, who had got the Venetian Blind drunk and left the Greek cross under the table, totally shished off his kebab, much to the delight of the Turkish coffee, who never ever touched a drop of the Tatar sauce.

The waitress, who wore her hair in a French roll coated in egg and milk (lightly fried), a style more suited to Southern Mediterranean than Nordic tastes, asked in her best dog, "Is there anything more you desire, monsieur?

She was addressing Rex the Dog.

Rex, the biggest canine star of his day, was known as the King of Dogfooding. In the advertising game, he was the dog who always ate the dog food. Rex would never turn up his nose at the product. Back in the day, there was nothing more embarrassing, or costly, on a live TV commercial than the dog not eating its Lassie Chunks. But this really wasn't his cup of tea at all. Even though he'd never been much for sheep herding, he hated wordplay with a passion bordering on collie. It was time he hightailed it. He'd already waited far too long for the waitress to notice him in amongst all the sticky puns.

- I don't suppose you could fetch me a bone and a people bag to go, woofed Rex softly.

As he pushed open the door to leave, a dispute over the provenance of the idiomatic infusion broke out between a couple of inebriated English peers, who had been down and out in Paris, London and other world-renowned European capitals more times than Rex had had dog's dinners. Lord Lipton of Lambeth Walk insisted the brew was rightfully his, while Earl Grey of Essex claimed the oil of Bergamot entitled him not only to possession of the dog's cup of tea, but to full droits de signeur over the waitress too. Pretty soon they were at it like humans. Rex was best off out of it. Pity. He'd been looking forward to that Vienna sausage.


In another story the four blondes would have washed up on a canal bank, stripped bare, battered and bruised. They were completely naked, but alive and well, and walking around. Unlike the gumshoe detective who lay dead on the river shore, trench coat still on and a half-smoked cigarette stuck to his lips.

The tallest blonde opened her mouth to say something, and as she did so, the tail and hind legs of a brown rat appeared. The other blondes tried to scream, but as they did, each one in turn spewed out a rat's ass. The dead detective sat bolt upright like something out of Frankenstein, blinked twice and ran off through the trees, shouting: 'I cannot abide freakin' rodents whatsoever'. Together the blondes spat them out and laughed the laugh of dentists on nitrous oxide. The detective, now in pyjamas, was chasing a sexual leitmotiv he'd once met in the John.

Had he not had his dream suppressants, Federal Agent D.D. Cale might have been able to dwell on the significance of his recurrent nightmare. But, seeing as he was on a POTUS assignment, he was shielded from the unresolved conflicts and the repressed phobias of REM-sleep by a Company drug synthesized from concentrated THC. He had a foggy recollection of sleeping in his crib right next to his folks' bed in their apartment on Main Street. Nanotechs. This was Cale's personalized biochip, imprinted with his earliest memory - on each of the three too many he'd had with his Vodka Cocaine

Developed on the back of the truth drug trials of the 20th Century, Nullanol was said to help agents focus on their investigations more exclusively. Agent Cale suspected the real reason was to lower his empathy and make him more malleable. He often went beyond the mandatory dose to help him transcend the queasiness of DC. The city gave him the creeps. Ivy League schmucks talking about good governance. Spindoctors pitching for that anti-antiwar vote. Billions of national security dollars and none of it worth a cent, except to those already rich enough to need it to buy more with. It was a waking nightmare. Who needed drugs?

He thought in all likelihood that he did, but the man he was waiting for was late and he didn't deal in chemical dependency - not since Coops had left the Company anyway.

Agent Cale had imagined joining the team of hacker-trackers assigned to clamp down on the black market propaganda feed, eDubya. But he had been selected to monitor an actor who lived on the corner of 47th and Third and worked in a diner. This guy had more surveillance teams on him than a G8 summit.

- The line is that the President's got two brains : the officially sanctioned psychblog on www.potus.com, and the cool one - the illegal feeds for the anti-market available through the eDubya network.

His superior was filling him in.

- I'd kinda figured that much out already, sir.

- I'm sure you did Cale. But here's the rub. The State Department deploy a surrogate conscious. Since most of the time he's only dimly aware of what's really going on, the President's eDubya blogstream is played by an actor.

- It's not as if it's the first time we've used actors as President...

Ignoring the aside, Cooperman went on.

The President's own consciousness is so two-dimensional and downhome, we've pretty much been able to put it straight on potus.com along with the standard mishmash of lifted screenplay, media blurb, cartoons, Westerns, Bilderberg Group speil and after-dinner repartee.

- White propaganda?

- Listen Cale. This is strictly a black psych. op. You're a tourist on this thing. The Company are gonna want their piece of ass. NSA and the Secret Service boys too. You gotta stay focussed on our guy. Watch your back. And don't do anything to screw up.

But even before Cale left the Federal building on a tide of rhetoric that morning , the body that housed the President's most plausible brain had already washed up on a canal bank near the gas works downtown. The Homicide boys had gotten excited, but it turned out that the Jane Doe was not blonde nor even a she. He was naked alright, wearing only a wig and badly smudged mascara.

When Cale visited the corpse in the city morgue that afternoon, it so clearly was not the same body as before, he suspected he was being set up. He told his boss only that the President's feed had been drowned - more than likely by one arm or other of national security, and since the left arm didn't know what....

His superior cut him short.

- Where are we going to get another stream as reliable as this one? If the hackers tap into the real feed, then the game's up Cale. Those goddam desk jockeys at the State Department couldn't...

If you'll allow me to break up the flow of FBI cliche here, sir, I might be.....

- Cliche, of course. What a great idea! You got 48 hours to do whatever hairbrained maverick scheme you haven't gotten around to telling me about yet, because I'm just too busy to hear it. And since I haven't heard it, my plausible deniability shall be all the more plausible. Well done Cale. Get on it Agent.

Cale wished he hadn't been so facetious. Who said they don't do irony in Washington? Two days of doing what exactly? Secret Service nano-forensics are gonna have so wiped our TV surrogate's identity clean, it'd be easier to invent a whole new one. Not a bad idea. Time to upload some eDubya feeds into his VR sequencer and catch some zzz's...

She was still half-asleep when I touched her. Granpappy Walker did the right thing. No robot 's gonna tell me which button I can or cannot press. BOOM! I placed her limp wrist over little Dubya, but she stayed inert. The Japanese bat bomb idea. I'm lovin' it. A million kamikaze bats. Which country's capital city is Vienna? It is not a Jihad ; it's a crusade. Russians were the bigger threat than the Germans. Environmentalism is a crazy belief system. Sitting on the bottom of the stairs totally ripped. Each with a small explosive device strapped to 'em. After the war we worked well together in Bolivia. She spurned my love. Course we were always going to go along with the atomic deterrent. Nazis gave us a ready made spy network to penetrate the Soviets. Scared the shit out of her and woke her up. Stalin totally flipped out as per the plan.That no good phoney Pete Puma. First time I met Lyndsay I was too. That's the trouble with carrots : they're only good once. Create the illusion of the Liberal hedgemoney. She was half-asleep when I PREDICTIVE SEQUENCE... I met Sheena when I was 18 I'd had two purple blott...

WARNING: Please be aware that the quality of information found on the President's Brain is likely to vary.

Cale woke up cursing.

- Goddam predictive censor scan' s gone viral again. While he waited for another feed to upload and for another Nullanol to kick in, he sat up and read Coops confidential memo:

The Three Implausible Laws Of Political Football

1. At least until you find out who the hell let the feline outta the bag, never admit a thing.

2. Despite its increasing implausibility, sustain the denial. At the very last make a partial and inaccurate disclosure of limited and/or indirect culpability. Still deny everything when pressed.

3. After a senate hearing or enquiry has been set up, spill the beans - one pulse at a time, until the can's as clean as a choirboy's conscience.

[Emergency exit - if all else fails, blame the intelligence.]

That's where the final showdown's going to be . On www.potus.com online 24/7. The sins of gluttony and wrath. Judeo-Christianity and our Hindu friends are lined up against The Islamic Fascists and their Buddhist conspirators. Get real close to what's on the President's mind! The bats were to fly individually into each Jap house and blow themselves up. Darwinist Liberalism is a faith not a science. BOOM! Venice? Went upstairs and made Lyndsay take it. It's their inbuilt radar. Cleared the pitch for Carlyle and the Bin Ladens. Our Third Reich slush fund. Godless Liberals. Aren't all fascists Islamicist now? Got the dough off our anti-semtex friends. I only hit her once or twice. Jihadist terror is a good line. Arriba arriba, andale andale. Come on wake up and give it up. Cocaine coup. Like flying rodents. The money line runs against the War on Terror, Papi says. Destroying Babylon and protecting Zion. Lyndsey was a bottle blonde. Don't give me all that reincarnation pacificist hippy grass smoking crap. Temperance and fortitude are my cardinal virtues. Klaus Barbie. Praise The Lord. I taught I thaw a putty tat. Rats! What does Papi mean?

Cale drifted away into a deep sleep. In the morning he dreamed a dream he was to remember for the first time in a long while. He spent the afternoon in the Guggenheim. Next day, he told Cooperman the President was no longer a crossdresser.

His boss said nothing about Cale's mouthrat. He'd only deny it for now anyway.

Thursday, February 16, 2017


The painfully slow and torturous death of the Secretary of State for Health occurred on a Saturday. Much less certain, however, was the manner of his agonising demise. 

In this best of all possible worlds, it was of course merely a matter of time before the Angels of the Nation sought fit to mete out justice. And naturally, it was equally fitting that he should perish at the hands of all those he had wronged in his miserably inadequate and wretched life. It was indeed only fair that the ex-president of Oxford University Conservative Association, the former Head Boy of Charterhouse, the elder son of Lady and Admiral Sir Nick Hunt, the great grandson of Walter Baldwyn Yates, the fourth great grandson of John Scott, first Earl of Eldon, the 29th great grandson of King Henry I, the fourth cousin once removed of Queen Elizabeth II, and the fifth cousin once removed of Britain’s most celebrated fascist should be brutally battered into oblivion by a lynch mob of avenging Angels baying its fury on this pathetic apology of a man.

What remained unclear to the great and the good was the motivation behind this grievous event, whose egregiousness was the subject of several thousand column inches in the better class of newspapers in this most liberal of Western democracies where it is widely believed that the interests of the many outweigh the vicissitudes of the few, should one happen to have spent one's entire life with one's unthinking conk firmly ensconced up one's alimentary canal. 

Beyond any scintilla of doubt, however, was the true character of the Health Minister's extensive and staggeringly prodigious injuries, bearing in mind that, at the time of his vicious but righteous slaughter, he was visiting the cardiology department at the world famous Addenbrooke’s Hospital, Cambridge.

Indeed, the Coroner’s inquest concluded that the major trauma and multiple lesions were the consequence of a sustained assault by an unrestrained but co-operative group of people who had inflicted the injuries extremely slowly and methodically - much in the manner of the aggrieved assailants in Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express. Each and every single one of The Angels of Mercy at Addenbrooke's were complicit in the morally motivated assassination of the Health Minister, seeking the justice that the son of Nick Hunt had thus far averted in his sickeningly pampered existence. Needless to say, Countess Andrenyi of Finchley did not form part of the self-appointed jury and execution squad.

As an instance of industrial union solidarity, it was without parallel in recent British Labour Relations. As an act of mindful violence, it was even more aesthetically blissful than the summary execution, on 29th April 1945, of Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini, Claretta Petacci and their entourage of proud Italian nationalists. As a feat of human bio-engineering, it even surpassed the astounding achievements of proto-feminist, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley's Dr Heinrich von Frankenstein's monstrous re-arrangement of the physical form. 

According to several scurrilous reports in the more salacious tabloids, there were pieces of plasma and fragments of protoplasm plastered all over the walls of Cambridge's dedicated cardiology centre, which is proud to provide high quality care to the privately rich, many of whom were traumatised by this collective deed of astonishing brutality from the nation's most-loved and least-remunerated Angels. 

Apparently, all norms of professional conduct were thrown out of the window, as pinned-down private patients had matchsticks inserted between their opened eyelids, forcing them to bear witness to the rabid slaying of the Health Minister, as kind-hearted Angels ran amok, chanting: "The Hunt is Dead! The Hunt is Dead! All hail the Hunt is Dead!"

A 23-year-old Ecuadorean staff nurse took great relish in ripping off Hunt's left ear with her bare teeth while inserting into his rima oris her treasured copy of Granny Made Me An Anarchist: General Franco, The Angry Brigade and Me.

Such reports, however, subsequently, proved false. 

At no point did the assailants run amok, rather the febrile Angels of Mercy queued politely, waited patiently and took turns to inflict monstrous acts of inhumane pain upon the esteemed Right Honourable personage who had seen fit to patronise them that very afternoon. This is, after all, England. Keep Calm & Carry On, as HM Government instructs. There is no earthly reason to jump the queue, lose one's temper or to be rude in the execution of one's duty. 

As the privately-educated Minister's twitching bag of bones lay on the recently fogged floor, becoming a festering cadaver of frothy puss, sticky sputum, throbbing gristle, blood-streaked semen and purulent discharge, the dedicated Angels of the NHS stepped over it and went about their day.

Relieved. Content. At peace.

Sunday, February 05, 2017


We sit on the narrowboat, facing each other. I jump. He jumps. The candle sizzles. Eyes drawn towards the flicker of the flame, with moth-like fascination. The yellow has a dangerous side. But not now. Now the yellow is peace and calm, mostly.

To receive, you must be open to the experience, psychically. Some are more open than others.

The size of large coins, magnolia stickers guide us towards the centre of the fixed table, at right angles to both. These yellow patches mark out our progression. Balanced, equal, mirrored. Corralled by dark mustard drapes around the periphery. In the middle of the table... the holy grail of biscuits: custard creams. The yellow packet, like the table, is at 90 degrees.

Internal dialogue ensues. Should I or should I not? What is thought matters little to the non-verbal environment. A modernist, or a neurotic, might detect something in the eyes. More internal dialogue, suppressed for the benefit of clarity and reason.

Barred to prevent flapping in the breeze, the double door serves as hanger to the day-glo yellow safety vest. Risk assessed. It guards like garlic against deck demons that lurk beneath the black tarpaulin with the spiders.

There's an Industrial Workers of The World sticker on the wallet. Yellow side up. An injury to one is an injury to all. A promise of solidarity echoes.

The small orange notebook has a sticker on too. The book is jaffa - a close ally. The inside cover pokes out; it too yellow. I know what happens now. It is an organic remnant of psychosis. I do it without thinking. It works because I am not even dimly conscious of it. The forgetting has been good.

He thought his defences impregnable. But I have the yellow. His prior knowledge of neuro-linguistics and mind control serve only to reinforce the apprehension. Persecution ideation bubbles under the veneer of normalcy. A mid- to long-term relationship with psychotropics.

It doesn't occur to harness the power of the yellow again. Electric Buddha. Sunlight positive. Not until he gets the fear. His vitality flows out. As he sits, he decays. It is the yellow. Alive to latent semiotics, my psychosis has revealed it to me.

Yellow is the power, the reason, the seal in the middle of the biscuit, the ambient glue between us. I can taste it. It all comes back to me. The last custard cream. And it is mine.

I make the token offer.

- Biscuit?


Pandemonium broke out when the whistle went. It was just like a physics lesson in a circus tent. It was a physics lesson in a circus tent.

The clowns were in charge of philosophy ordinarily. The regular science teacher, the lion tamer, was off with a bad case of ontological self-enquiry. The clowns felt morally obliged to cover, having sown the seed of existential doubt in the lion tamer’s mind. Not only was his teaching suffering, but his entire professional underpinning was falling away at the seams.

Faith versus Rationality was to be today’s theme. The clowns will never have time now. They’ve got classroom management issues. They’ve mixed things up in their usual anarchic but amusing way; it’s the modus operandi for which they’re well-known. The normal creative links and chains of mirth have materialised, even if the methodology is dodgy.

In bright blue baggy trousers and a shock of day-glo yellow hair Charlie, as Pythagoras Theorem, gets stuck in the bath. He escapes a watery demise thanks only to the intervention of Archemides’ Principle, played by Marco, in the classic Pierrot whiteface. Marco struggles to lever Charlie out of the bath, to great hilarity and wild applause from the children, as the Harlequin whacks members of the scientific community with a big stick.

Unfortunately for Marco, he winds up proprietor of an extremely unreliable old clown’s car which he has purchased from Charlie for a bunch of water-squirting carnations. He doesn’t for the life of him know why. But he knows the square on the hippopotamuses is equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides.

- The subtending line’s called the hypotenuse! scream the kids in unison.

It’s a science class they’ll remember.

The schools inspector, on the other hand, is having trouble knowing which boxes to tick on the form. She can't decide whether to tick Mathematics (on account of the Trigonometry) or Art (on account of the symmetry). In the end, she ticks Other (on account of her Irish ancestry being somewhat tenuous, but more exotic than Home Counties Anglo-Saxon) and writes
This was wonderful pedagogical anarchy without the tyranny of structurelessness that I have frequently detected amongst the laissez-faire liberal tendency. This was co-operative not coercive.
It is, after all, her last ever lesson observation. She is prone to speak her mind, like a politician in her last parliamentary debate. No. Sod it. She is tired of ticking boxes. She will put that. She won't cross it out. She witnessed method in the madness, even if those functionaries at the Guildhall couldn’t. This is out of the box. That’s why it works: not despite, but because of the chaos.

Lapsang Suochong, adopted as her name by deed poll, clowned with Circus Amok for 17 years, before running away to become a schools inspector, so she knew her own mind on the subject of organised chaos. Besides, she thought, clutching third age conservatism from the jaws of first adulthood utopianism needn’t be the norm. The higher up the escalator of death one is, the more radical one can get. In the end what’ve you got to lose?

It hadn’t been so much different when she was younger. But back then she wouldn’t have dared cut against the grain so determinedly, de-mob happy or not. There was that one time though, in her Rio Tinto-Zinc days.

She had semi-convinced herself in her private justificatory discourse that it was subversive espionage - an early attempt to politicize her clowning - and thus a less objectionable way to spend her days and pay the rent, though she was semi-aware it could equally have been a cover for her Calvinist guilt: clowning's work ethic was open to question.

She found herself in the employ of the poster child of corporate malfeasance as part of a National Union Of Student Clowns (NUSC) sting operation. These people were even worse than the Local Education Authority. They didn’t tick boxes. They forged their own rules. Her undercover role of tea lady was all the more bizarre given her employer’s uncompromising post-modernist request to avoid the letter “e” in all subsequent mention of Rio Tinto’s core activities of mineral extraction, child exploitation and blood-letting, beyond a certain point.

So it was that Lapsang Suochong (NUS call-sign) took up charring at Rio Tinto - not without aim, but without an actual mission. Officially boardroom char lady; unofficially clown spy.

- Ms Suochong. Board’s waiting for you now.

Through aluminium zinc doors, an alloy wrought of pain and toil, char lady, cups, sugar and full-fat 60’s milk burst in. Chairman, MD and visitor sat in vast armchairs and cast such a broad shadow of normalcy that it almost had Lapsang back out of any moral action.

Until Lapsang saw what was on show. Namibians as young as 11 or 12 dug up uranium radiation by hand. South African township boys in torn mining garb fought for scraps of fool’s gold thrown by accountants and consultants in matching Safari hats. A practical, hands-on, vocational class in risky, body-crushing labour.

- …and put out a flat outright No on our complicity in any civil war. Not to do so would…..

- I’m sorry sir, but human rights violations are human rights violations any way you look at it.

- A Char wallah should pour drink with mouth tight shut. Why do you think your opinion is important anyway? And whoa, what you got on?

Lapsang had on clowning’s crowning glory: gigantic pants.

Capitalism didn’t wait. Two sticky buns caught out both char lady and mining boys, but not for long. Soon, scalding cups of hot Assam and classic custard tarts hit Chairman and MD smack bang in both phizogs, accountants and consultants had pains au raisins and anti-oxidants dripping from brows that would soon inhabit major burns units - all to howls of solidarity and hoots of joyful, noisy, chaotic, uproarious pande-bloody-monium (illicit “e” notwithstanding).

It was but a short lesson in the class struggle.



 It came as no great surprise to Becky Trumper that President Ali Bongo's actual name was an actual anagram of Gabon and Oil.
Becky was, however, as yet unfamiliar with the more self-evident code name for the highly-successful Operation Tony Blair MP: I'm Tory Plan B, which vastly exceeded all great expectations, and which outstripped those even of I'm an Evil Tory Bigot , which unscrambled itself all over the Conservative front bench in the form of Virginia Hilda Brunette Maxwell Bottomley, Baroness of Nettle Soup and Genital Warts.
But give her time.
On the other hand,  to learn that, despite (i.e. precisely because of  ) its Crude Oil Production and its equally crude and corrupt anagrammatic president, and a per capita income level that most sub-Saharans could only dream of, a third of its population lived in poverty only took her a matter of seconds online, time she might well have misspent reading The Guardian's feature on whether to wear her skirt tucked in at the waist (i.e. the mushroom ) or whether to have it tucked in at the front, but hanging out at the back (i.e. the mullet ). As a fictive entity, however, her transcendental indifference to the fashionista wing of the movement was legendary.
"So, not as bad as the East End of Glasgow, Tower Hamlets or Liverpool 4 then," thought Ms Trumper, who, if not literally, ought to be taken at her word and certainly more seriously than, say, a Jeffery Bloody Archer.
ALI BONGO! The Human Anagram… Roll up! Roll up! Ladeezungenelmen… as Ali Bongo does exactly what it says on the tin!  Ex-Posh British Public School Boy President Controls Oil, Power, Money in a Small African Country Nobody Give a Toss About!...
"You couldn't make this shit up... Ali Bongo, I ask you! "
"Yes, Miss?" improvised Ali, coming over more faithful man servant, than tyrannical anagram.
Becky baulked at the misogyny, even though she admired the word play, as per. Yet she couldn’t mistake Ali Bongo's unmistakable standing and imposing pungence. She put it down to the brandy & cokes mixed with super strength skunk.
"Swear I’m never going to touch that cack again. Stuffed with bloody sugar and chemicals. It's a hard drug, I tell you…”
 "You talking to me?" improvised Ali, a second time. More Wooster School than Jeeves now.
 “And just who the hell are you meant to be? Robert Bloody De Niro?"
"You couldn't make this shit up..." repeated Becky, again to no-one in particular.
"But I believe you just did, Miss."
"Ms. Not Miss. Anyway, who asked you? It's my project. Butt out Bongo."
"As they say in Madagascar, the future is behind you, unseen. It's the past that is laid out before you. You Westerners, so neurotic... "
"Piss off, back to the future then. See if I care, you bl;oody tyrant."
"What's with the rogue semi-colon, Ms.?" asked the divine interlocutor that she had never managed to believe in.
Just as she was about to notice him, another voice came into view.
"Skunky rants. Details can be missed, concentrating on the bigger picture. And vice versa. Bummer Becky."
"Who the hell're...? Robert De Niro."
"Bob, please. Look, it's the chemistry of hope thing and all that jazz. Be afraid of the truth because it's too complicated. You know how it is. I mean, I can't keep re-walking the mean streets for good..."
 "Might explain your latest movie, I suppose," ventured Becky Trumper, who notoriously avoided deference like a branch of the Capetian dynasty in 16th century Navarre.
"We're all looking for a way out, kid. Try the wooden spoon routine. The mook might fall for that ol' trick, ya never know. Anyways, outta here.”
“BTW Your kwoffee sucks."
And at that, the Hollywood legend was gone.
"Wooden spoon? BTW? Whatever can he mean?"
Becky, feigning mock ignorance for the benefit of the average reader, accessed the data in seconds on the interweb connected to her smart attitude via broadband dongle on the labial side of her Zalambdodont molar. Where else?
Ms Trumper's back catalogue was immediately inhabited by Laura Englestein's impressive study on Russian doctors' view of syphilis, social class and sexual behaviour 1890 - 1905, Morality and the Wooden Spoon.
Eating straight from dirty wooden spoons, licking toilet seats, sharing a cup or a number of casual hugs from sexually hungry Young Tory males... It was all there. You couldn't make this shit up.
With a renewed sense of purpose and a street plan, Becky turned right into Old Kent Road. There was no left turn allowed.
"Typical!" thought Becky, typically.
She was just in time to collect that Archer she'd been promised via the telephone...
 ("Two grand. Should set you up nicely in a new gaff. Get you on your feet and that..." said the telephone,)
...when Chance would have it she was destined to cough up nearly half on a tax demand, strange since as far as she  knew she'd always been PAYE, and this forced self-employed crap was all too much of a mularky, a bother and a pain in the culottes this side of Annihiliation, a 2014 novel by Jeff Vandermeer she hadn't had time to read, stuck as she was in the old Manopoly again.
As to how come a miniaturised modern automobile had just won third prize in a Beauty Contest he hadn't even entered, but which he could set off against tax, from his offshore account in Cluedo, under the name Rev. Green, she remained mystified.
Bloody patriarchy! Bloody capitalists! Bloody vagina!...
Men and menstruation. The two banes of her life; the two defining characteristics of life on Earth, apart from Jeffery Archer of course, and her sleepwalking thing. Revenge is a dish best served sweet. Cold was so over-rated. Fact was she'd stopped punching people in her sleep as her dodgy synapses had sorted themselves out into a fully formed character, freed of the shackles of caricature and authorial indifference, at last...
She no longer felt so out of place, neurologically.
Logically, the fact that the new President was, in actuality, a 540 million-year-old carbon-based life-form wrenched from the bottom of the polluted oceans, that possessed but one discrete orangey orifice through which to ingest and excrete, had escaped nobody's attention. The bespoke CV he tailored on LinkedIn made no reference to his previous incarnation as a 1982 World Cup mascot.
To seek to scrape up the feral prose that the psychopathic Beast of Grantchester, who had made her a single-dimensional bacteria in the multinational bestselling, As The Crow Lies, left everywhere he went like a legless syphilitic slug pissed on fame and fortune and Fortnum & Mason would, however, be a different kind of faecal matter altogether.  Ici, as they never say in Madagascar, but frequently do in Gabon, on parle merde!   
And so she decided the only way to deal with this right now was ... to not deal with it.
For now...

Friday, January 27, 2017


We decided early on that torture was going to grow much more quickly than  many small-cap brokers predicted, particularly once rendition went public in 2003, and we developed an integrated water board platform that offered monetizing options in any facility. FACILITY 1391, most notably.

That wasn't what the venture capital companies we were talking to at the time wanted us to do - they wanted us to be more specialist. But clients were telling us that fragmentation of the industry was holding torture back, so we decided to listen to them.

What we've got now is an integrated service that can offer bespoke torture systems precisely tailored to the end-user regimes employing it - for example, by psycho-geography, by demography, by cultural contingency and a host of other factors.

We did secure funding last year from Black Operations Capital, which has made life easier. We're really pleased with our progress going forward - we now work with all of the well-known agencies (CIA, MI6, ISI, FSB, Mossad, Al-Qaida, USSS, ISIS So-Called, the notorious Shin Bet, etc.) as well as private clients such as Coca Cola, McDonald's, Tesco and the Co-Operative Society.

We've engineered  fully-integrated, UN-compliant torture solutions into more than 50 countries and, moving forward, we're working on a licensing deal in China and Korea, North and South...

We're real proud to be doing business with you, Mr President.



The Minsk Agreement
must not be implemented
Ignore Angela and start again
Barter if we have to
But you can stick your Troika
Attacks are not reforms

Superman has indivisible powers
and X-ray insight
Pity he's not running the economy
with one hand behind his back

Happy meal Happy music Happy families

The Merchants of Menace
and their daily nightmare
of white noise
that annoys the fuck out of the poor
The city rich jack up in the toilet
It's all there
Selling shares in human souls at £7 an hour

I've had enough of working at Costa
Non-unionised barista costa lotta less

I don't feel myself today or yesterday or tomorrow
Alien Nation is the workplace

She had a cow's milk allergy
I thought she said cosmology
which would have been
a lot more down to Earth

we can't decide what we will
So I decided to be still
and wait...

Too late.
Another power woman from the Dragon's Den
had me economically enslaved by teatime

F..F..F..Fuck the rich and powerful

I was fine
Then I was fined
£30 for jumping a red light on a space hopper
while Mr. O'Fucking Leary
rides his Roller down the bus lane
like an out of control accounts clerk
on a psychopath's cycle path

Are you attempting to bribe an officer?
Pulling muscles from a shell suit
It's chocolate in the charlie factory
It's skunk in the laboratory

How else do you expect us to get through
this shit?
Ah! It's all part of the plan

You get sick. You get old. And you die.
Them's the odds. What's the chances?
We all end up the same. Take aim.
You're fired Sir Arsehole
Deadly. Levelled. Lovely.
Take the liberty. Take things less seriously

And let the silly man
on "Thought For The Day"
tell you life's not a game again
as you stake your autonomy
on your own mortality
despite God's best attempts at satire

Go on Walt. Talk Disney to me.
"Is that you Minnie? What have you got on?"

Another powermonger from the Dragon's Den
transcends gender
and drops an atomic pile

An empty happy sociopathy
pre-programmed crap
with all the tenderness
of a high-yield HSBC bond


Sunday, January 22, 2017



Something about riding the tide of populism, all the pundits being wrong again, and having that thing on his head approximating hair

Something about not being able to find the words to express how you feel about the contents of the package delivered by courier on the evening before the big race

Something about neo-Wahabi jihadi terrorists and sons of God by the name of Jesus or something or other

Something about the self-styled King Herod of Assyria slaughtering the innocents on Spanish April Fools' Day, December 28th

Something about faulty flaps

Something about the way she ablutes attracting him like no other lover

Something about 36% more celebrities dying in 2016

Something about the Fame Plague growing really serious when the C-listers started clogging up social media by all dying mysteriously young

Something about Dai Young still being alive despite the obvious

Something about the snowflake millenials sexting in class...


Something about protecting people from RADICALISATION being a team effort!

Something about transgendered inmates and Howard's penal reform not stopping it all kicking off big time, on the inside

Something about gaol as a holding centre for the IT literate underclass

Something about the head of the NSPCC getting to the bottom of child sexual abuse

Something about the precariat and the rich not giving a flying traveller's cuss one way or the other

Something about the undesirability of desire, now that you're 50 and have become invisible

Something about what the hell! does (British) Palestine have to do with us!?

Something about snow in the Sahara during another Xmas heat wave spending spree

[Something about a revolution]

Something about there not being anything they can do about it, so why do they even bother trying?

Some bollocks or other about One Nation Conservatism and something about the dysfunctionality of the system from the much-lambasted leader of the Capitalist Workers' Party

Something about it doing what it says on the tin

Something about her name being a modal verb for uncertainty

Somewhere around £35 a head! just to go to a dinner with ex-government ministers talking Ed Balls about the worst excesses of gender essentialism

Something about an advertising and marketing platform masquerading as a radio station, soccer franchise, Labour Movement, soft drink, Presidency of The Free World (sic)

Something about (sic) meaning you don't really believe it, of course

Something about people in Bangladesh being forced to sleep sitting up

Something about still being exasperated by them still printing stories about them still building houses on flood plains, as we are inundated by yet another surge of publicly-funded merchant banking

Something about Mai '68 and the Situationists that would freak her out

Something of the grammar school about her

Something about the catfish in question actually being cheap, for a 200-pounder, at only £165,000 sterling

Some government rot, tosh, twaddle and codswallop about it being your duty

Something about it not being about preventing anyone from having political and religious views and concerns but about supporting them to use those concerns or act on them in non-extremist ways

Something about her repressive control obsession

Something about drilling for oil at the poles, despite already having enough to piss past, on and all over  the Kyoto protocols and Paris accords

Something about the secret torture chambers/ prisons known as Facility 1391... Ahem

Sarcastic comment about Donald Trump

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