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The President went to sleep very, very, VERY! content, do you get that? That's three God damned very's, OK. He had been one lucky SOB that day in so many ways, so many ways, folks. He had not been jailed, nor had any of his immediate entourage, nor even his extended family. No fish today. That's #big fat ZERO! Nada. He had pinched the fanny of the First Lady on LIVE network television, and gotten away with it. And he'd had the very great pleasure of firing someone else who thought that he had been indispensable.

There were 310 million privately-owned guns in the USA and still, he was STILL alive. Incredible day.

There were one thousand seven hundred and ninety-five days just like this in his contract with the Merkin People.

Sleeping good, folks, sleeping good.


It was not so many years ago that the Storycatcher stopped plying his trade. Time was he would cast his net to and fro, in the back streets of Bethlehem, behind the gin palaces of SE1, along Black Country gutters, outside two-up-and-two-downs in Macchu Pichu and throughout the length and breadth of The Valleys - collecting fragments of tales, strings of anecdotes and flights of fantasy in his wake. He had a point to prove back then. Pensions were index-linked, health care was real and the benefit system less mythical.

But after the great defeats of the 70s and 80s, the stories changed in nature. The immigrants' tales from Grunwick, the bitter odes of Orgreave, the feminist lore of Greenham wove a richer fabric of bravery and despair than any account of social democratic content. The legendary might of industrial unionism was largely a media construct. He had boxes and boxes of internalised Fleet Street tale-telling and reams and reams of narrative stream from union leaders in the H…


As she sits down to weigh up likelihoods and alternatives - bacon (cured/ uncured) in classic tandem with eggs (scrambled /unscrambled) toast (wholemeal/ white trash) not to mention coffee and tea options in attendance - the PM partly regrets a decision brazenly taken early in the morning chez Number 10: to kick start the day with a brace of coddled eggs and a pair of rough, yet sturdy and dependable oat cakes on which to place them, before snapping a jpeg of the arrangement in order to compare and contrast them with those in the illustration on the back of the box - or is it the side?

- How is breakfast PM?
The PM has expended a goodly few minutes out of her precious mind in an attempt to resemble as far as feasible the studio photograph on the packet. She rues her choice of lexis. Surely goodly is incorrect in this context. Neither is she convinced that a coriander leaf does a passable impression of a sprig of parsley. Ho hum.
- How is breakfast PM? 
The question fails to jolt the head …

Cardboard Mummy GO LA LA in PoundLand!

First, get Cardboard Mummy
outta there. Just doesn't sit right.
After the diagnosis.
There are market forces at play with the kids on the estate.  The writing's been on the wall for sometime.
The sign makes a good goalpost.
It got weird when she took Cardboard Mummy to school 

for Show 'n' Tell.
A fraud. A deception. 

Economics is a magic trick.
Having gone to Eton gave him carte blanche,

a la carte and cordon bleu.
Bloody immigrants! Coming over ‘ere 

with the Normans.
No wonder my sister-in-law

can’t get a council house.
I just love your British accent. R U Skarrish?

The arm and the dead dog in the cesspit under
the garage were too gruesome to be included in the final edition. 
Everyone loved Boris, the dog, not the toff.

The box represented motherhood.
Trapped. Contained. Medicated.
Cardboard Mummy came second
to a rocking horse with pubic hair 

made from scouring pads. 
Conceptual domestic economics. 
Social care under low wage slavery.

Is it my job to know …


State-sponsored doping is pandemic
Call the midwife
Call the narrative paramedic
Administer the meta sister
before I'm too straight. 
Democratic state. So-called. 
Monetized to believe, blessed relief,  in #bullshitjobs
Life in a monotony
made to enslave and indebt. Forget
the election of puppets. Mutiny. Revolt
Care/care not, free to disagree
Dissent is not a crime!
Abandon Sim City for Monkey Island
Time we took a walkthrough to the far side
Click & point/crash& amp; burn/slash & turn
society into economy and lies
Fruit ninjas read the game better these days
Suddenly, afk, it's 1784 again!
Hatch a dragon, fly the five furlongs
to Plaistow Gamefield
Enter Merlin's Magical Mechanical Museum
Die reloading. Airbnb. Get kicked out
Epic failsafe: pop a Mitsubushi. BRB noobie 
Pickpocketed and laggy from so much grog
Do you be alive or do you be dead? Fuck this!
Back on the ciggies and the vodka
At some point in your life, decide
I'd be better off dea…


Theresa may
Theresa won't
Theresa might do
Theresa! Don't!

Theresa can
Theresa should
Theresa will, in all likelihood
Theresa would, if she could

Theresa couldn't possibly
Theresa may well not, in the event
Theresa shan't
Theresa could've done
Theresa can't

Theresa didn't
Theresa did
Theresa died

The End


The world can be divided into those who know and those who don't.
At Cheltenham. Not in Cheltenham.In Cheltenham is what the likes of me and you say, unless of course you're one of them. One of those who is in the know and understands what at Cheltenhamactually means. It is akin to at Cambridge or up to Oxford, even though they may well have travelled south; the arrogance to defy geography but a first step along the road of class-based sociopathy that all begins with that at.
Those of us who know are in two camps too. Those who were at. And those who were certainly never at, but know precisely what it signifies, even if we wouldn't get to go in a month of Sundays – not unless we wanted to raise it to the ground. There goes that up in place of down thing again.

The exclusive prepositions that they reserve for themselves have verbal equivalents. To luncheon, to school, to nanny, to rule. Our own alternative versions are available.
When, on the back of a toilet door in Croxeth Pr…