I Used To

I used to work in a hospital. I used to work in the boiler room. I used to love that job. I used to be on the overnights. I used to think it was the best job ever. I used to fill out all my reports as soon as I got there. I used to be done in 30 minutes. I used to watch TV until the small hours. I used to phone my girl. I used to whack off while she talked dirty to me. I used to get mad when a safety valve blew and the alarm would sound. I used to have to check it out. I used to have to reset everything  I used to fix up an old Harley in the shop. I used to love that bike. I used to watch porn on the computer. I used to sleep on the job. I used to get woken  by the alarm. I used to fix the safety valve with a G- clamp. I used to clamp the fucker shut good and tight.

I don't do that no more

One night I was awoken by a really loud bang the office  filled with steam, high pressure steam, you see they use high pressure steam in hospitals to sterilize everything 'cause you just can't do that with low pressure steam but you can with high pressure steam. See what no one ever told me when I took that fucking job was the boilers I was tending were, that they could explode and make a fucking mess. That's why the have safety valves; that's why they have alarms, but no one ever really told me that, I just got promoted from janitor one day. Anyway that one day, it was around 5 a.m., when I was awoken by a really loud bang, I made my way out of the office into the boiler room proper and the boiler wasn't there no more. It was in the car park.

I used to love Saturday nights. I used to be off every Saturday and I used to go bar hopping with my girl. I used to ride that old Harley of mine from bar to bar, my girl on the back. We used to get drunk and go back to my place and maybe get high or fuck or both.

I don't do that no more. I'm in jail.

J

The Journey

We'd never been abroad before. Never been out of the valley much. School trips to Lowther Wildlife Park and one trip with College to London. Fucking mental London, came back wondering how anyone could live there. We were not backward, just hadn't seen much life. I was 18 and my mate was 17, he was waiting for his exam results and I'd got a job as an apprentice welder in a bus depot. Don't fucking laugh, there were even fewer jobs then than there are now. I was on £35 a week, but lived at home - his mam and dad had a bit more money than mine but it was still quite a lot to ask - can we go on holiday?  We were open minded and a bit mental - try anything. We wanted to go abroad.

His mam came down the Travel Agents with us. It was funny looking back - she actually picked the destination because she thought it looked a bit more upmarket. She paid for us both on her credit card and I went to the Bradford & Bingley, withdrew my share and handed over grubby fivers and tenners.

Going abroad then was totally different. No mobiles, emails, phones didn't really work, you were basically off grid for a fortnight and good luck. I remember smoking on the plane - fucking crazy when you think about it, the fucking plane having ashtrays. It all seemed really glamorous. When we landed I got out and the fucking heat hit me, I thought it was the plane's engines or something.  We were in a great hotel and she's done full-board (not all inclusive, that was a concept that had yet to arrive). The travel agent had suggested full board because "at least they will not starve if they run out of money". 

We were good looking back then. You are when you are 18. The first night we were in a pub and this bird just said "come with us down the beach". So I did. Fucking hell, eye-opener. But to be honest, that just paled into insignificance when we made the discovery that changed our lives.

We were doing the usual touristy stuff - you know, straw hats, football on the beach, getting a tan. The third night in I saw a woman crying in the corner of a bar in a nice part of town. She looked like Goldie Hawn, she must have been in her forties. She looked fit. I asked her if she was OK and we got talking - she was English, she'd been robbed of her purse by some kids on a motorbike - it happened a lot. I bought her a drink, she ordered the speciality of the area and I had one as well. She liked us. We were sweet. She told us about the place, it's history. It was nice.  Her boyfriend turned up, he didn't look like good news, big fucker, mean looking. He seemed angry like we'd been trying to hit on her, she told him what had happened and that we'd looked after her - he calmed down and was really nice. He asked us what we were doing later. "Nowt" we said and he laughed, said it again "Nowt" - he was a cockney.  He said he knew a club and it was brilliant - good mix of locals and tourists, great music, very very different vibe.

They picked us up from the hotel, "bit late to be going out" was what we were thinking. He was with a bloke with a giant afro and Goldie Hawn. We went out on the main road and ended up in this huge open-air nightclub.  It was amazing. Everyone seemed so happy. The music was lovely - all pianos and strings. Nobody was pissed, they all seemed just...happy.

"Listen boys" says the cockney. "I'll get you a drink but if you really want to experience this, then you need to join us with one of these". He brought two little pills out of his pocket. He put one in his mouth and chucked it back. He snapped the other in half and nodded. I looked at Goldie Hawn, she smiled and nodded. We shrugged and necked them.  The Club was Amnesia. The Island was Ibiza. The year was 1987. The real journey had begun.

Hutch

AKA... The Railway Hotel Pub

Clive the landlord uncapped another Strongbow for me. Bugs swirled through the steamy Railway Hotel Pub. They tapped off lights and people in a dizzying dance throughout the humid air. Hundreds of them - little ones swirling together, big ones crawling up backs and shoulders. The closeness of the bar area left a hazy trail above our heads, creeping just below hanging lights from the ceiling. I got off the train here 2 days ago - alone in the midday sun. Most passengers had gotten off at earlier stops like Toowoomba and Roma. The kid I shared a sleeper with got off at Roma after a drunken week in Brisbane. I got off at Charleville because it was the last stop. There wouldn't be another train for a week and then some. Tonight, I was doing my best to fill the time until the next train. They all knew I wasn't local. They stared and glared and made time filling chit chat until I went outside for a fag. They would then convene like a committee, "Do you know?" "No, do you?" "I think he's South African." "No way, a Brit." I stood outside and watched the stillness of the Outback night. Not a breeze, not a feeling of oxygen seemed to pass my face as I exhaled a drag. "Hot one tonight," a voice out of the stillness surprises and my subtle daydream ends with a "yea, it sure is." "Where you from, mate?" I sneer a bit, but not in a smug sort of way, more at the commonality of the current situation. I knew the question was burning in all their pockets and I imagined them drawing straws to see who got to ask it. "New York City!? Crikey, you're a long way from home mate! What brought you all the way out here, to our little Chaz-Vegas?" Truth be told I just wanted to see what was out here. The answers I usually got of serial killers, poisonous snakes, and a few kangaroo of course wasn't good enough. Although seeing a kangaroo for the first time, live and in person, is when I truly realized I was a long way from home - and I fucking loved it. News spread quick and Landlord Clive came up to me as soon as I got back into the pub, "New York, eh? I was there nearly 30 years ago." "Oh yeah, our Clive is quite the world traveller," said another listening in. "Yeah he's been everywhere, mate - New York City, Brisbane." The pub erupted in laughter. Clive himself laughed aloud, turning to continue the joke, "Yeah, well the plane left from Brizzy, mate. Charleville Airport doesn't fly to New York on Tuesdays." Again the pub erupts into shoulder chuckling laughter. The uneasiness surrounding my prescience passes with every story. They bought rounds and talked toward me as they told stories. You know the sort, ones told a million times before. "... and then the hog jumped on his back!" The climax of the story shouted into the advancing roar of laughter, so that even the outside stillness feels the presence of life.

cclarke

Doubt

More than one seed was planted that day.

He came home from a business trip. She had missed him and he had missed her. They left the Chinese and the empty wine glasses on the kitchen table and fed instead on each other.

But as he thrust and groaned on top of her, she had a sense of something. Was that the floral, slightly sickly smell of someone else? And when she drew her hand through his hair, it came away with a long, light-coloured gossamer that was neither her auburn waves nor his salt-and-pepper fuzz.

The part of her that should have been the warmest went cold.

He sensed something. She didn't seem to be enjoying it any more.

Not knowing what to do, he heaved and breathed and finished.

"Is something the matter?" he asked afterwards.

She still wasn't sure.

"Of course not," she said, and smiled, but it wasn't a 100W smile, more of a 40W energy-saving smile.

He had to go away again, and that was when she found out. She considered sorting it out right away. There and then. Before he knew anything about it. She hadn't believed him when he said he had to go back to Miami. Where was he really? She scanned the backdrop in the Skype window for clues.

He missed her dreadfully, but whenever they spoke she seemed distracted, and their Skype sessions started to include awkward silences.

"I'll be back on Monday, around nine o'clock."

"Hmm," she replied, squinting weirdly through the screen.

She didn't sort it out in the end. What if she were wrong? She kept second-guessing and putting it off and avoiding the issue and then it was too late. One time he returned from the States and he knew.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He was overjoyed.

"Well, you know," she replied. "I wasn't sure."

He thought this was an odd thing to say but he was too happy to think twice, until the next time he had to go away.

It didn't add up. That time, he was in the States for six weeks, visiting buyers and manufacturers, giving speeches. Six weeks. It couldn't work. It didn't add up. It wasn't his. He was stunned. He didn't know what to do. He did nothing. Gradually the Skype sessions got shorter and less frequent. He stopped trying to make the trips to the States as short as possible, and when he was home he worked later.

She noticed. While she could still do so inconspicuously she followed him to see where he went when he said he had to work. He went to the office. Once to the airport. Once to the M1. That evening he said the Kent meeting had suddenly been relocated to Birmingham. She couldn't believe any of it.

He noticed that little things around the house weren't getting done. He put it down to her condition. He resented his space, his castle, his paradise, being tainted by some faceless dick-swinging moron. He started visiting his local before going home. He started shouting after going home.

One of those days, he came home and she was on the sofa and the house was a mess. He shouted. She shouted back. He was a drunk, a liar, a cheat, a good-for-nothing. She was a slut, a whore, a useless wife. In the midst of the shouting she stopped shouting and looked very pale and then very red. He kept on shouting until she doubled over and then he stopped.

"Get me to the hospital," she said.

He called a taxi.

It was a long labour. He left. He went to work. He got drunk. Then he went back to the hospital. He fell asleep in a chair, and just as a set of orderlies came to throw him out a nurse also came to find him.

"Please come this way."

It looked like a little red shrivelled piece of sweaty meat. He searched for himself in it. It had a turned-over ear like his. Its eyes were grey like his. But that didn't mean anything. Maybe the other one had a turned-over ear and grey eyes. He couldn't think what to say. He couldn't drive home so he took a taxi. She stayed in overnight.

On his own, he had another whisky, slept for an hour, shaved, changed his shirt, and went to work. When he came home he found them both asleep on the sofa. Then it woke up and started wailing.

Neither of them slept for more than an hour at a time for some months. Not even on his trips to the USA, separated by thousands of miles and several hours from them.

Then one time, he came back, and found they had gone.

Sarah

PRETTY ISN'T EVERYTHING.

PRETTY ISN'T EVERYTHING. 

One hundred and eighty pounds. For one and a half hours. Two pounds a minute. Middle aged, not ugly, bit worn. Where did this start he wondered. Got the money side of things out if the way and remembered the first "blue" movie. In a pub, afternoon lock in, young guns and older harder cases holding their breath. Ten minutes ago, before the projector rolled they'd been noisy and boisterous. Now they watched a black girl ironing before a big white dude came through a window and fucked her. 

Blue movies, porn mags and then the Internet. Downloading pics on dial-up and then 3gig HD movies. Hard drive full of them. Then the websites, Adultwork, Escort Agencies. 

Been doing it now for a couple of years. Every four or five weeks when his wife was away for the weekend. 

She kissed him, bit raspy from her shaved top lip, led him to the bedroom and really got down to it. She was good, no doubt about it, experienced, up for anything, maybe the best he'd had. Better than the young, pretty agency girls. They were good but not experienced like this one. 

He asked if she'd ever done two guys together. I did nine once, she said. 

Pretty isn't everything he thought. 

Pat

The Mails.

George 'English' Robertson and Tommy Dunne had been holed up in The Eastern Fork Roadhouse for ten days and ten nights. English was on his way back to Fairbanks and Tommy was headed for Nenana. Both men were in the employ of the U.S. Mail Service, their dogs and their sleds kept the far flung reaches of the Northern territories in contact with the outside world.

Karl 'The Big Swede' Haglen had just burned the last deck of cards and was contemplating pouring the last six bottles of whiskey down the drain. Each of the two mushers had won and lost his sled, his dogs and, more importantly, his mail contract to the other several times. Presently, The Big Swede was in possession of both contracts, sleds and dog teams, by virtue of him been a better card player than either man and a sober one at that. Been a good businessman, The Big Swede would return these to both men when the thaw came and they could be on their way. They would, after all, need them if they were to continue carrying the mails. And without the mails there would be no need for a roadhouse.

The snow had stopped but the drifts reached the eves of the lower roof. The two dog teams remained outside, one on either side of the roadhouse lest they fight, curled up in the holes they dug in the snow. Huskies and Malamutes, hardy dogs, well suited to the extremes of cold. The Big Swede, as was custom in these parts, had extended credit to both English and Tommy Dunne enabling them to feed their teams the 2lb of dried salmon and 1/2 lb of tallow each dog required daily.  

The two mushers were awoken on the eleventh day by the sounds of their dogs  barking frantically. Quickly dressing both men ran out to tend to their respective charges. A droning sound filled the sky, the dogs circled and howled and circled some more. The noise grew louder and louder. English brought his bearskin mitten covered hand to his face to shield his eyes and scanned the skies and there, in the distance but getting closer and closer, he saw Ben Clarkson's Wasp Hamilton. The plane was following the dog trail.

'Tommy! Tommy, have you seen this?'

The plane flew low and Clarkson tipped his wings as he past over the roadhouse.

'Seen it English? Have I see it? There'll be no more Gee and Haw for me, Haglen, you can have my fucking dogs, I'm getting me into the Aviation business just as soon as I get back to Fairbanks!'

JL

Annual Appraisal

Here we go again, it's that time of year. Is there anything that disconnects me more from the whole employment deal than the annual appraisal?. A minuet, a mime set in farce. In we go donning our masks, circling the stage. He's young, full of aspiration not yet immersed in the drudgery of it all hard heeled against the starting blocks of ambition. I drift in along my plateau of contentment feigning readiness.  Both of us skewered in the flames of entrapment. He needs me, for now at least. I have taught him all he knows but not yet all i know. He knows that, i know he knows, he knows i know and i too, yet still we dance.

So we begin and i divide, casting the fury of resent behind. Down the pages we crawl filling the void with platitude and strained participation. Pallid contemplation, a token critique then a nod of approval as another hurdle is negotiated. Finally the denouement and this ceremonial cavort ends where it began........average.

 Milly C

In bed with Ben E King.

In bed with Ben E King.

We are stoked up and wide eyed. We have spent the last week crash rehearsing the new songs but non of us are sure we really have much idea what we are doing. What mattered was that our mad cap and fast talking manager, Tracie, has organized a showcase for us in front of David Ambrose, head of London Records, and at this precise moment we are trundling down the motorway in a battered orange transit van, full of what might be. Our destination is the pretentiously named Barrington Sound Clinic in Brixton South London.

The last year has been quite an experience. Paul and I had known each other since we were fourteen. We had grown up together from then on. We had smoked our first joints together, jammed our first songs, and popped our cherries along the way. 18 months ago we had put together our first proper band and, like something out of a film, immediately got signed up by a pretty happening independent label. We had so far released three singles and all of them had scraped into the independent music chart. God knows how?

A few months previously our status as local legends had been interrupted by the arrival of Tracie LaMorte. She was a stick thin ball of energy with a big mouth and a blue wig, and we immediately bought into her story. She had managed several acts we had heard of, and even one who were now a big noise in the States. For a bunch of wide eyed ninteen year olds, what more was there to know? We needed to think big, she told us. Do you want to be a big fish in a small pond or do you have the mettle to break out and take it further? We slavered like Pavlov’s dogs and told her we did. She then informed our record label they could go f*** themselves and that we would not release anymore material on their poxy label. This then led to two years of litigation but that's another story.

Right now we are traversing the roads of South London, drinking home brewed pear wine, and about to turn into the yard of the Barrington Sound Clinic. For the next 3 days we are to rehearse our show and then perform it like we are at Wembley stadium. The audience will consist of one person. David 'Flakey Dave' Ambrose. The man who signed the Sex Pistols and Duran Duran to EMI, Sigue Sigue Sputnik to Phonogram,(for which he was sacked) and Fine Young Cannibals to his current home of London Records. Ambrose was something of legend, not to mention an enigma. Prior to becoming the worlds greatest hit and miss A&R man, he had played bass in The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, Rod Stewarts' pre-Faces band, Steampacket, and also a brief stint in Peter Greens early Fleetwood Mac. Paul and I had met him the previous week at his office. During the chat Tracie had called up.
Her foghorn gob could be heard from the handset reminding Ambrose to take us for lunch. Ambrose then bundled us into the boot of his car and took us to his house in Fulham, where upon he handed us a loaf of sliced bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a spoon. Tracie had warned us he made Syd Barrett look like a lightweight.


The Barrington Sound Clinic didn't quite live up to its swanky name.
We found ourselves in a railway goods yard a few blocks from Brixton tube station. It comprised of several railways arches that had been converted into shabby rehearsal rooms, and one much larger arch that housed a recording studio. Everything in it was held together with black gaffa tape.

We are greeted by Jack Barrington, the proprietor. He's mid fifties wearing a Fred Perry and the requisite 'Sarf Landan' gold chains and sovereign rings. He is pleasant enough and accompanied by two policemen. It transpires that Jack's Mrs had recently had her hand bag snatched so, as you do in Sarf Landan, Jack had borrowed a coal truck and reversed it into the front of a local cafe where the bag snatcher was known to frequent. Over the next few days we came to realize that Jack was President of the local Self Preservation Society and, as such, he was afforded this kind of naughty misdemeanor without much more than a cursory word in his 'shell like'

Jack shows us to our rehearsal arch and informs us that Tracie had asked him to book us some local accommodation. However, seeing as how we are 'Total f***** no-marks who I ain't never 'eard of, not neva,' we will have to doss down in the rehearsal room.

It is all fine. It all feels like a great adventure. Within an hour we are set up and making a noise. We decide we need some beer and I go over to the main studio arch to find Jack and get some directions to the nearest off-license. As I enter I am greeted by someone. He is a black American guy, probably in his mid fifties, and clearly a bit the worse for wear.

“Hey Bro, if you going for liquor, man, get this nigger a bottle of Tunder-blunder yeah?”

It is the first time I have ever heard a black man call himself that and I don't quite know what to say. I just nod and assume he is talking about Thunderbird wine. Twenty minutes later I am back with the goodies and hand the guy his wine. He has kind eyes and skin like creased leather. He doesn't pay me back for the wine though, and I'm not really sure if I should ask.
At 11pm Jack comes marching in to our arch and tells us how it is. He will leave the main door open so we can get some fresh air, but lock the prison style security gate at midnight. This means we can we still have access to the toilets and coffee machine situated in the corridor just outside our rehearsal space, but we can't get out of the building. He will be back each morning around 9am. I ask Jack about the black guy who was sitting in the studio foyer.

“You mean Ben?”, he says.
I am non the wiser.

In the course of the next two minutes we discover that the big studio arch across the yard, is currently occupied by a South African vocal group called Ladysmith Black Mambazo. They are here to add their voices to a film sound track. The little American dude with a penchant for 'Tunder-Blunder' is non other than 24 carat soul legend Ben E King. Ben has been flown in by the record label to act as executive producer, albeit this has so far amounted to him getting pissed everyday from about lunch time onwards. However, we are impressed to be in such hallowed company.

The next day we get down to work. By 8pm we have played the songs 30 times, smoked lots of cigarettes and drunk a case of Stella. It's time to get some food and stock up on supplies before warden Jack locks us in for the evening. Around 10 o'clock we are sprawled out in the various moth eaten sofas and skinning up for the umpteenth time today, when a friendly Afro-American face appears around the door.

“You got any Tunder-blunder?

It is Ben E King. Our faces light up. He seems a very warm guy with a huge personality. It is hard not to to slip into fan mode and start questioning him about his life and music.

In no time at all Ben has drunk most of our beer. His laugh is infectious and the time just flies by. Finally he struggles to his feet, the slightly drunken mood having resulted in him offering to produce our album. Before too long Ben E King stretched tall and let forth a tired yawn 'I better make tracks' he says. We thank him for popping by and feel stunned that such a luminary of music should want to come and spend an hour with a bunch of nobodies that Jack ain't 'eard of, not neva. He gives us all an embrace, and wanders off to the door as he offers his last goodbyes. We all settle back and crack open another few cans to savour the moment, when Ben's broad Harlem tones come booming from the corridor beyond the rehearsal room.
'What the hell is this?'

We all look at each other with raised eyebrows before getting to our feet and going to look. Standing in the corridor is Ben. He has opened the large sound proofed door that leads to the yard. However, his exit is blocked by a large iron security gate straight out of Pentonville nick. Time had most definitely flown. So much so that that Jack had locked us in for the night and gone home.

Within about 30 minutes Ben E King has accepted the inevitable. He was stuck here until Jack unlocked the security gate in the morning. “You got any more Tunder-Blunder?”
In an effort to lighten the mood we decide to do what we had done the previous night. Jam lots of songs and play stupid tour games.
Ben seems happy to join in, he makes several humungous joints, and makes further in-roads into the booze stash. The first game we play is a band favourite and seldom fails to raise some hilarity. We don't know it yet but tonight is going to be a classic.

Everyone is given two Rizla papers. On the first you write a style of music. Jazz, punk, soul, flamenco, whatever takes your fancy. On the second you write a subject. It can be absolutely anything at all. The more stupid, the better. The papers are then scrunched up and placed in two plastic cups. Each person takes a Rizla from each cup and has 15 minutes to compose a song in the style of, and on the subject, they have selected.

Ben E King, soul legend, has got 15 minutes to compose a rap tune about drain cleaning. We all don instruments, in between stoned giggles, and pick up a cod Run-DMC groove. Go Ben!

“I'm a Dynorod boy with ma steam clean jet!
“I ain't found a drain that I can't clean yet, C'Mon!



The finale to the evening is a magic moment. On the way to London we had been listening to Prince and, during the previous evening, we had just about nailed a half decent rendition of 'Never Take the Place of Your Man' Ben knows the song and, after writing out the lyric for him, he gives it both barrels. Prince would have wept with envy.
Four young nobodies are locked in a South London railway arch at 3 a.m with Ben E King, and performing a moment that was lost to the ether of history. Can't believe we didn't bother to tape it.

At about 8.45 a.m I am roused by the sound of locks clinking and our resident Frank Butcher look-a-like ordering someone to shift their 'effing' car out of his parking spot before they cop for a thick ear.
I look out across the room from the relative comfort of the moth eaten draylon sofa. Ben E King is dead to the world and snoring like a road drill, spread eagled under a blanket in the middle of the floor. All around him are empty cans...All apart from the one he is still holding.

Jack Barrington thumped open the door and strode in with a greeting of 'Slop Out, B Wing!' He sees Ben E King comatose in the middle of the floor surrounded by empties. 'What the bloody 'ell is he doing in here?”
Ben E King hauled himself to the upright, took a swig on his room temperature Stella, and rubbed his chops as he looked at warden Jack 'Shiiiit, Man, you locked me in here last night.”
Jack Barrington gave an exasperated shake of the head and hauled Ben E King to his feet. C'mon soppy bollocks, fuck off out of here before you make any more mess.”

It's 6pm and Flakey Dave Ambrose has been and gone. We were non the wiser as to his opinion on the band, as he had just sat staring at the floor for the whole hour he was there, muttering the phrase 'Wizards and Queens' (?) Tracie assured us that, as long as he hadn't started howling like a dog and pulling out his hair, he probably liked us. Suddenly, there was the sound of much huffing,clanking,and swearing. A size nine booted open the door, almost flattening the blue wigged gob monster behind it. In stumbled our resident soul legend, carrying a case of beer and several bottles of wine. 'OK, who's for a slug of Tunder-blunder?'

David Ambrose never did sign us and Tracie LaMorte turned out to be every bands worst nightmare. However, we didn't really care that much. They really were just the side show, when all said and done.

Ian Hunter.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/CAREER-OPPORTUNITIES-ebook/dp/B00AW0VHIM/ref=pd_rhf_cr_p_t_1

Ten Pound Goal

Usually it’s a smell that triggers it something experienced that day during my graft, the catalyst to send me back to places long since forgotten. Random stuff never remembered floods back.

I’m on the floor, I’ve got that dull ache you get when you’ve been smashed in the face but I can smell tarmac stones in my palms after a fall then it’s hazy sunny days, bark on my hands and arms, leaves in my hair, white dog shit in the street, spanish gold sweet tobacco from buckles, the worn bits of strap in the buckle on my satchel, warm milk with the blue straws. I love those places I go there when I’m wrapped up in the brown shroud. Then it fades, then the reality peels off the shroud of gear. “get up yer cunt, yer dirty fkin smack head”, he’s stood over me snarling like a pit bull in a vest, with shit tats and a big fucking choppa round his neck . He reeks of car auctions, tap rooms and bookies. I picked the wrong mush to rob. I’m in ball I can feel the fists at first an then the feet the heel of his dealer boots to my head but he can’t penetrate my hedgehog curl, thankfully I know these beatings don’t last, vest man wont want my blood anywhere near him. “if I catch yer round ere again yer fuckin dead yer dirty pikey smack head cunt”. Charming I thought, I only wanted his chuffing bird box. Cigs Julie from the Cramner wanted one for her auntie and was prepared to give a fiver, that’s half a bag, Not worth a beating but still half my days work done had that gloit not come back from the post office from getting his dole. Twat. 

Rich C. 

Lucky Socks

Not sure if I’ve told you about my lucky socks before, I may have done, they grey with pink polka dots; I’ve had then about eight years.

Now these Lucky Socks are not to be abused because there is only a certain amount of luck contained within a pair of grey socks, there socks for gawd sake.

I only wear them when I really need a push in the right direction and I’m sure they’ve never let me down, the problem is that although my lucky socks are still lucky, they do look a little thread bare, now these socks are senior in sock years because as any god fearing person will know that for every 1 human year a sock lives for 6 ¾ sock years, thus making my lucky socks about 54 so my pair are struggling a little, not as easy to get out the washing machine, stuff like that

My point to this little story is that I’m looking at putting the lucky socks out to pasture, they’ve done there bit for me during there life, been through the trails and tribulation of my business and personal life but where is the luck going to come from to assist me in the daily grind of life? I hear you ask…

Luck isn’t something that you can gain from anything, if you find it in something it needs to be natured and honed into a lucky thing and I feel that my new red tie could be the new lucky thing, my Lucky Red Tie.

Things seem to go my way when I’m wearing it, not that it’s over for the lucky socks, and the tie can learn a lot from the socks, the tie is doing a Good Luck Apprenticeship so to speak…so there we have it, Lucky Socks

Stuart Everard

PIG BASTARD.

Joan stirred. She had once again been woken by Mike's pathetic attempt at sneaking in. She waited half comatose for the next stage when Mike  would try and sneak into the bed. She heard the rattle of drawers and the banging of a table accompanied by incoherent grunts. She looked at the digital alarm clock : 3:45 a.m.

'That pig bastard stuffing his face after a two day piss up' she thought.

She didn't bother trying to ignore it anymore. Not for a long time. Once he had scrambled up the stairs he'd do a few circles in the bedroom before she got out of bed and lay him on his side. Then she'd take off his shoes and pants  which were not always dry. Surprisingly, his homing radar would always get him back to the house he just needed  a bit of help directly hitting his desired target.

She waited and listened. After ten minutes of silence Joan went  down to investigate. There was no sign of Mike. Just a note on the kitchen table:

' Dear Joan,

I'm sorry I fucked up. I'm sorry we din't have a happy end. I'm sorry it took so long to leave.

I did love you

Mike

xxx '

Joan held her breath. It wasn't the apologies.  They were frequent. Mike hadn't told her he loved her since 1997. her stomach turned. This was unusual. She found a block of half eaten cheese on the table and when she shut the fridge door and saw the bloody hand print she dashed for the phone.

The police arrived within twenty minutes asking questions. Joan drank  boiling coffee and lit one cigarette after the other. The police told her there were a few cars around the town looking for him but the search could not begin thoroughly until the morning . Joan had a sick feeling. Even after all the trouble through the years, the entire soap opera, there was something about this that caused her stomach to turn. The note and the blood and the gut feeling told her this time wasn't the same as the others.

She knew they'd find him. They'd find him too late.

'Is it unusual for Michael to stay out drinking?' another officer asked. 'No' said Joan,again.

She didn't sleep. Early the next morning more police appeared asking more or less the same questions. Then they all left. It was just a matter of when. Joan knew that as she sat alone in the kitchen. She could not eat. She hadn't moved in hours. She should have told him she loved him. Stubbornness  is a sin that they were both guilty of but that didn't matter now. She should have been the bigger  person. She should have told him how much she loved him instead of calling him a pig bastard all the time. She wished she could take it back. She knew somehow that now  she would never get the chance.

He was here the day before.She could have told him then but she never.She could have told him at any point during the cold years but she never. But if she could .If she had one chance she'd just tell him she loved him.If  he wanted to hear it or not. If he said it back or not. It didn't matter.And now they were checking the canals and the alleys and the mountain for his body.

The back door opened behind her. Joan turned quickly and there he was.

Mike. Head down in shame as usual. Staring at his shoes.

'Sorry Joan. I was with Rob. We had a few jars.like'

Tears rolled from Joans eyes as she stood and stared at him. After a minute s he  took a deep breath and spoke quietly.

'You came back last night. You ate half a block of cheese and left a note saying you were leaving. You wiped blood all over the fridge. The police are looking for you  and so is everybody else. I thought you were dead '.

Mike looked at her. 'Oh fuck'.

'Do you remember writing a note?' asked Joan

'No'

She  noticed the bandage on his right hand.

'What happened to your hand?'

'I  tried to punch a hole in Rob's TV. We were arguing about football'

The feeling of dread left Joan. She looked at Mike and remembered what she'd promised herself she'd say if she could ever see him again.

'Fucking pig bastard!' she screamed and stormed up the stairs.

Will Roberts

Based on a true story.

Portrait of a Lost City

Portrait of a Lost City

Good places can often seem rough under the dimmest of lights. Funny how rough places never look good under the brightest of bulbs. Bridgeport train station is a far cry from the majestic grandness of the great rail stations of North-East America - Grand Central in New York, Union Station in D.C, and 30th St Station in Philly. This place is sketchy. I know if they could swing it, commuters from the valley and border towns like Shelton, Trumbull, Derby, Monroe would avoid Bridgeport. Local news stations would actually have to report Good News if it wasn't for the shootings and fires and car chases this city offers. 

- Does this train go to White Plains?

- No, I think you might have to transfer at Stamford.

From one rundown hole to another I think. This pimp and his catatonic whore. 

- Anything you can offer to help us get there?

- No sorry mate, I work for a living. I have my own pimps to deal with.

His face says he wants to hit me. I think I could take him. He's not the toughest looking pimp I've come across. Trust me, when you live in Bridgeport, you'll be amazed at how frequent you'll see them. The other night I went to the gas station to pick up some milk for the apartment. It couldn't have been past 6:30 in the evening. There she was. Strutting her massive fur coat covered body, up and down the East Main St./Huntington Tpke crossroads. Standing over by the entrance to the shop was her boss. Gold chain to match a few teeth. In total plain sight. If you can imagine, its becoming more and more frequent. The city started cracking down on all the rub and tug joints. I doubt it's for the right reasons. Somebody forgot to get an envelope, I suspect. The older this city gets, the more often it does its dirty deeds out of the shadows. 

cclarke

New Year's Resolution

So there it was staring up at me. My penis. Erect (what's new ?). I was lying down watching some TV, when an ad comes along that wakes my dinky dong from it's sleepy slumber. An ad that featured a bevy of semi-clad, pseudo cheerleaders. You know the type.. War paint for make-up, tight boxers for a skirt, all bouncing around with their pom-poms in hand and super sized breasticles almost head butting (tit butting ?) their chin. I obviously have no idea what the commercial was trying to advertise or promote but I didn't care. As it's been almost exactly 9 months since my last foray into a womanly crevasse, this reaction has now become a regular occurrence.

While sitting on the number 65 bus to Kingston, listening to some Beastie Boys old skool hip hop I began to feel a knocking against my belly button. I glanced down to find the culprit looking up at me with a cheeky squint in his eye and a noticeable timber like quality to his stance. I began to break down what might've stirred this rascal from his kip. Hmm.. I wasn't thinking of anything TOO naughty or explicitly sexual. The Beastie Boys and their white boy rap didn't normally get me off, could I be turning into some sort of Hip Hop deviant ? Then it struck me.. The vibrations on this old London red bus may have simulated some sort of sexual experience that might have set my loins alight with lust, and fooled my penis into thinking it was feeding time.

So.. My new year's resolution is to coach and coerce the big man downstairs into keeping out of sight when in public. I may also boycott buses for a while too, well, either that or I'll just have a wank.

 Declan R

Fancy a trip to New York?

"Fancy a trip to New York?"
"What?"
"Joe's playing in New York"
"New York? When ?"
"April, he's doing five nights"
"Fuck yeah"
"Been looking at flights. Cheap as fuck since 9/11, even cheaper if we get a connection"

A few minutes pass

"Right I've booked two flights, just need your credit card details. Buy mine and i'll pay you back"

Before I knew it, I'd just bought two tickets to New York City thanks to R'kid. That was just over ten years ago.
Strange how life pans out. I had no intentions of visiting America, let alone marrying a yank and living in New York, but that's exactly what happened.

He still owes me for his ticket.

Nick P

Joe is, of course, the late Joe Strummer.

Balloon

Balloon

You sense something’s wrong the minute you walk in, but you can’t put your finger on it. It feels like there’s someone else in there, waiting in the spare bedroom or crouching up in the attic until you’re asleep.

You take every room in turn, slowly, walking like you’re in a film. Nothing. It’s just a feeling, like air. Cold winds inside you.

It’s night. You’re taking your make-up off at the dressing table when it first catches you. You blink, squint into the mirror and then check round to see if the reflection’s lying or not. It’s not. It’s there, lodged in the far corner of your bedroom between the end of the curtain pole and the picture of your parents. Not a picture technically, a crosstitch, but people can never tell when your work’s so neat. It was always the same, all through school; the one thing everyone wanted from you. A gift you were born with, your mother always said. A gift from Him.

A gift from bleeding fingers and fear.

You cross yourself and then the room, sending a silent apology to Mr and Mrs McLeavy-in-stitches. It has a tag wrapped around its neck, rubbing up against them in a manner you suspect your mother might have found disconcerting. You pull your glasses down off your head.

In memory of Janie Brown

It says, handwriting bigger than the house.

43/2000: may light always be

You read it twice and screw it into your dressing gown pocket. The thing looks tired, you think.  A too-long traveller. The skin pinches in pools of sunken puckers, and oily marks streak across the red. Probably shiny once. Now more like scuffed shoes and chairs in waiting rooms, hovering in that half–distance between floor and ceiling. Not quite ready. Not quite.

They never move as fast as you hope they will. When you jimmy open the sash window, it sort of curls away from you and bump bumps ungracefully down the roof tiles, out of view. Still, there is air and breath. Wind. You open your mouth, feel the fullness of writing in your pocket, let it in. 

Dina murphy