Monday, February 29, 2016

Baked Beans

Last time I was in the UK, I popped into a local corner shop to buy a tin of baked beans.

Actually, the shop was in the middle of a row of derelict High Street retailers and seamstresses that had gone bust because they kept stitching each other up. (What?) It just happened to have a funny name - The Corner Shop.

I was just about to pay for the can which had a price tag of 50 pence, when I happened to notice its use buy date was 15 years ago. I pointed this out to the owner of the shop called The Corner Shop.

'Oh my goodness gracious me! That is truly now an antique. I am afraid I have to charge one pound for it.'

Thursday, February 11, 2016

The Girl Who Felt Nothing - the next stage

To be Sectioned 13

Rocking up at Fritz's place with usual German punctuality (30 minutes early), he seemed a little nervous. No, I don't mean he was sweating and mopping his brow and silly descriptions like that – nah – this bloke reminded me of a giant human tuning fork that had just been whacked rather hard against a concrete wall.

'Frau, Frau, Frau Schimdt, Schimdt Schmidt,' he stuttered bloody obviously, 'Zee meeex ov zee silber und zee zehn kilos graphite pow wow da, eet fick up zee spray gun'

Of course he didn't talk like that. He may have been German but he wasn't an illiterate idiot. I just wrote that like that for a laugh.
Anyway -
'Show me my car,' I replied authoritatively. Very, actually, since I had shoved two rather sharp finger nails into his nostrils and was guiding him to his workshop.
In the well lit area he pointed to the middle of it - 'That is the problem.'
There was going to be problem all right, there was fuck all there in it.

'Now before I break every finger of your hands, please be so kind as to tell me where the Lotus is?'
'It is there, Frau Schmidt look carefully. In the middle of the workshop.'
I looked and just for rubbish writing looked again. Oh sheet. There was a hole. A rather large one. Not in the floor because you could not see it! In fact...

'Jesus fucking Christ!' This was beyond even my wildest dreams of a swearing cliché.
I wandered over tentatively and after groping around a bit had the driver door open. Ahh – now we can see. Bit weird though. Like, the inside of a door and the cockpit. I slicked in. Nice. Very. Fritz had done a perfect job of attaching one way mirror folio to the windows. I turned on the head lights and got out. That way I could sort of gather where the car was.
'Good, Fritz, very good. How she look in natural light?
Opening the garage door, 'Frau Schmidt, this is illegal if you intend to drive it on a public road.' He boringly told me in typical German attitude of 'We do not think – we simply take orders.'
Did I give a shit? Exactly. Besides, in natural light the Lotus was still invisible. Rather nuts watching light beams coming out of nowhere.
Sorting out Fritz's social conscience was a breeze at 1k cash, but I had terrible intestinal convulsions known in the tired trade of writing as a queasy tummy. How the fuck was I gonna drive this without getting killed?

I needed to fink. The Germans struggle to pronounce 'th', so when in Warsaw do as Warzones do and start finking. Opening the lap top (you can't use it with the lid closed), I went to a site I use periodically – the periodic table. No idea why they named it that, but within 30 minutes I had a solution to my quandary.

'Fritz, come here and grow your hair for fuck's sake, you look like something you shove down a toilet to clean crap squirts on the porcelain. Give me some paper and a pen.' (Obviously I need a pen as I wasn't intending to fold the paper into a look alike Concord and throw them out the garage door.) Rapidly and almost frothing at the mouth rabidly, I had it solved.

'Listen Fritz, I need four, 20 litres containers of these colours mixed to this recipe. I also need a battery powered air compressor, connected to a spray paint thingy my jig and get me a dozen ultra violet lights – and stop looking like your best friend just disliked you on Facebook. 'I WILL BE BACK' (giving it the Terminator touch), in four hours. Now pull finger.'

With a bit of time - I needed to eat. Up on the High Street there were some joints, but not selling them.

'Ja Bitte. Wat U wont,' said the sad looking waitress who was obviously a Syrian refugee as she had a black bin liner over her head with slits for her eyes and her German was atrocious. Plus she ponged worse than the local pond.

'Just give me something traditional and try not to touch it. I don't fancy catching Zika virus.'

Three Weisswurst, a pretzel, sweet honey mustard and a Weissbeer was duly presented. I looked at the amputated white willies with trepidation. I was not sure which hole they were supposed to go in!

Whilst munching and suffing on the stuff, I checked my Emails. Ahh, it seems 'they' were a tad upset just by looking at - Re: Killing the Clown and Re: We hunt you down and Re: You owe us a lot of money. I ignored all that but there was one that made me smile with delight (well you don't smile with sorrow do you?), 'Congratulations, you have just won 10 million dollars as your Email address came up. Please reply here to claim your prize'.

I love this stuff. 'They' had not only taught me well, they had also given me some serious software.
So my reply was 'Thanks hey, I just fucked your entire system. Come on line to me again I will personally rip your vocal chords out and shove them up your arse so you can chat with yourself.' Cool hey!

With time to kill (yawn, another boring cliché) I had this thought (I was finking), why not make a Facebook account dedicated to me on my insane quest to kill people? Not yet sure who I want to send to the great hole in the ground to be eaten by worms as they rot and explode from intestinal gas from the bacteria in their guts, but I ponder on that.

Part… 14

After depositing last night's dinner when the armband sent messages that I needed to shit or will explode, I wandered back. Which is rather daft as I was actually walking forwards. Stupid backward language – I mean, why not just say 'I wandered forwards?'

Passing by the local ALDI (local? Huh!), I stopped passing by and popped in. I needed four bottles of that stuff which claims it removes every bit of grease and grime and the blah blah is just a load of lies. Hey, remember that washing powder a few years ago? Brilliant stuff – guaranteed to REALLY remove EVERY stain. And just for a change, the bastards were not lying and the stuff did work. Except for one small problem. It happened to me after I got a real bad blood stain on a blouse. Not my blood, that's besides the point, and using this magic stuff, out it came from the washing machine (I wasn't exactly going to clean it in a microwave), and lo and behold a cliché at its finest, the stain was gone and instead there was a huge hole! No wonder the stuff was removed from the market.

Anyway, I like shopping in ALDI. Best is Thursday at 8.00 am. (They close at 8.00 pm, so hence the former rather than the latter time), because all the asylum seeking bitches start ripping each others bin liners off and scratch, bite and kick over four pairs of children’s socks going for a Euro 1.50 cents. And the smell! They walked 2000 kms and never had a wash! Almost as much fun as teasing the baboons at the zoo.

Oh. I have to tell you about that. Laugh? It was so funny, I think I accidentally filled my panties. It was one of those days when I needed to entertain myself; so I went down to London Zoo with a couple of bananas. I wanted to do an experiment with some baboons if they can conquer greed through pain.

Peeling the banana seductively, it wasn't long before this huge alpha male was up against the fence with a hard on that could roger an elephant. Ignoring the sign 'Do not feed or tease the animals', because luckily for me I can not read English when I so desire, I poked the banana through the fence. Just as he snatched it, I whipped out a Tayser and gave the fucker 10 thousand volts.

Hah-hah. What a scream, not just from the baboons, but the peasants gawking away at this thing spurting a load of semen into the air whilst crapping itself. Even funnier was the rest of the pack rushing over and eating its shit!

As I said – I was doing a scientific experiment, so I buggered off for an hour, reckoning the baboon would come to is monkey senses by then and to stop my boredom Tasered a penguin to see if it could fly over the fence. Sadly that failed and it kicked it, rather promptly.

Back at the baboon pen, (Pen – I thought that was a Biro), the big git was up on a rock looking rather sulky. Not sure how baboons look sulky but I had a distinct impression it was not happy.
So... I pulled out the other banana and again seductively peeling it, waved it at him.
Hard to believe this, the fucking daft thing again got a hard on and scrabbled to the fence.

Oh well, experiment failed and I gave it another bolt in the hope it would awaken some primate brain cells. But in the ensuing twitching, vomiting, more shitting and screaming, I concluded it was in its death throes, which was confirmed in the Daily Mail the next day under the headlines 'Teased Bobo Taysered to Death.'

Is it really Part 15?

Moving on, I pitched up at Fritz's place to complete the next part of my plan...

Fritz had done wonders. Not that surprised, he had been given some serious dosh and the alternation (a much superior word than alternative), was having his bones broken so badly he could be packed in a duty free shopping bag. Still, he had some face on him hey. Well, besides if that loon Hannibal Lester gets hold of you, most people retain their face (the outer cover of the front end of your skull) until it rots off...

'Frtzy boy, now paint the machine in, that colour,' pointing to one of the plastic containers.

'But, but, but, Frau Schimdt, I have other customers and one is at the front desk and making a lot of noise why I not paint his car.'

'Get on with the work and I sort your customer out – kapeeto?'


'Hi, I am Veronica, and I gather you have a problem about some spray job?'

The middle aged twat, with almost no hair and a beer gut that would have passed as a Rhodesian Front, started some yowling and moaning. I can't be arsed to write the translation, but basically he had expected to pick up his resprayed car today. I told him that due to an 'emergency' Fritz was busy and maybe he should come back tomorrow. That went down like a feather coated in lead and the daft git started to come over rather heavy like.

I guess as you read this memoir, you can gather I do not tolerate such nonsense..

'Please turn around and look out the window. Do you see an ambulance?'


'Would you like to be in one, whilst unable to see, if I put my finger nails into your eyes? So fuck off and come back here tomorrow to 'see' if Fritz has finished your car.'


Nice. The acrylic paint had already dried. The formula could resist rain.

'Thanks Fritz, catch Ya later'

Programming the GPS (complements of the Porsche rebuild), I was soon on the motorway doing 280 kmh and heading towards Serbia. I needed to get some real fancy weapons.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

The girl who could feel nothing . Continued...

The girl who could feel nothing . Continued...Part 11 (I think I missed out Part 9 but … ahh; fuck it – it never existed.)

I found what I wanted. Clean, discreet, never asked for I.D and had WiFi. Now for operation paint job -

'Hi Hans, I am Veronica Schmidt.' I flicked my shoulder length red hair over my black leather jumpsuit. 'I am here to give you the blow job . Ahh - I mean paint job.'

(Of course this is all in German, but since most of you peasants reading this would not have a clue, - I translate it.)

'Holy fucking shit! That is a Lotus Esprit!'

Such a clever boyo hey. 'Yes, well done, it is your job to repaint it.'

'But, but, Frau Schmidt, as I explained, we are very busy. Maybe next week?'

I hate being fucked about. Time to take control. Grabbing him by the throat I had his head touching the ceiling.

'Listen Fritz..erm Hans (Fuck it, the Germans all have only two names), See this? It is 15k Euros. All yours if you do as I want and, if you lucky, I might jerk you off. Get my message?'

Oddly, I had to let him go into his own pool of urine so he could catch his breath and try to answer. 'Now, here is an exact list of the paint you will use. Okay?'

Looking at the list – 'Frau Schmidt – 10kg of shredded pure silver? Where do I get that? And I do not even recognise most of these chemicals you want to mix into the paint!'

'The silver is in the boot, tosspot. Just follow the recipe and I see you in 48 hours. Oh, and give me the keys to your car.'

Getting the silver was a real hoot. I had stopped off in Munich at a coin shop. Whilst they ran around finding all sorts of crap coins and a couple of bars to make up the weight, I simply helped myself to some rarities worth about 50k. Not a bad exchange. I simply pocketed it all (hah- hah – such fun writing this memoir. My pants were now worth a fortune... lol.) But, I have plans for that little stunt.

With a couple of days to kick my heels – well, what does girls do? We go...SHOPPING – again, Tra-la lah! I needed some new shoes.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

The girl who could feel nothing - 3

Chapter 3.

Okay. After a couple of days of boredom , I rock up at Porsch HQ. (And no, I did not torch my hotel.)

'Ahh Frau Schmidt, welcome'

'Cut the crap Fritz, what is the score?'

Of course I did not say this in English but for the idiots reading this. I keep it simple...

He was sweating a lot. Tough tittie hey. Not often you meet a two metre tall killing machine in high heels.

'We had to replace the gear box. But please, at no extra cost.'

'And – go on.' I was about to fuck the mother fucker stupid if he had damaged my baby.

'You now have 7 forwards gears. The car has a speed, above its dial limits, of close to 300kmh.

Ahhhhh sex on four wheels...

'And the other extras?'

'Ja, Frau Schmidt, we replaced the car stereo with surround sound with MP3 player, GPS navigation and installed a second fuel tank.'

I noticed that Fritzy boy was trembling a bit but also his little soldier was prodding at his trousers.

'So, all covered by my 50 k?,' as I gave his groin a quick tickle with finger nails that could rip his little eggy eggs out of the sacky in seconds if need be. 'Now give me the fucking keys.' …

I was heading south. I had this terrible desire to kill people who annoy me. Shit loads of them.
Still, small problem, My Lady (so I had called the Lotus) was not exactly an unobtrusive vehicle. (Now that is an understatement!) It did not take long before some Polzei idiots are on my tail as I simply stuck in the fast lane on the autobahn.

'Wah – Wah' – flashing lights – the lot. I fancied some fun and I had still not got My Lady out of fifth. So I pull into the middle lane and let them pull up. This is at about 170kmh. They start making hand signs for me to pull over. (Three pulls in 25 words!)I give them the finger and let My Lady roar...

Blah blah – left them for dust etc (which is impossible on a tar road), and the bloody watch starts chirping again. I had to eat. I pull into a autobahn stop. Well, well, they have a McDonald’s. I must laugh. I gather eating their shit is about as nice as eating your own. I actually had a job in one of them at London Bridge five years ago. 'They' had arranged it.

I lasted a day. Well actually, 90 minutes. I was flipping cardboard burgers and the manger comes over -

'We pay you to use both hands, so please take the one in your pocket out and use it.'

I did, I used it to grab the back of his head and shove into the French fries fryer (cool writing hey).

What is that expression? 'Kicking up stink'. Since I can not smell, I gather he must have stunk a lot as he had defecated in three seconds and man, did he do some kicking. No big deal. I had no intention of drowning him. Although his head was a bit of a mess when I pulled him out. As usual, 'They' covered it all up and crispy face will be on the list for a transplant...

Back on the road and the watch happy, I needed to disappear. No point in checking into fancy hotels. A quick look on the internet I found what I wanted. Some B and B in a dead end dump and crucially, a car respraying firm. Why? I had a plan...

Monday, January 11, 2016

David Bowie – RIP

David Bowie – RIP

It does not come more tragic than this. It does not matter what news channel I flick through, German, American, Sky or BBC – the world is stunned.

Hard to believe really.

I recall in Gokwe, I was returning to Gokwe town in a Landy and ahead of me was Alan Golden. He had a cassette player. He tied down the send on the radio and I had the pleasure of listening to Aladdin Sane till the batteries ran out!

Then – a few years later I am in Norwich, UK, shacked up with a girl called Heather who was 7 years older than me. One day we are listening to Bowie and she came out with -
'I had a dinner date with him once, when he was still David Jones.'

Turns out that was that.

And, besides, I have loads of his albums – I was lucky to see him in concert – twice. AND – I still have the tickets.

Bad news for the world of music... But, he will live for ever.

I love this one (among hundreds), -

Saturday, January 09, 2016

The girl who felt nothing - or feeled nothing. Who cares?

All ad-lib . total freestyle and  no attempt at editing. Just make it up as I drink beer. Allah Akbar!

(If anyone finds this to be offensive - I am delighted! That was the plan!)

Chapter Two -

Mi 5 or 6 HQ – yeah. What a bunch of tossers. Still, with time on my hands whilst they converted the Lotus and being now 50k lighter, I went shopping. Well, that is what girls do, right?

First stop was at a pharmacy, known in German as an Apotheke. As I speak the ex Third Reich language (along with about 6 more – I mean, what else do you do all day at home? Sit on Facebook and send pictures of cats to a load of brain deads?), and I needed some bullshit.

As usual I made a bee line to the obvious dyke behind the counter. I needed stuff for a bit of minor sugary and after some crap about a small wound in my cute little pooch's leg that I wanted to sew up myself as I am a highly qualified nurse and can't afford the vet etc etc – I got what I needed. And her phone number – which was promptly binned.

Next – I have class and there was no way I am going to some filthy bog hole where junkies shoot up – nah. 5 star hotel for me. Two nights.

'Do you have a credit card?' asked the bloke is a very Syrian sounding attempt of German, at the Hilton front desk. (Well, it wasn't exactly going to be the back desk – that is the tradesman’s entrance.) 'We need one and also your passport, before we give you a room.'

I need this shit like a bullet hole I would put through his head. I looked about. Okay – CCTV. Plan 'B'.

'See this oh skint Arab fucker, 5k in cash. Your alternative is I take you outside and snap your neck, hack your body into bits and feed it to my pet guinea pigs.'

He got the message and I was soon ushered into a rather fancy room. Nice indeed. But I had to do a little operation on myself.

Shoving your left elbow into micro wave oven after cancelling all the safety rubbish is all well and good but leaves the skin a bit crispy. I sorted that out but just to be on the safe side I decided to dig the GPS chip out. No big deal. Pissed a bit of blood but sewed that up and then had a look in the mini-bar.

Ahh – now booze and me is a big problem. Last time I got wasted, and I mean seriously wasted, was a couple of years ago...

Some bloke had chatted me up at Tescos checkout. Nice enough, looked like a bit of David Beckham mixed with that Rico bloke from 'Star Troopers'. He was quite amusing. Invites me to a pub – blah- blah. A few glasses of wine and I am not thinking straight.

Well, next thing he is humping and pumping, cooing and moaning away between my legs and I am thinking the ceiling needs painting.

'Oh, excuse me,' between his shouts of adoration, 'can we have break. I need a fag.'

I opened the window. Lit a smoke and called him over – still with his little man at attention.

'Look at that skyline. Is it not wonderful?'

'Yes' he replied, shortly followed by a scream. Ahh no big deal. It was only one floor and there was a rose bush to break his fall.

The cops just took him away. I was untouchable. But back to where I am -

Hmm – I was not in the mood to go on the piss. Just a quick flick of fingers soon dismantled the daft security on the windows of the hotel room. Unplugging the fridge, I threw it out. Drinks and all from the 27th floor. Much to my delight it ploughed into the top of an arriving Taxi to reception. I hoped they liked their drinks shaken but not stirred.

Yeah. a lot of panic broke out. I just leaned out the window and watched the peasants run around like ants with their pants on fire. And talking about fire – I was already bored and wondered if torching the place would cheer me up?

Gwad German TV is so boring. Flick about. Some news report about a fridge landing on a taxi. Flick – the rise and fall Adolf Hitler , big fucking deal, flick, ahh BBC, a documentary about mad dog Gahdafffi, flick – ahh, that is better, some whales getting blown up by the slitty eyes as research- bored – flick. Porn. Oh please. Flick and wow this is so cool.

Friday, January 08, 2016

The girl who felt nothing

The girl who could feel nothing

I am 27 now. I feel nothing. Not emotionally. That was never a problem, but my nervous system registers no pain, no touch, no taste, no smell- nothing at all. it is a rare phenomenon. To live with it - yeah - try to imagine. Sex? great - fall in love with someone but there is no nothing beside that desire of love. So I gave up.

But. it was not long before my parents concluded at 3 months I was a freak. I mean - I did not cry at all. She had to stuff her tit in my mouth just to feed me.
I feel no hunger, no pain, no thirst. Nothing physical. At 5 I was taken away. I cried- yes I can cry. Emotions - that I have

They taught me. Eat, shit, just about all bodily functions that my body had no natural ...well, thoughts about.
I made mistakes. Often. The scars on my hands prove it. Not having any feeling of pain nor sense of smell, it took the cook in the canteen to drag me off the glowing hot plate.
I repaired. The surgery of course did not hurt.

Nothing does - nothing but emotions. That I have. Repetition of the obvious statement as I said previously. But I learnt. I had to. How else was I to survive?
So,sent out into the world - I had adapted. Kept my eyes and ears open and hands away. The brain trained to what was and was not dangerous.
All kids learn this but when you lack the senses - a problem.
I muddled along with some stupid jobs. Crazy shit.
Tried to deliver newspapers but could not feel them in my hands...

In the end - the state just popped me in a little pad, all paid for. The scientists came around at least twice a year to take blood samples and chatter some crap and life was pretty much a complete fuck up. Sure, I had a fuck. But it was as exciting as eating a bar of chocolate = nothing.
It makes no difference at all what I eat. Could be mud for all know.

But - on the 23rd of June 2016 a man knocked on my door..
Flash the badge, MI5 or 6 - I didn't give a shit by now. I have been poked, examined, questioned so long in my life about my 'disability', I wondered why I had not topped myself!

The girl who could feel nothing . Continued...

I had just got back from my fitness centre. I wasn't feeling knackered at all. How could I?

Besides the point, so I open the door. Well, I wasn't exactly going to open the window and shout 'Wat Ya want Ya fucking refugee scroungers.'

The first thing that caught not one eye but both of them was what was behind the bloke. Parked up on the kerb (illegal) in front of my pad was – a god-damn metallic gold Lotus Esprit! I haven’t seen one of those since that queer bloke in flairs ran around calling himself Jimmy Bond or something daft like that. Oh, hang on, didn't that bird with a mouth so large she could swallow a planet, drive one in the film 'Pretty Whore'. Can't remember.

Anyway – so this bloke, about a head taller than the car, says to me-

'Hello Veronica.'

'Who the fuck are you and how do you know my name.' Says Veronica. That is me. Not to good at creative wring but giving it a bash.

'May I present myself'

Ahh – I have heard this one before. The bloke looked like a complete clown. Not surprising since he was dressed like that twat who flogs plastic burgers to obese children – except this version looked like it had been dragged through a barb wire fence whilst intoxicated on three bottles of gin.

He hands me a card. Before I even look at it -
'Is that your car?'

'But of course.'

Wow – I wonder if it can go underwater. I look at the card and snort snot and gob onto the pavement.

What is the world coming to? He must be a lunatic. For a start the card is self printed and rather badly -

Tot Al Plunker . Secretive Agent

Then he winked. I hadn’t seen a wink like that since Sunny fucked up everyone with Will Smith in 'I Robot'. Pitch black eyes now stared at me.

'I think you better come in Professor.'

The girl who could feel nothing . Continued...Part 3

'You looking good girl.' As the clown removed the stupid wig and red nose.

Looking good? Hah – what for an understatement. I am every man’s dream. Mix up a dozen babes from Hollywood, churn them out and you get me – one problem – I am a freak.

'How are your feet? I 'heard' about it. Can I see?'

I wasn't bothered. This man had kept me sane as a kid in the 'special place'. So I slowly pulled my socks off. There were still some sticky bits, so I had to be careful.

'Healing nicely. What made you do it Veronica?'

Good question. Boredom I suppose. I had set the treadmill at the gym to the hardest marathon and broke the world record. It was only when I went to shower that I realised my trainers were full off blood from burst blisters. Off to the hospital.

'Whatever Professor. What do you want from me?'

'Do you have a problem being raped multiple times? Tortured, beaten and generally kicked about?'

Huh – what kind of question is that?

'Sure, I could not think of a better thing to do on a Sunday walk in Hyde Park – cut the crap Professor. What do you want from me? Oh, excuse me, can I offer you a cheeseburger fresh from the microwave?' I knew that would raise his hackles.

The girl who could feel nothing . Continued...Part 4

'Veronica, I or 'we', would like to give you a form of employment suited to your...erm...specialities. There is no pay, we just cover your expenses. But first you must go to a special school to get you well equipped for the task. Are you interested?'

'How is your cheeseburger? Can I zap you a quick coffee? Milk and sugar?' Man oh man – hard to believe that this is how it all started. 'Yeah- yeah – so what is this wonderful new unpaid job? Must I learn to kill people?'

'Actually...yes. And quite a lot of them.'

Well, I had to giggle. 'Does that include Donald Trump?'

'Perhaps – but he may fall on his own sword anyway. No – we have other targets for you.

The girl who could feel nothing . Continued...Part 5

'You sending me, after training, into the Middle East and eliminate the hierarchy of all the nutters there?'

'What? No, no Veronica. We are bombing those mad fuckers into oblivion at enormous cost to the tax payer. Your job is more sublime and will save the planet from a disease worse than Ebola. I have a list of the top priorities to be exterminated to save the Western hemisphere.'

Well. I must admit – I was interested. 'Okay- shoot away.' (Excuse the pun.)

'No 1 – Justin Bieber.'

'Huh – who the fuck is that?'

'Not your problem, Veronica, just put a bullet between his eyes. No 2 – Simon Cowell. He is bad news and pollutes our children.'

Oddly, I had no problem with that as I thought he was a right twat. I will give him an X factor right on his forehead. Okay. 'Next'

'Ja Ja Binks at number 3.'

'Hold on a bit. You want me to kill a computer generated image? Are you people for real?'

The Professor ignored me and cackling insanely, continued -

'At number 4, my ex wife. At number 5, my latest wife. And at number 6 my future wife.'

Hmm – I was starting to think second and third thoughts about this job offer...

'I presume you have seen the Matrix films?'

By now I was lying on the couch. Real fake leather. The watch claimed I was relatively stable so having an intelligence above Sharon Stones and being far better looking -

'If you think you are going to plug me into a computer, integrate me with a load of cyber bits, you have more chance of getting a blow job from Nancy next door. Who – just for your information – is transsexual and does them for free..'

The Professor sighed a deep sigh. (Awful writing but great fun making it so.)

'Veronica – I have one other offer. I understand you may be reluctant to be integrated into a cyber world, but do you fancy shooting people with a laser guided rifle from the back of an oil freighter off the coast of Somalia?'

Before I could reply a small explosion erupted. (Most explosions do – as a matter of fact.) I had farted! The Professor seemed pleased.

'Good girl,' as he waved his hand in front of his nose, 'Your guts are working well. So – what is it going to be?'

The girl who could feel nothing . Continued...Part 8

I was getting seriously bored by now. I stood up, went into the kitchen bay, took a 12 inch butcher's knife and plunged it through his skull so hard it came out through his throat. Then I had a panic attack... Fuck, fuck, fuck. I had forgotten to turn on the smart phone and film this for YouTube.
Bloody shame as his twitching death throes matched the music I had on – 'Tiger Feet' by some knobs that had two hit wonders.

Still – all considered – things were cool. I had the keys for the Lotus, a quick frisk of the wallet came up with a load of credit cards (all with the pin written on the back), 2000 in Euros and I am out of here...

The girl who could feel nothing . Continued...Part 9

Of course, first thing was to use the cards and pull as much dosh from any machine I came across.
The Lotus is a slug. Two litre of tired engine! I ask you. Still, with almost 200 k Euros in cash, with a passport that recognises I do not exist - there was only one place to go to. Stuttgart.


The girl who could feel nothing . Continued...Part 10

Weird, I was taught to bath and shave my armpits and legs. Armpits because it was 'unhygienic' and I may smell bad, and my legs because it was not considered 'ladylike'. Considering I could not smell a thing and I had as much chance of pulling a bloke as tickling my own clitoris, I thought this was a waste of state sanctioned razor blades.

But maybe when I pulled into Porsche HQ, after a rather long tedious drive, slapped 50k cash on the desk, did I care if I stunk like a skunk? The money smells clean.

A simple job. Remove the crap engine, shove in a Porsche engine boosting at least 300 HP, rig up the chassis to take the torque, but in no way change the design.

Oh man – they slobbered at the challenge.

Chapter Two -

Mi 5 or 6 HQ -

The Return of The Gokwe Kid

The Return of The Gokwe Kid

It just takes a few fools - but I admit, I have been lazy and spent too much time hiding on Facebook - although with hindsight- I could have posted a lot of my hilarious stuff up here.

Confused? I refer to this blog. I have ignored it for so long...

But in my defence - the massacre and my connection to it did fuck me in the head a lot.

Time to get back into that weird world of my head once more -

I am back.

And we start with this -

What the fuck is this idiot going on about?

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Dylann Roof Last Rhodesian Charleston massacre

I, Karl Greenberg, along with all of the last Rhodesians, are appalled and condemn the perpetrator

We express our deepest sympathies and condolences to the families and friends of the victims.

I cannot, nor can my friends, understand why this obviously very disturbed young man, calls himself 'Last Rhodesian'.

I have nothing to do with this. I presume this blog and perhaps my Facebook site 'The Gokwe Kid' and also my books, both subtitled 'Last of the Rhodesians', will be under scrutiny.

I have nothing to fear. In all those million words plus written – there is not a racist word (unless deliberate as anti-racist).

That I have not posted here is down to several reasons. Fighting depression, laziness, lack of motivation and too much time spent entertaining my fans on FB.

This must change and I must update more often. I like to believe I am an entertainer, but this is not the time.

The truth is out there. Read what I say and you will see a complete opposite to what is presently on the news and in the newspapers regarding the Last Rhodesians.

Karl Greenberg
BA (Hons) Open (Open)
Dip LCW (Open)
Cert Hum (Open)
Author of the cult classics – Last of the Rhodesians - Chronicles of an African Anarchist
The Gokwe Kid and Simply the Pest

Saturday, October 04, 2014

The Gokwe Kid - Rogue Rhodie on a Roller: Part 19. It's 0.7 Celsius and the German Polizei await me.

Before I continue – I knew I had taken a picture of that petrol forecourt and the bum burner ride. The reason I couldn't find them was that for some daft reason the pics were not in the correct order either on the phone or the camera.

Firstly, the barriers were a complete joke. I had a look at them. Made of flimsy plastic, they wouldn't have stopped even me on a roller ploughing through them. I was just amazed because in all my travels, stopping in thousands of petrol stations in dozens of countries, this was a first.

Secondly, here is the bum burner. This is not the one that turned my arse into a rubber impregnated version of Kentucky fried chicken, but very similar. It shows you the sheer lunacy of attempting to go down such a thing at full whack without braking AND then actually standing up and running down it!

Looking at the picture, it is obvious I am out of sync by 24 hours. This is actually taken just over the border. The flags are Bavaria and Germany and the monster is called 'Bobbahn'. Not that it makes any difference to the story...

Day 27. Sunday 24th August - Continued

As usual the distance planned and the distance covered didn't add up as equal. I had enough of this nonsense and as the gauge again hovered at 'empty', I swung into a petrol station. I parked up and went straight inside to see if they had hot coffee. I was a shivering wreck. Until I warmed up there was no way I was going to attempt put a hose into the tank. I could see me shaking so much I would land up spraying everywhere.

What you have to understand is that you can't just stick the nozzle in and pump away. The first time I tried this just after purchasing (now, gritting teeth, when I rewrite this entire journey I will explain how come I landed up with it) the roller. The tank is a fraction over five litres. So what happens is the automatic shut off stops after two and a bit. So what you have to do is keep the nozzle out of the tank and pour it in till it starts overflowing everywhere. At this point, getting the cap back on is tricky because when you click it in, more petrol is sprayed onto your arms and face, thus having a fag put on delay for a while.

Using the coffee as hand warmers, after two I stopped resembling a human tuning fork and asked the bored babe behind the desk not if she was horny but where was Horni.
“About 800 metres down the hill.”

Okay, still, since I was here I might as well and now cursing, stripped for the umpteenth time the roller down, filled up, loaded up and putted through the town. I had looked up on the internet exactly where the camp site was (turn right just before the bridge), but after the last experience I wouldn't have been surprised if I would spend another tank of juice wandering around fruitlessly.

But lo and behold – there was a sign! Praise the lord, and after a very bumpy click, parked up at reception just as... yeah, it started to rain. Sheltering under the porch, eventually some bird in her forties rocks up, opens up and I book in. I pass over my photocopy of the passport. She is happy with that. (I doubt she will be happy in a day or two when the police turn up – hah-hah), and I spot two blankets sitting on a couch.

I ask her in English (this was the weirdest thing. I am just five clicks from the German border and she preferred to talk English, and very well actually), if I could borrow them for the night because otherwise she would have to call for a hearse in the morning. I was starving and asked where the next supermarket was. I was told they were closed. That was odd it - was only 5.30pm. But, luckily there was a pub come restaurant on the camp site.

Fine. So I sat under the porch smoking away and hoping the wet stuff stops long enough for me to pitch the bitch of a tent with the broken rod. Eventually it does and shivering again, wander into the so called pub. What a bloody disaster. It was open air. Covered - as in a roof, but open to the elements as howling winds, more rain lashing around and so little lighting I went almost blind trying to read my book as I supped on a cheap pint.

Clientèle were minimum. I had reached a rather interesting part in the book 'The Classic Slum', where it explained that my ancestor’s from my mother's side would stone, burn, beat up and trash the small shops of the Jewish immigrants from my father's side. Really cheer up stuff as I shiver away and force feed myself the wonderful cuisine of deep (stinking) fat cooked freedom fries and microwaved 'schnitzel'.

There was no way I could put a cheer into me so crawled into the soaking pit, fully clothed, wrapped the blankets around me and lulled myself to sleep with my teeth chattering an old lullaby from days long gone by – 'Rise 'o voices of Rhodesia'.

Day 28. Monday 25th August.

What a pisser. Everything was soaking. The poor 'old' roller with no name looked a mess. All the stickers had leaked. Almost none were recognisable. She was dirty and dripped water everywhere.
I sighed. In theory, bar another bizarre incident, we would be home today. As a Rhodesian, I am not into the Chinese very much, not that it stops me buying their stuff. A bit like the Jews hating the Germans but drive Mercs and Porsches. That little machine had not let me down. It was even clever enough to warn me that she needed oil – and soon.

It wasn't raining. But the tent was soaked and considering its spine was snapped, I thought of dumping it – but, if something went wrong (sod's law), I gambled that it was better to strap the soaking stuff onto my now very weary horse. Enough is enough.

I had thought of spending a couple of days checking out Passau, but with the Boss hinting that it was time to stop farting around and rock up for work, I planned the shortest way home. So I hit the road after returning the blankets. Oddly, some bloke in a camper van thought it great fun to inform me that he was amazed I was alive as the night temperature had dropped to 0.7 C. Cool hey! Hardcore Rhodie!

Well, within ten minutes I was at the 'border'. Oh-oh. Besides the usual el-cheepo smokes and booze shop on the Czech side, this was a nothing. There was a new building of 70% empty shops, and a restaurant announcing 'Under New Management'. I looked at my watch. I needed to kill an hour before I crossed. So with the last of my Czech dosh, I reluctantly ate some micro waved (still cold in the middle) spare ribs and concluded that since I was the only punter, they would be closing shop soon; shifted the rest on tobacco, and at exactly 12.30 pm, taking a mother of all breaths – I crossed the border...

If I was to be stopped – all hell would break lose. (To be continued.)