Monday, September 25, 2006
“Herbert, get your ass in here right now” the high pitched screech of his wife of 27 years cut through the cigarette smoke filled air of the living room.
Herbert shifted his podgy body reluctantly from the tatty corduroy couch and shuffled his way towards the toilet, a half drunk can of ale clutched in his right hand, where Sally stood at the open door attired in her usual threadbare, wine stained dressing gown. He stood sullenly in front of her and with his eyes half cocked, gazed emptily at the peeling vinyl floor.
“What’s the matter my sweet?”
“What’s the matter? What’s the bloody matter?” Sally slapped the back of his head and pointed at the toilet, “that’s the matter you filthy pig, you been pissing standing up again, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t, my love, I promise,” he whined pathetically.
Sally grabbed his right ear and propelled him towards the open porcelain depositary. Thrusting his face just inches away from the brim, “look at this, yellow piss everywhere - here,” she banged his forehead onto the soaked surround, “and here,” the stretched ear pulling his head over to the peeling mould riddled Donald Duck wall paper now dripping with pee.
“I’m a woman of class, you know! Or I was till I stupidly married you. Clean this up now and if it happens again there will be no more sex” With that she rammed Herbert’s head against the wall and stormed out.
“You can’t do that,” he wailed to her disappearing back, I have conjurers’ rights.”
“You will be needing a bloody conjurer to get your rocks off in the future, because my hole will vanish if I see that again, I am sick of you thinking yourself as Arnold Schwarzenegger starring in The Urinator, You will sit on the shitter or you can pull your pudding till judgement day,” she ranted as she went back into the living room to watch a repeat of Diet Doctors. She just loved seeing women with bodies worse than hers, especially those with fungi growing under the fat rolls of their stomachs.
“Today will be a day of great happenings - if today you have something to celebrate, go out and have fun.” Sally read out loud from the ‘Your Stars in the Sky’ column from The Sun newspaper. She read her star sign, Gemini, daily. Once when it had said it would be her lucky day she had bought a scratch card at the off licence and won £10.
“Herbert, it’s our 30th wedding anniversary. You can take me tonight to that new pub that’s opened on the High-Street, Mavis says it’s very posh. I’ll give her a ring and get her and Albert to meet us there.”
Herbert didn’t mind. Albert was an all right sort of bloke and if Sally got pissed enough he might get his way, especially as he had been sitting diligently for a pee the last three years. Besides, she would natter local gossip for hours with Mavis and leave him in peace for a change. “What a good idea, my lotus blossom,” he replied.
“Another pint of your best larger and a packet of crisps, landlord,” Herbert said to the balding man behind the bar. He was well pleased and well drunk. The evening was going fine. He looked around at the décor. Things had changed since the smoking ban had been introduced and the pub had been completely converted to accommodate a different class of clientele. It wasn’t his scene but times are a’ changing and even he could see that a lot of money had been invested in the high tech gadgetry of high definition televisions liberally scattered on the walls between Andy Warhol prints. He felt a bit out of place amongst the well dressed and glowingly healthy drinkers seated on black leather armchairs around shining stainless steel designer tables, but he didn’t care. Sally’s voice had become increasingly louder with every glass of gin and tonic she drank, hardly noticing that Herbert had ordered a triple shot at every opportunity. Things were going to plan and the thought of squeaking bed springs later on permeated his befuddled mind with carnal lust.
“I will be back in a moment my dear, just going to the toilet,” he announced as he placed the drinks on their table. Herbert’s years of boozing meant that he could drink at least eight pints before needing to relieve himself. Sally ignored him and he wandered off. Entering the MENS, he whistled with amazement. Everything in stainless steel, with matching black marble wash basins tops, the urinals were perfectly flush mounted, the fixings hidden beneath the highly polished slabs of sandstone. Out of habit he headed for the toilet, only to find the door locked and from the soft farting and appreciative grunts emitting from under the door, he concluded the occupant was having a serious session of internal cleansing that could last a while. Herbert needed to relieve himself fast; the pain of his gigantically swollen bladder was getting through even his numbed nervous system.
Sally only noticed Herbert’s absence when her glass had stood empty for half an hour and as she looked around for him, several heavily equipped firemen entered the premises, startling even Mavis into silence in the middle of a description of her athlete’s foot. There seemed to be some commotion near the entrance to the public toilets and Sally’s curiosity got the better of her and after a moments of gazing around looking for her absent husband she decided to see what was going on, when suddenly the high pitched screams of Albert could be heard above the excited babble and delirious laughter of the packed pub.
Using her bulk, Sally forced her way through the tightly packed crowd of on-lookers till she had finally struggled her way to the open door of the MENS. There she finally found Herbert, bent double, his face almost touching his knees, his trousers down to his ankles and his large backside stuffed deeply into the oval of one of the shining urinals. His shrieks of agony audible even above the incredible noise of the two massive angle grinders the fireman were using to cut through the sides of the chrome tempered steel that held him fast in its grip. Through the massive twin arcs of sparks spraying around him and the pain of burning iron filings floating down like sparklers to melt into his thinning scalp, Albert caught the eyes of his astonished wife and screeched his frustration -
“This is all your fault you stupid cow, and now they’re frying my sausage and fucking eggs!”
Written and edited in 2 and half hours and neither under the influence of drugs or alcohol.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Last of the Rhodesians: Chapter:16
THE GREATEST RHODESIAN WANKERS
The massacre of Allan Wilson and the Shanghani Patrol revisited
Some people are natural born wankers. Some achieve this through hard work. That is not easy.
But, even the ‘coolest’ dudes, the Rhodie machos, would occasionally let their guard down and woe befall those that achieved this title, even for a short time.
It is rare however, and here I quote the great Winston Churchill,
“Never in the history of stupidity, was so little done, by so few, to humiliate so many”
because what transpire in the following story that after this fiasco the entire British South Africa Police force were the laughing stock of Gwelo.
The lads who occupied the singles mess in Gwelo were generally a great lot. All so different and each with their own unique personality. They were like me, full of bullshit.
One lunch time we had quite a full house in the dining room. Not only the Urban and Rural regular P.O.’s but my room mate Keith Taylor turned up for a change. He was a National Service Patrol Officer, but being a very witty and smart individual he was accepted by the regulars. I had been to school with him at Mount Pleasant but as he was ‘A’ stream clever ‘oke’ and a ‘Rugger bugger’, I had as a geek been excluded from his ‘Fellowship of the Ring Piece’s’... Now we shared a room and amazingly we were like two dogs. After sniffing the qualifications, we were quite happy to wag tails. I rarely saw him as he had a really shite job. The poor bugger had been allocated to be Mad ‘Dog’ Morris’s sidekick, he being the nutcase who ran the local Police Anti Terrorist Units training ‘college’.
So Keith wanders in just as we all started eating. Whilst greeting all and sundry, he kept picking at the skin on his right hand palm.
‘What’s up with your hand?’ one of the local wits called Terry shouted out over the babble.
Keith holds up a hand pitted with large holes from dried and burst blisters received from digging bunkers at Mad ‘Dog’ Morris’s COIN (counter insurgency) camp.
Awed whistles all around,
‘How the hell you get all that?’ asks Terry
‘Wanking too much’ laughs Keith along with the rest of the room.
Unfortunately in that brief millisecond of thoughtlessness, Terry, having been the interrogator and had eyes still on him, lifted his own right hand instinctively to almost table height and glanced down at his open palm.
Caught red handed, the roars of ridicule from the baying pack could be heard for miles. Now that Terry had declared his qualifications to everyone’s delight, conversation turned to the theme of the greatest debacle ever planned in the history of sport.
Mainly, these cowboys wanted to organise a Rugby 15 and take on the local area schools first teams. There were enough ex Rugger buggers to make up a full squad and plans were well underway.
The first school the leader of this loony lot contacted had spoken to the headmaster. He had flatly refused to let them play against the first team. Our lads had at least 18 months to 2 years average age advantage and he didn’t need his top team mauled by a bunch of desperados. However, he had reluctantly agreed to let our lot of brave lions maul his 2nd team.
Moans and groans and shouts of cowards went around but the game was on for the weekend. I wasn’t much of a rugby fan but agreed to come along to try out the second hand camera I had purchased off some Christian freak that had a shop on Gwelo high street.
The magnificent 15 had had a short training session in the pub and it was really just a matter of sorting out the small details, such as who brought the crate of beers for half time. Down at the quartermasters store they had managed to get some blue police rugby shirts from bygone days of fame. Socks and shorts at each player’s discretion. Rugby boots an optional extra.
On that fateful day, I had by now managed to load a film into the Russian Camera I had bought off the American loony in the bible bashing shop. The first attempt had caused a disastrous fortune when I was informed when picking the pictures up that, sorry it appears the film has not been exposed. You idiots developed an empty film?
My Zenith commie cam had come with some screw on telephoto lenses. Very impressive! What wasn’t impressive was the very primitive light meter along with the fact the exposure settings had rubbed off. As a result, in the end I shot one film and sold the camera to some poor sap for a loss, as usual, prior to leaving the police.
Now as the official photographer/reporter for the BSAP magnificent 15, it was intended that I write and send pictures to the police rag mag with suitable tales of glory and an educational hammering coming to Gwelo, type headlines.
Before I could select a suitable lens for the dramatic opening, the whistle blew and the sneaky young bastards had scored a try before our fly-half had put his fag out!
The few bribed supporters we had dutifully sighed and clasped their hands together. They were to keep them that way for an agonising long time!
If you have a dog or know some one well that has one, try to think of a huge Rhodesian Ridgeback, soaking wet and stinking before the fire. It starts to bite itself all over with that lip curl over the teeth that reminds you of the film Aliens. As it snuffles frantically up and down its steaming fur, you, with your 15th Castle larger of the day in your hand, and stupidly watching the dogs contortions with growing amazement for 40 minutes, think;
If he such a clever dog, as every idiot says to him, How come he can’t catch the fleas?
THAT, is exactly what I thought of the BSAP 15.
It was awful to watch. Like hordes of Matabele warriors, the school kids totally overwhelmed our brave, gallant, wheezing, cramp riddled wankers. No chance of one to one mortal combat as the swift and expertly trained squid worked together like marauding Impis to hamper the efforts of the booze cruise professionals.
Few of our team were interested for a beer at half time. By now the blue police rugby shirts stunk like a stale brewery and fags were passed around with shaking hands. Puffs were interspersed with doubled up dry retching as the accumulated lactic acid in the tortured muscles wracked their bodies in spasms of pain. I have seen deep sea divers suffering from the bends look happier!
The second half got silly. These kids took the piss now and danced around the gallant zombie look-alikes of the fighting police 15 as try after try went over. I felt ill. What a waste of money on the crate of beer.
For the first time since joining I understood what the British South Africa Police insignia of a lion with an assegai shoved deep into it’s pulsating heart stood for.
None of our ‘Men of Men’ had garters and as the socks slid down, the playing field became littered with their combs. I lifted my eyes up into the clear blue skies. Not to look for any divine assistance but to see if the vultures were gathering. In fact they had landed long ago and taken up residence in the unused opponents half and patiently waited for the final whistle, when they would pick the corpses down to their stupid bones.
The score board was a primitive affair with just HOME and VISITORS written in large white letters above two hooks for the numbered cards. The entrepreneurial youngster in charge, noticing that for the first time in the history of the school the score could go to triple digits, had cleverly removed one of the hooks from the unused VISTORS and placed it in preparation under the HOME part.
At last the final whistle went and the lightly sweating youngsters took the trembling claws of our fallen warriors and thanked them for a spirited fight. It could have been worse and 56 to nil was a fair result.
The debriefing lasted all week with the team selfishly blaming each other. Now there were still two schools to go and this time the headmasters were phoning us and offering the first team! Some of our squad were cowards and immediately applied for patrol duty in the terrorist riddled death trap of the Honde valley, rather than go through this again.
With more balls than brains the revamped squad took on the next lot. This time the spectators had increased as parents came to see their sons kick some coppers ass and get away with it. I flatly refused to take any more pictures than the one I had wasted at the previous game.
Although still nursing severe stiffness, they went forth with heads high and hope in their hearts. The hammering this time was of such intensity that any reasonable referee would have stopped the game out of human compassion. This time the score went over the 60,s. A grateful headmaster thanked our butchered upholders of the peace for the fine entertainment. His only regret was that he should have charged an entry fee.
The final match, I didn’t witness as even I couldn’t bear the pain. I believe it went into the 70 something’s. I resorted to walking to the Charge Office for my shift in a large coat covering my uniform.
I think it was at that point I realised we would lose the war and it was time to leave.
In the only photo I have, Terry is the one with the ball and the ‘nut crusher tight’ blue denim shorts. He is looking desperately around for somewhere to hide. The one with his back to the camera, who appears to be throwing up in exhaustion, is Keith. Notice the Mount Pleasant school socks. There is a huge pile of bodies on the left.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
An idiot’s dietary guide to becoming an obese imbecile.
Do drink copious amounts of alcohol and whenever possible between ‘sleeping it off’. A large beaker of spirits such as cheap vodka and gin make great chasers after every fourth pint of beer. This is a cheaper and more effective alternative to the fancy coloured drinks sold in test tubes. Alcohol decreases the brain functions to the point you dribble out your mouth, urinate in your trousers, fall down constantly, acquire amazing blurred vision and you tend to be incapable of speech, never mind sex. In this condition you will stand out in a crowd and feel like a million dollars.
Start your children off on drinking booze at an early age. Three serving spoons of Baileys Irish Cream liqueur in an infants bottle will keep the little dear from screaming its head off whilst you ‘sleep it off’. When they get older you can possibly have sex with some of your children’s friend’s brothers and sisters. However there are legal restrictions but a general guide is; if it is drunk and has an ASBO; shag it.
Young adolescents should start becoming expert binge drinkers by the age of 16. This way they will mix better with the other loud mouth yobs throwing up on the street on Saturday night and it will give them courage to steal cars, rob houses and the old British favourite – pugilism.
Mixing fizzy drinks with spirits is allowed. Recommended are caffeine rich drinks to get the heart really racing around to push the booze through your swollen liver. You will also notice that your kidneys will work better by no longer allowing yellow smelly stuff out but only clear fluids that froth like the head of a good pint of Guinness.
Please remember water is bad for you, fish do filthy things in it (sex and going to the toilet) and the water treatment plants smell of faeces and they put chemicals in.
Cow milk is for baby cows. Human mother’s milk is fine as long you are over 14, male and with one of your mate’s mothers.
Fruit juices for taste, such as in cocktails from cheap all inclusive hotels, may be drunk as the juice is totally synthesised from chemicals and helps to increase the urge to drink more of them.
Highly inflammable liquids such as petrol, paint stripper and white spirits, are cheap, fast alternatives than normal alcohol. They make the brain feel lighter and clear the naval passages. It is advisable to get advice with regards to lighting a cigarette if you happen to be one of the 90% of smokers.
Do eat as many fast food hamburgers and chips fried in very old oil and put in sweaty soft buns. They are high in nutrients needed to make your body blow up like a balloon and thus soften the falls onto the main road as you stagger home from the pub. It also saves you having to climb stairs and you can just lie on the living room sofa ‘sleeping it off’. It is handy to have a dog to eat up any mess you hurl up on the carpet. The increase of flatulence will impress your friends with its aroma and pleasant musical tunes reminiscent to the opening theme from Star Wars.
Do absorb as many sugars as possible, such as Ice-cream, chocolate, sticky cakes and toffees. This helps to combat the small amounts of fluoride found in some beers and helps create a personal artistic smile of rotting stumps smelling like a sewer. A further touch is the appearance of random large yellow putrid spots on the face and body. These are of high entertainment value as they burst all over the bathroom mirror when you squeeze them.
Eat as much meat as you like, preferably half raw accompanied by chips, deep-fried onion rings and 3 fried eggs served with brandy or whisky sauces. The remnants taste delicious mopped up with slices of lard covered thick white bread made from processed flour.
Stay away from any foods with odd colours; such as green, dark yellow, orange, purple, (unless its old beef, in which case that’s fine) as these tend to be foods that animals such as rabbits and monkeys eat. Usually off yellow (as in chips) or red (as in bloody meat) is all the colour you need to put in your pale spotty face. Fatty beef Vindaloo curries are exceptionally good in assisting you sweat out unwanted salts and improves bowel movement.
Smoking 40 a day increases the likely hood of a sexy voice as heard in Big Brother contestants. (That’s the program you have on the television as you lie on the couch ‘sleeping it off’.
All other forms of illegal drugs are fine so long as the benefits cheque covers them. A cheap high is to get some anti-depressants from the doctor. Taken in quantity with alcohol it enables you to stare at Big Brother for hours without blinking and not have care in the world.
Growing your own dope is an excellent way to stay in a paranoid schizophrenic mode almost 24/7. Details are freely available on the web and the equipment is readily stolen from high street stores.
Benefits of this diet.
1. You are unemployable, you but don’t give a shite. No boss man to tell you what to do. You have complete control over your destiny and feel splendid about your life.
2. You have lots of friends who agree with you, especially the ones dossing in your decaying decrepit council house.
3. You die early, thus spoiling your children’s chances of stealing any more benefit cheques and they will have to apply for their own.
4. You receive free morphine from the NHS whilst dying in a hospital bed especially strengthened at enormous cost for your weight.
5. Never need to see a dentist or a doctor as you always feel fine.
6. You can sleep in till 11 when the pubs open.
7. You have many children and grand children that all love you and match your life style.
Courses are freely available in most corner pubs where fellow intuitionalists will give you handy hints on what else is available to claim for.
For more information please go to our web site:
Thursday, September 07, 2006
People often ask me what I did for a living. I robbed banks. Actually that’s not quite true, they use to rob me, still do come to think of it. Come the revolution all banks should be blown up along with every McDonalds. I would never use the word ‘restaurant’ in the same sentence with McDonalds as it is a contradiction of words. It’s like saying ‘perfumed poo’!
Well, for over two decades I worked on interiors in Germany, of which about 70% were commercial sites with rather a large staff at one time of Irish and English sub-contractors. They were nearly all thieves and liars who ran away shortly after the socialists came into power and had to be replaced with Poles who all ran away when the bottom fell out of the construction industry completely. I gather they are all in England now standing on street corners claiming they are highly skilled and will work for £4.50 an hour.
I might land up taking some of them on eventually as after 18 months I am starting to feel I wouldn’t mind putting my creative skills back to work making nice pads for nice people. With that in mind I have started a new Blog. Here I will put up pictures of some of my work along with my usual witty style of descriptions. So go and check it out at –
I have put a link on the right hand side as well. I only started it yesterday so please be patient, there will be loads of stuff going up along with loads of handy hints. The picture you see at the top is of me in Louis Vuitton in Sloane street London. That’s where all the people with more money than sense spend fortunes buying bags and shoes for prices that are quite frankly out of this world. I spent a couple of months participating in the £3 million pound refurbishment and it was one of the most horrific experiences of wanton waste of money I have ever experienced. I started to write about that awful time but gave up after a while as the whole thing still traumatises me! I will get around to it eventually but it will not be nice.
Catch ya later…
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
An odd incident occurred whilst I was waiting at Euston station the other day for my train to take me back to where I still presently live, which happens to be a very pretty part of the British Isles. Don’t laugh, there are such places and I’m not referring to some Polish 18 year olds naked bosom in a brothel in Manchester, but actually a very picturesque place in North Wales, which reminds me of the Chimanimani mountains of formally Rhodesia - albeit by the sea and full of sheep, the edible kind live on the slopes and the two legged type walk around the streets bleating unadulterated crap and vote for labour if it means they can retain their £80 a week certified alcoholics allowance.
There I was sitting outside in the muted sunshine on some wooden bench reading a Jeremy Clarkson book (he of infamous slagging off style, which is right up my street) and occasionally lifting a leg or two to allow a Black gentlemen to sweep mounds of accumulated refuse from the ground due to the fact that he needs a job and Euston has no rubbish bins. (Euston, we have a problem!) I gather that this is a left over policy from the days when mad Irishman liked to place bombs in them. When they got bored with that and gave up, the British government never got around to installing any and don’t have to bother anymore because another bunch of nutters have replaced the bad ‘Paddys’ with mad ‘Jihaddis’. These are all labelled in the press as ‘terrorists’ which is a bit odd as it appears rather a larger population of this planet seem to think otherwise. Tough titty if you on the wrong side of the fence at the wrong time and the wrong people sitting on the juice. (I.e. oil.)
Of course any one coming from Rhodesia knows what a terrorist is. Everyone else in the planet at that time called them freedom fighters! They went on to take over with a little help from some erstwhile ‘friends’; called the place Zimbabwe and turned the whole place into the first imploding star of the Milky Way faster than the big bang.
Whilst the date I decided to travel was the 4th September, missing ‘freedom fighters’ fifth anniversary of the release of the first virtual remake of the ‘70s film Towering Inferno, it didn’t stop me from be terrorised whilst I sat there in my Rhodesia T-shirt with a flame lily on it. I only wore it because it was the only clean shirt I had left and it is new because a nice man called Bill sent it to me for free.
I had been interrupted from my musings of perhaps my imminent fame in the literal world if A) I actually got around to finishing the book I am writing, and B) this style of Clarkson is very cool, if not albeit OTT now and then, but definitely something to take notice of since the guy has had more number ones in the best seller lists than Osama Bin Laden, (whose last novel, How to create breast implants made of chemical explosives to sneak on airplanes, never really took off, but caused havoc with my kids flights to come and see me) by some pesky unshaved yob.
I had been following his antics for several minutes out the corner of my eye and had from the corner of the other one cast about for some form of weapon of mass pest destruction, but the sweeper hadn’t left even a burning fag end to poke into his eye by the time he stupidly arrived at my table in an OXFAM shirt and a large clipboard to proudly ask me in a prepared speech from a brain washed better than his T-shirt if I would like to sign their petition to make poverty history. Had I had a copy of the massive, heavy brand new Rhodesian Memories 1 book I would have made this povo history by beating what remains of his left wing scrambled eggs of a brain out his rather useless brown eye which was happily pooping out Harold Macmillan’s winds of change set to African despots favourite rock anthem, ‘Oh Bob Geldorf, won’t you buy me another newer model Mercedes Benz.’
Before I had time to answer with my carefully prepared speech, the message boy added that “it is to protest that nothing has really happened to ease poverty since the G8 to G give us a break from the tripe summits” which had promised a load of spin guaranteeing that coffee from Kenya cost more at your local supermarket if it has a fair trade label than the supermarkets own brand, which is most probably from the same beans anyway.
I was going to give him a short history lesson as to why I would rather roll his petition up and smoke it along with a little white (excuse the pun) lie that I was an ex Zimbabwean farmer who had until recently been capable of feeding rather a lot of people, (half a starving continent actually) when his software danger program registered the word Zimbabwe and his eyes could see that I was of Caucasian race leading him promptly to apologise profusely and scuttle away! Damn!
Oh well. So what’s this all to do with the book I am attempting to flog here? Not a lot I suppose, except I can proudly puff out my scrawny chest and say, "Two of the stories are mine!" That alone is a reason to buy it in my honest opinion.
Rhodesia doesn’t exist anymore except in cyber space where it is actually more of a common nationality now than ever before. These are stories written by all kinds of folk, most would quite correctly rather have nothing to do with the likes of me. I don’t blame em! Some will make you laugh, some will make you cry, some might make you hurl, but all will bring a memory back for those that lived or visited this once proud land and its weird mixture of people of all race and creeds. For those that knew nothing of the place it will be an eye opener and more anecdotes must be told and written down, for these people are all ‘The Last of the Rhodesians’
The book is available at WWW.lekkerwear.com for a paltry $49.95 (not Zim dollars)
All details, including size and contents at this url
Oh, just for the record…nice to see that the ruling elite of Zimbabwe have just taken over the Red Cross there and quickly confiscated all the new luxury cars that several misguided firms donated!
Till very soon…
p.s. No, I get no royalties…just the fame and hopefully a copy of the book and another free T-shirt…lol
p.p.s. The T shirt I had made up in 1979 after I had left the police. The front says Genuine Rhodesian, and the back Endangered Species.