August 10th the tragedy of R’Col

Alright folks, this is my second podcast. Going at it alone in this episode.

This episode features – the last events of me uncle Col. Being more empathetic, mental illness, promiscuous precipitation, running for charity and Bob Geldof.

I’m raising money for mind charity

If you’d like to donate you can via link

Popped my (Podcast) cherry

Ive decided to step into unknown waters and create my first podcast. Not gonna lie at the time I was nervous and under caffeinated so excuse my ramblings.

Podcast guest is Jasun Horsley author of 16 Maps of hell. Which I previously have reviewed. We discuss 16 Maps of hell, Rudy Steiner, turning water into coke cola and having an adventure in the mundane.

Continue reading “Popped my (Podcast) cherry”

16 maps of Hell

Andy Nowiki had posted a photo on Instagram. The photograph was of the front cover of the book named Vice of kings – highly recommended by Nowiki. Also its when I first came aware of the name Jasun Horsley.

So naturally being an inquisitive stalker that I am (only by night). Interested by Nowicki’s recommendation I thought who’s this cat on his soap box taking a pop at the superculture?

Deciding to pursue this Mr Horsley guy to the ends of the internet. Obviously for my own self interest to see what this fellow had to say.

Searching the web. Leaving no stone left unturned. Listening and watching countless podcasts that he appeared on. I was beyond intrigued with what Jasun had to say. The guy was full to the brim of information and ideas that blew my mind.

He came across to me as some mystic teacher who I had been searching for all my life. Every youtube video I watched of him from the early years up to the present. I became in awe of the chap and what he had to say. The guy seemed genuine. (Okay. I’ll resist fangirling anymore) 

When I staggered across this video below. Is when he had my fullest interest:

*Jasun Horsley & The Skrauss on the parallels between Roman Polanski & Jeffrey Epstein: Polanski’s rise to prominence in Hollywood & proximity to the underground Hollywood*


Without hestitation I headed to his website and I ordered myself a copy of 16 Maps of hell. I was an addict. And now I needed to get high to his new supply

Days into reading 16 maps of hell strange happenings occurred at my humble abode. The oven caught fire three days before Christmas. Now you can call it coincidence or possibly sods law. However I’m not ruling out that maybe it could’ve been stranger dark forces are at play.

The morning after I came downstairs to find the boiler had also decided to pack in. I was welcomed by a puddle of water. It not only ruined my morning but it put me right off my porridge. This was definitely without a shadow of any doubt a curse on my house because of the gift I had purchased from Jasun Horsley?

16 Maps is a book which not only makes you question the inner workings and the dark underbelly of Hollywood. But also it will make you also question your identity. Who am I? Who are we? Of course this has troubled a lot of people from the dawn of time and without any doubt still does. I know it has bothered me from when I can first remember.

16 maps has everything.

From the Manson murders. Rich Boys clubs, incestuial pop artist, secret soceities, a possessed Heath ledger, wild S&M sex parties, the Gay mafia.

Harvey Winstein to Jeffery Epstein. Not forgetting vietnamese vampires. Yeah you heard me correctly, goddamn, shit-sucking vietnamese vampires! 

This is only part of the book and its bursting at the seams full to the brim of tonnes of information you can get your teeth into.

I found myself completely immersed. On many occasions I googled the references that the book provides. Again plentiful and I found to be useful.

When it came to the personal sections of the book I enjoyed Jasun’s honesty. This on many occasions occurs quite frequently throughout the book. Especially when Jasun has a close encounter with David Thewlis. 

I don’t want to spoil this book for anyone. Hence why I am choosing to keep this review quite short and vague.

I don’t want to give anything away. Maybe it’s because I’m an only child. Or maybe I have come across something that’s so frightfully delicious and you aint having a slice of my share. Its my precious. So you can go and get your own copy.

I encourage you to go and get yourself a copy of 16 maps of hell. Take the plunge on a journey to the depths of mystery and depravity. 

Instead of consuming your time scrolling aimlessly in Zuckerberg’s playground. Forget that place and bomb off the diving board straight into the pool with an open mind.  You might just learn something. I know I have. 

So you don’t wanna fork out. You can borrow my copy. Yeah right, on your bike. Get your own.

Who’d appreciate this book? 

I’d recommend this book to anyone who is intrigued about Hollywood and its suspect history and inner workings

It appears the author has done his homework and has done, brilliantly. And as I have said previously in this book it has got me to question my own identity. I’m now under the impression after all these years that I have been mis-sold. Was this Jasun’s intention? Who knows your guess is as good as mine. If so how did he do that you ask? Well I guess you’ll have to find that out for yourself. Andy Nowiki.

Sleeping is cheating

I’ve not had a proper nights sleep for 16 months.

Well I think its been 16 months.

I’ve lost track.

I should’ve done a tally by marking the tree wallpaper with a sharpie pen.

Every night without fail my baby wakes me up.

I’ve worked out on average. I roughly get about an hours sleep.

I’ve got work in the morning.

I’ll spend my day functioning on auto pilot.

Some days I don’t remember a thing about my shift.

I’ll start.

Then I’ll leave.

In between its all a blur.

She carries on giggling and laughing.

I could swear she’s goading me. 

I love my child. But for fucks sake go to sleep you little cunt

We live in a one bedroom flat.

In hindsight before me and my girlfriend even contemplated about having a sprog of our own we should’ve sold up and moved. 

I need this little fucker of joy to zip it and go to sleep.

The only way in which she will cease is if I grab her by her tiny leg, swing and smash her head against the wall until she no longer makes a noise.

Suppose I could smother her with the blanket that she has become accustomed to.

Or I could strap her in her pram and take her for a walk and leave her to freeze in the dead of night

There’s a full box of co-codamol somewhere.  That I bought because I’ve been suffering with a stiff neck. They help to take a slight fraction of the ache away.

By the way they’re for me the not my baby. I’m not a complete lunatic. 

Considering downing the entire box with a bottle of whisky. In the hope that my heart will stop beating from being submerged from this early hour cocktail.

I need sleep. I could sleep for days. No weeks. Scrap that months, years.

This is torture.

The only light at the end of this never ending tunnel is that of the morning Sun light that creeps through the vertical blinds.

This informs me that another night has passed. Once again without much sleep. And now she sleeps.


Every morning as I leave for work my car is covered in bird shit.

I wipe the freshly laid speckles of turd from my car with baby wipes.

I used to wash my car.

But I think what’s the point. When every morning it’ll be covered in shite again.

As I go to get into my car. I hear a chirp.

I look up.

And on the roof. There’s a black bird that chirps in a sadistic way. Tormenting me.

I swear I see it smirk.

I know and the bird knows. There will be fresh shite again on my car in the morning.

I hate people and shit coffee

Our First trip away to Chester. 

You booked and paid for the hotel. If I remember, you paid for most things on that trip. Although, I did pay for my return train ticket. 

I met you on the train with two Costa coffees.

You weren’t feeling too good. You were feeling anxious but I didn’t know this at the time I thought you were acting up.

After one train then a rail replacement bus service that took us to another train station so we can get another train. We finally arrive at our destination.

The Hotel you booked is top notch. We get shown to our room which is something out of this world.

However we’re a bit pissed as the room you booked had a picture of Oscar Wilde on the wall. And this one, is of some old guy with a handle bar mustache that is class but who’s name has escaped me.

We go out for some food. I tell you about a place a friend has highly recommended. So we go in search for the pub in question.

After a few wrong turns and poor google map readings from myself we finally arrive at the pub.

The food is basic – microwave grub. The ale is cheap tho. We eat our nuked food and neck our drinks and head back to the hotel.

Back at the room. You call for room service and ask for an ice bucket to cool the un-refrigerated bottles of Pinot. That we bought from bargain booze on the way back from the Nuke Ale House.

The next morning.

We went for breakfast, which was extra and you also paid for.

The Maitre D gets us a table and asks whether we would like tea or coffee. We both asked for coffee. As we both took a sip, you put the cup down in disgust. To which you said with your volume button set to normal.

I hate shit coffee.

We head out so that you can buy yourself a new dress. You wanted to look nice for our meal and believe me you did.

Once back at the hotel to rest our feet from over sight seeing. I book a table at some place we both liked the look of online. Because after the day walking around shopping we’re both burnt out from interacting with people.

You order another an ice bucket from room service. To try and get the toasty Pinot down to a cool enjoyable drinkable temperature.

As you begin to get ready you’re reluctant to let me see you without makeup. Don’t look at me I’m hideous”.

You’re not I tell you. You didn’t.

I said wait a minute I’ve got something in my bag for you.

In a nervous smile. “You haven’t?” you say.

Unsure about what you meant. I went and grabbed the lush bath bomb I had bought for you as a gift. You said “Thank god. I thought you were gonna propose”.

Fuck me I was crazy about you. I mean who wouldn’t be even without your eyebrows on. I wear my heart on my sleeve and it was early days. I was still debating if you were the one. Of course you were the one. I’m just being a twat.

We head to the restaurant. I get the directions on google maps. We get lost, again.

We agree in future and for our relationship to work and succeed that I can no longer be trusted to be in charge of directions. I blame Google.

We arrive at the restaurant. A place with no light bulbs, well not in use anyway. Some light up the bar area but other than that the place is lit by tea lights.

The meal is fantastic. The service is even better we are left to eat. The only interruption is when they removed the clean plates from the table.

None of this, “Is everything okay with your meal?” Waiting for a reply when you have a mouth stuffed full of food.

We contemplate going for a few more drinks. We walk past several bars but we think against it. Its heaving, full to the brim of people who are loud and have more front than Blackpool.

Heading back to the hotel. Not before picking up a few bottles of Pinot and some snacks. You ask me to keep dixie. You go in a closed shop doorway. So that you can take your stockings off because they kept falling down.

The next day on the way home. Back to normality. We get into Liverpool there’s some street artist jumping through rings of fire.

Loads of people have gathered. All clapping. Its cringing.

You turn to me.

Look at me with those beautiful wolf like eyes and say,

I Hate People



The awful woman screams at me.
In the queue behind her there’s some impatiently foot tapping customers who huff, tut and clear their throats with a fake cough.

Perhaps in doing this it would encourage the other sale assistants to hurry up with the customers they’re already dealing with.

The yelling and the finger pointing carries on from the awful screaming woman. I cant fathom what shes trying to convey. Its as if shes bored. Maybe her husband doesn’t stimulate her anymore in and out of the bedroom. This is how she gets off now.

I often think wouldn’t it be great if for once as the customer was moaning I went off script and said…

“Go fuck yourself, cuntface”.

To see their face in complete shock. Or how about,
Slam their complaining face over and over again into the counter.
And when I have finished beating their skull on the hard surface. Say,

“I don’t get paid enough for your shit”

It would be great if the whole retail sector went on strike.

To witness the whole country have a massive shit fit.
Not gonna lie I think it would be well worth seeing. I’d even pay for a front row seat.
A load of angry consumers unable to get their fix. Like penniless drug addicts.

It would be like black Friday meets zombie apocalypse.
The doors would be closed, yet they would persist on getting inside in their droves. Like rage fueled apes.

I always feel for the sales assistant. Witnessing them getting verbally assaulted.
The public can be a vicious ill mannered piece of freshly laid dog turd

The only defense for the sales assistant who all day gets bombarded is to put on a polite smiley face.

Their cheeks must hurt from smiling all day as the soul destroys minute by minute as they say “Thank you, have a nice day.”

When really all they want to do when they are getting used as a verbal dart board is grab the tantrum objectionable shit stain and suffocate them with a 5p carrier bag.

Humans like to consume.
I’m guessing a strike of any kind would never happen.
Even people who work in retail, consume.
Its hard not to these days.
When everyday is Christmas with Amazon.

Having dealt with the screaming woman. She is on her way to tell her friends how she kicked and shouted until she got her own way against someone whose getting paid minimum wage.

The end is Nigh

What if?

The dead souls of the Egyptians have possessed the people of the UK.

Telling them to accumulate toilet roll.
So that they can return in a mummified fashion.

When the apocalypse occurs there’s going to be people wrapped in toilet paper looking like mummies chasing us instead of zombies.

Just a thought.


Came home after a night out alone. With a half eaten Doner kebab that’s smells what I can only imagine could be slow roasted camel shit.
I can only assume that’s what slow roasted camel shit would smell like. Damn it tastes good tho.

Leaving every light on.
I ascend the stairs.
And after hitting every wall on the way up.
I finally get to my bedroom.

The half eaten kebab is placed on the windowsill for now.
I might come back to it later.

Discarding whatever game that was in the PlayStation 2.
Which gets thrown somewhere into the abyss of dirty and clean washing that covers up the carpet.

I insert the pirate copy DVD that was hidden on top of the wardrobe into the disc draw of the PlayStation 2.

The DVD is – Black in the ass 2.

I’ve watched this more times than I can recall.

I’ve always pondered if there is a first one.
I’ll find out tomorrow. 

Intoxicated is an understatement, however I still make sure the TV is on mute. Don’t want to wake up my parents.

At this moment in time, I’m steaming.
Had a few knock backs more than usual.
I did try to seduce the lovely ladies with my drunken charm.
Used my best chat up line as well:

“Well gorgeous, I’m here. What’s your other two wishes?”

That was only met with disapproval eye rolls with added false lashes.

Oh well. Nevermind.
Sitting at the edge of the bed.
Guess i’m signing out tonight with my trusty fist pump.

I attempt to beat myself to pleasure.
Although, the room is spinning rapidly like Dorothy’s house trapped inside the eye of the tornado.
Keep calm and beat on.

Putting all my drunken effort into reaching some arrival as the blonde in cow print ass-less spats rides the 12inch well endowed black pipe.

She shouts give it to me, give it to me.
That’s what I’m hearing as I lip read.

Losing stiffness from over doing it on the whiskey.
And the off putting smell of the kebab on the windowsill isn’t helping.

The smell worsens and starts knocking me sick.
Must soldier on.
Must carry on beating my one eyed hosepipe vigorously.

I pass out.

I’m awoken by the sun light creeping through the curtains, also there’s a reeking smell.
It’s of the now sun dried kebab that was left on the windowsill.
And to the sound of

“Cover yourself up son”

My Mother has found me.

I’m laying on the edge of the bed fully clothed but with my trousers around my ankles.
I struggled to get them off because I forgot to remove my shoes first.

I notice the television screen, its paused.
Its of the blonde cowgirl in the cow print ass-less spats.
Her whole face is covered in the black guys gunky spunk.

My mother notices the image of the creampied blonde.

Only to say:

“That reminds me. Will you go the shop, we need milk?”