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.



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?”

Fill me up Daddy

Gently, and slowly you put it in her.

All the way down to the base. 

Until its fully inserted.

Seductively she orders you: 

“Fill me up Daddy

So you do.

You pump her good.

You fill her up to the brim. 

As you pull out. 

You shake and tap your pipe against the rim of her opening until there’s no droplets left. 

The smell is orgasmic.

There’s no sweeter smell.

Especially when it’s first thing before the rush hour traffic.

You screw the cap on tight. 

You need to go and pay.

You grab yourself a bottle of water and a snickers

The gas station assistant asks

“Any petrol today?”

You reply smug

It’s a diesel

She doesnt find it funny

Screw electric powered cars the tree huggers can keep them.

Screw the planet

If it ain’t fossil it ain’t shit.

Not So Much Fight Club

Wednesday night is when I go boxing.

I only started a few weeks ago.
Depending on who turns up the class is usually eight men.

Not being the confrontational type I’d thought I’d give it ago.

At first, it was to learn how to throw a punch or two.

There’s also a circuit session – If I don’t succeed in becoming the next Rocky perhaps I can get my corpulent physique into shape.

My hands wrapped.
Gloves on.
We start with some basic combos to get us warmed up.
We pair up and do three for three minute rounds.

Someone holds the pads as the other person punches.

Once we’ve had our turn punching and holding the pads, we have a short break. 

Its time for sparring.

I grab a quick drink and wait nervously until its my turn.
Me and the rest observe as the first two go head to head.

“Time!” the coach says.
“You two next” he adds, as he points to me and another.

It’s our turn.
We touch gloves.
We begin.

A quick one two I cut through his guard and catch his left eye.

With an uppercut and then with a left hook I catch him again.

I’m getting good at this.
I’m moving around like a pro, or so I think.

This time I throw a left jab.

He ducks, moves under my left arm only to hit me in the stomach with a left and then follow up with a right punch to my side.

That hurt.

I try to throw a left hook he dodges it.
I throw a jab he dodges it that too.
With my amateur style, my guard is low he takes advantage – I feel his glove firmly squish my nose.


I thought this was a light spar.

Maybe my mother was right when she said all those years ago:

“You don’t wanna go boxing, come and help me finish bake this cake”

Trying to land a punch.
I swing like an angry ape.
I can tell he’s been boxing for years, probably since he was in his mothers baby box.
I get hit a few more times.
This isn’t fight club – I don’t feel any higher consciousness from the pain and exhaustion.

Trying to catch my breath I whimsically carry on.

“TIME!” The coach shouts.

Well done my opponent says.
I don’t know if he’s being facetious, sarcastic or sincere.
I don’t care.
I’m still breathing through my arse flaps.

What Women (Dont) Want

Standing at the bus stop he waits in the rain for her.

After the break up he’s feeling as though hes been robbed – he wants his heart back that she tore out.

She gets off the bus. She see’s him. “What are you doing here again? I told you its over”

I wanted to see you. Can we talk?

“Its over. Move on, I have”

Let me walk you home

“No, leave me alone”

I fucking hate you, you bitch. Do you know what I’m going through?

Ignoring him, she walks off texting her new man.

Angry and upset. He waits for the bus to take his needy self home.

He’ll do it all again tomorrow.

No Drags Allowed

Spark up or not to spark up?
Smoking in pubs is a past time. Now I‘m not talking about having a suck on your vape – creating a smokey fruit mist when you exhale. No, I’m talking about proper smoking. The mist that you get from smoking a tobacco scented cancer stick. Smoking which eventually makes you cough up one of your lungs.

Good old days…

The room itself was filled with smoke that forever changed shape and direction as it made its way through and around the punters. The whole place engulfed by smog, as if  someone had set off a gas grenade.

At 16. Sitting in the local with my drinking buddy. The floor still sticky from yesterdays dried up vomit. We’d drunkenly mider the hours away and as we did, there would be a super king slowly burning down in the rest of the ashtray.

Smoking Ban Ruined the local!

A landlord named Hamish protested so that his regulars could keep smoking within his establishment. However, this was met with the law coming down hard on this Pro Smoking activist.

Health dogmatic freaks and the government ruined what was once a place of sanctuary.
Had an argument with your other half?
Fancy a quick one?

Got bills to pay? Fuck’em, PUB!
Once the smoking ban took over. And punters were only permitted to smoke outside or in designated smoking areas. It royally fucked the Pub culture.
It was soon replaced by this eatery chain bollocks. pseudo Gin bars and micro pubs for the alcohol know-it-all enthusiasts.

I say bring back smoking inside Pubs!!

But proper smoking, cool smoke; smoke that’s produced from a coffin dodging old timers tobacco pipe.

Smoke that’s from a cigar, that’s resembles E.T’s glowing finger.

Smoke that’s coming from the last strained drags left before the butt.
And if there’s people who are health conscious, then its simple.

Do Not Enter.
Go to your cigarette free, fruity vape pseudo places.
But Leave the local alone.

Is this it?

You wake up. Go for your first piss of the day. It’s highlighter yellow with a strong scent of sugar puffs.

Half-arsed you shake your tackle.

There’s urine on the toilet seat that you were too tired to lift up. You’ll wipe the piss dribble off with a piece of arse napkin – that’s if you remember.

Holding on to the sink you look at your depleted reflection in the mirror.

You contemplate about going downstairs, you’ll go in a minute.

Not to grab yourself some breakfast but to go and loll on the sofa and contemplate some more.

You yawn.

“Best get ready to go to work” you say out loud.

Still with no intention of doing anything you just stare into the abyss of the mirror.

Focusing on your aging face. Aware that minute by minute you’re eroding away. With the same reccurring thought that you have every morning.

Is this it?