War Machine

Posted: May 12, 2015 in uncategorised
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A few years ago I bought a motorbike. A 250cc Suzuki Intruder, 160kg, not the most amazing motorbike in the universe, nor the biggest or loudest, but it looked pretty cool, in jet black and chrome.

I learnt how to ride on that bike. At first I was too scared to even go on main roads, I stuck to side streets and the block of houses in which mine was located. It took some days before I resolved to bite the bullet and go for a long ride, which for me was an hour or so. I used to drive to a place called Chirnside Park to see my friend Michael. He was always working, so its not like I even did much when I got there, but it was the journey that I craved; the mission. My confidence began to skyrocket. Afterall, I’d been riding for over a week and hadn’t even crashed or stalled once. Needless to say, my winning streak was short lived and I made a right fool of myself more than a few times.

I remember once, I was sat at the traffic lights waiting for a green arrow to turn right, on a steep hill. The arrow turned green, and I stalled, by the time I realised what had happened and started the engine again, the arrow had turned red. I looked around and waved at the other cars waiting, trying to demonstrate my apologies with various head bobs and hand movements. The driver immediately behind waved an ‘it’s okay/no worries’ and smiled.
So, waiting for the arrow to turn green again, and would you believe it, I stalled a second time. This time I got the engine going and got through just before the arrow turned red, leaving those cars stuck there. Poor shmucks. It was then that I realised I had been sat in second gear the whole time, so it’s no wonder I kept stalling.

I’ve since had plenty of bumps, crashes, hits and knocks, and as you can see, if you meet me in real life, none of them have proven fatal. In fact, both myself and my bike survived with minimal scars and few broken parts. This has mostly not been the case for the things on the other end.

The motorbike I bought back then was a dream to me, it was a key to freedom, it was a transportation device to another dimension, where my throne glides above the roads, above all the clunking metal boxes packed into every street, the heaving, grunting, bumbling squares, chugging around like little fat trains.

Now, my bike is a lot more than that. The glamour and pride of riding is meaningless to me, the chrome is scratched and faded, the exhaust pipes are rusted, the dream is mishapen and battered. I no longer identify with other bike riders. The dick measuring has ended. I ride alone, where nooone drives, where noone is, where noone see’s.

I used to want to get a bigger bike, something louder and heavier and faster. so I could fare better with the dick measuring, so I could sit alongside other bikers and snort. But this bike will always be the sledge hammer used to destroy my dungeon prison.
The only reason I’d change hands now, is because there are other prisoners.

On that note, I intend to place an ad on gumtree for the bike. You’ll probably think, after what I’ve said, that the bike is not roadworthy, but it still runs surprisingly well, and I intend to fix it up as good as can be for the next worthy adventurer.

The ad will talk of how great the bike is, how shiny it is and how it runs and starts and goes.

But there is a secret which I will not disclose in the ad.

Beneath the thin layer of black paint is no peace, no calm, there is a war machine, that drips with the blood of clumping cars, signs, traffic lights, barriers and any other foolish obstacle.

This is a secret I learnt, and it is a secret that the next worthy adventurer will learn as well. Until one day, the bike will transform into a fiery incarnation of destruction. A true transformer, whose sole purpose is to obliterate careless, texting drivers and selfish rich royalty.

Anyway, on another note, please watch out for motorbikes. My bike is bulletproof, but most riders are not. If you don’t check your blindspot, then one day you might finally get me good.

I wrote this while listening to: Queensrÿche: Operation Mindcrime Full Album


Breaking things when angry

Posted: December 27, 2014 in uncategorised

I’ve been pacing around my house now for roughly half an hour. Primarily looking for something to smash.

My feet are propped up on a table with an axe shaped hole in the middle of it. A pretty good hole if I say so myself. The trouble with living in a block of flats is that you can only do a limited amount of damage before the other tenants become concerned, call the police or knock politely on the door. I do not want such attention.

So the hole in my table and a few bits of wear and tear about the house are all there is to see.

I went outside for a little while too, went looking for things that will eventually break, but could always do with a helping hand. Like rotten tree stumps or hard waste or decomposing bodies. I found none of these, but my quest is not yet over.

I went through all my belongings, looking for a sizeable item that I really would not need in the near future. Before I came to a conclusion, I decided to sit and write instead.

Sometimes, when angry, human beings are prone to various physical or verbal outbursts. These can be directed at other human beings, or at inanimate objects, or at themselves. They can also be directed at rather obscure enemies like time and space. At the moment I am pretty angry, but I’ve had time to cool off. What I would really like to happen, is this:

I awake on my couch five minutes from now, looking around I can see the sun lowering itself slowly into bed and hear the dusk birds tuck each other in. I also notice that I am in fact a grizzly bear with enormous forearms and a great shaggy head.
Pacing out my door and down the flight of stairs, I can hear the Chinese family eating their meal, and hear the budding pianist slave away next door. Then, to my surprise, outside my front door there is a neat line up of parked cars.

They are all very expensive cars, and all desperately calling out to be utterly obliterated. Not only am I a grizzly bear, but my claws are like mini lightsabers, glowing and buzzing. To the right of these cars is a stack of armaments including bazookas, miniguns, grenades, shotguns and various automatic weapons. I then spend the rest of the day and most of the night living in a place of fiery destruction.

Having written these things down, I don’t feel so angry anymore. It probably is better to channel your emotions into something useful.

Who are you?

Posted: December 4, 2014 in uncategorised

That is quite a simple question.

It is much easier to answer that question about someone else. For example, who is James Bond or who is Britney Spears? Most people have an answer to those.

It’s easier to describe one of your friends or someone else because you only see one side of them, you only see one of their faces. But if you’re the person on the inside, and you know that you have many faces, it is much harder to reconcile them all into one being/entity. All your faces chatter and collaborate, and you wonder if they all stem from the real you, or if the real you is a shattered and messy collection of equally valid James Bonds. Like you’re a drunk person whose stumbled onto a highway and been splattered across every lane. Then every person who meets you is an ant that’s come across a bit of your guts.

Have you met James Bond? Why yes, he’s a liver, he’s got bile in him and lots of lobules.

What about you? Have you met James Bond? Yes ofcourse, I know him, he’s a heart all filled with muscle and blood.

When life starts you’ve pretty much got it all together, you’re just walking to the shops. Then at some point, you get hit by a car, and the world is like the most insane highway you’ve ever imagined, with oblivious cops and tanks storming along the road and on the pavement and into your house and through shopping malls in indestructible vehicles, smashing and crushing men, women and children alike. You start off as just one person, all together, but as life goes on you keep getting splattered all over the place, and it’s so hard to put yourself back together.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t recognise the person there, and I find it hard to match that person with my thoughts and actions. Like when you listen to yourself in a recording, and you just can’t believe that voice is yours.

Who are you really?

I am convinced that question cannot be answered using your own isolated thought process. You need some kind of external stimuli, someone on the outside who can match the thing you see and the things you feel and think.

There are all these ants in my house. They keep coming back into my house after I ask them to leave. At first I am polite, and I do not force anything, but then I become quite unreasonable. I am ashamed to say my fingers often smell of ant guts.

If it is very hot outside, and they are hanging around the tap in the kitchen, then I will be lenient. Ants need to drink too, and I’ve got all this water I’m not using. So that’s fair enough. But, when it looks like they’re setting up camp, and they become entitled, and start putting their flags up on packets of food, that’s when we have little disagreements.

I leave the bodies of their slain lying around as a warning post; ‘Danger!’ ‘Enormous falling fingers!’

To be frank, I really don’t know if they’re heeding the warnings.

Time I’ve Spent With Myself

Posted: September 29, 2014 in uncategorised

I was sat here at my computer, wondering what I should even write about; what story I might tell.
There was nothing I could think of, so I’ll ramble on about incoherent nonsense. Good luck understanding!

Nah, I won’t be too cryptic.

I quit my job, and last Friday was my last day at work.

Now it is Monday, the beginning of a usual working week for most of the enduring, toiling, human race. But not for me. Naturally, I have used my time today to be as productive as humanly possible. Not being bound to the time restrictions of a normal job, I have been working on my new career, namely my life.

There are no opening or closing hours, there is no time schedule, no meetings, no deadlines, no rules or boundaries. I can start work from this second and never stop. I can take my business anywhere, make it grow any place, succeed in any arena. It just takes hard work. If you remain idle, your life will just sit around idle, like an empty shed, not growing or expanding or changing. In some cases, even when you have a job your life can be just as empty.

Well, my job began today. My new job.

People will often classify you by what you doooo. I am no longer bound by such a definition. I’m a professional James, and as you can see, I am alive, so business is booming.

I am looking forward to the next time someone asks me what I do, I can confidently tell them I am a free agent, just making it. Not making money, but building my shed, making it bigger, upgrading, filling it with things, cleaning the cobwebs and drinking tea the whole damn time. What’s that? It’s break time? Haha, you fool. There is no such thing as break time in this place.

One thing I hope to find in the coming months, and years. One thing I wish were easier to come by. Contentment. I want to be out of the endless race. The clawing, scrabbling climb to the top. I’ll let you know if I find it.

Mud and waves

Posted: June 2, 2014 in uncategorised
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I am better at writing things when I don’t think anyone will read it. So I’m going to pretend that, and imagine that everyone on the internet is some kind of robot. None of the real people use the internet.

All the real people are being experimented on like me. We’re all dotted around, so far away from each other, on different planets entirely, yet it seems like we’re sooo close.

We’re experimented on extensively in our sleep, so that we imagine things so vivid that they appear real. People using facebook on their phones and talking about sports and showing videos and talking about links and sending links. Its all crafted and planted and mixed with reality.

And you don’t have a family. Nor do you have a body. No hands grabbing things and clasping things. Tapping at hard surfaces, pressing into deep things.

Every night when you switch off you’re unplugged and filled up with another concoction of a day, with dreams and disasters all ready to be felt. You’re a bodiless fluff, very very contained. With tubes all pushing you around and flooding your emptiness.

Mud and waves are two things I like very much. Mud makes you dirty and the waves make you clean.

The mud is sloshy and fun and worthy of all my attention. The waves are vast and challenging.

I enjoy walking around in the waves, fighting them. It’s like playing with a great beast, that could so easily topple you. Could so easily swish you away forever. I walked along the beach for hours yesterday, in the waves, and all the violent noise, and shards of glass in my head were washed away. I wanted to keep going on and on and on.

I felt more peaceful then than I have in a while.

Anyway, if you’re a robot or a test subject, I highly recommend going out and getting really muddy. And I highly recommend going out and wading around with the waves.

You can be completely yourself, and shout as high and loud as you can, and cry and sing and do all the things your heart wants to do. You’ve got a mini ocean inside your chest that’s always crashing and smashing around, always trying to break out of your chest and explode. It needs to be taken for a walk every now and then.

The Sweetie Business

Posted: April 9, 2014 in uncategorised

I’ve been sat here for a little while now. Not a whole month, cause that’s how long it’s been since my last post. Not a month. Just like, a little while.

I couldn’t think of something super witty and funny to write, I’m feeling a little flat. Like a flat slap of spam. Slapped down onto a pavement.

However, after thinking about what to write for a little while, I thought I’d tell you about sweets.

I have never felt richer or wealthier than when I have been walking home from school with my pockets full of sweets. Walking through Central Park, with the sun shining through gaps in the great big trees, and my feet covered in mud. Yes, I felt like the richest boy in the world, despite having no money.

By sweets, I mean, small, varied, sugary, gummy or chewy or sour bits of tastiness.

In the UK, when I was a kid, you could buy penny sweets at lots of places. Sadly, this is not the case anymore, probably cause they take so long to create a profit and cause of the hygiene problems, and cause they were such a pain in the ass to count. Basically you’d go into a corner shop or paper shop, and they’d have about ten-twenty clear cube containers lined up in a row around the chocolate/sweets section, each filled with a different sweet. They were called penny sweets because each one cost 1p. They were perfect for schoolkids with only a specific amount of 27p, or something like that, in their pocket.

And I was definitely one of those annoying kids that would buy exactly 62p of penny sweets, or 47p, or 38p. So they’d have to count them all. The only reason why they counted is because most kids lied about how many they got, or they wouldn’t bother counting them at all, so the person at the register would have to do it.

Anyway, I used to know all the best places in Plymouth to get penny sweets. I knew all the haunts. I was familiar with every dealer. I knew when there was a strange new penny sweet from Italy at a particular shop, or a super sour gobstopper, or anything hard to come by. This was before you could just order anything on the internet. We didn’t have the internet at our house til I was about seventeen.

My prime sweet career probably went from about nine to fifteen. The reason why I call it a career is because my unique knowledge ended up bringing in some dosh. I would go on foot all over Plymouth to find the good stuff, and, being a paperboy, I was on foot all the time. Soon, at school, people knew about the good stuff that I brought in for myself, and I began to sell it off to my schoolmates for basically double the acquisition cost.

It became so lucrative that I began taking orders. I even hired some mock staff, and paid them 5% of the earnings. The business was called James Merchandise.

Being a child, the first thing I did, that I considered to be most important, was come up with a theme tune for my business. Being an adult I have come to realise that most businesses don’t even have a theme tune.

Well, they’ve got it all wrong. I used to drum up a lot of business by my enthusiasm and theme tune. And also the delicious sweets I fetched.

Whenever I found a promising new sweet, I’d bring it in to school and let everybody try some, as a taster. I’d then take orders. I can’t remember all the different kinds, or hits, but one of them which is still around today, which isn’t technically a penny sweet, but did drum up some profit, was called Gum Powder. Which is a kind of sour-ish chewing gum that you get in a small black card container, with a big explosion picture on the outside, and the gum was in the shape of small black/grey nuggets.

When I was that age, I believed I could be the next Willy Wonka. Or, the first really. I was absolutely positive I knew what sweets were bad, and what were good, and had some ideas for absolutely amazing sweets. I also wanted to be some kind of dental scientist who came up with a miraculous formula for a toothpaste that you’d only need to apply once, and it would protect your teeth for life, against any amount of chewy sweets. I also dreamt about being a mutant, whereby my superpower would be that my insides had changed so that sweets are the equivalent of a healthy and nutritious diet. Basically so that I’d not have to eat any vegetables or savoury things ever again, and could just survive very healthily on sour and sweet sugary things forever.

Anyway, James Merchandise eventually died about because I told my mum about it, and she didn’t really approve of me doing two things.

Firstly, using my bus money to buy sweets, instead of catching the bus to school.

Secondly, ripping off everyone in school by charging double the price I got them for.

I wasn’t in the habit of obeying my parents, but I wasn’t a bad guy, so that kinda slowed my aspirations. And it was around that time that places stopped selling penny sweets. Nowadays, most places that do sell penny sweets call it Pick and Mix.

The only difference between pick and mix and penny sweets is the price. With penny sweets, you are charged by each individual sweet, but with pick and mix you are charged by the weight, which is substantially more expensive.

So those scumbags at village cinema and warner village and vue and all those other scumbag cinemas led the way in introducing sweets being charged by weight.

Anyway, I’m sure if you spoke to someone who bought and sold penny sweets on a large scale they might give you a different opinion about their rise and fall, but this was my perception as a boy, one which I hold still today. They were very much one of the highlights of childhood to me.

I won’t end this on a low note, so one thing I will say, is that today I had a really amazing dentist appointment 🙂

I hope you are feeling very good today also,


Metal man

Posted: March 8, 2014 in uncategorised

Hi team, it’s great to see you’re still kickin it. wingin it.

I’m writing to let you know of my plans to build a suit of indestructible armor.

Yes. It’s true. I’m going to build the first one.

After it’s done I’ll let you use it, but only if you are going on a very dangerous adventure. I’ll post a calender of my planned days for dangerous adventures and you can borrow it on one of the days I won’t be using it.

I imagine lots of army people will be interested in having a go in it or maybe finding out my secrets, but if everybody in a war had an indestructible suit on then nobody would die. The only way to beat each other would be to push each other into big holes or the ocean. War would look very different indeed. Instead what I’ll do is I’ll make one for every army in the world, and whenever that army has to fight another army, they have to elect one member to wear the suit and the other army has to elect a member to wear a suit, and it’ll be like a big WWF match where you have to pin the opponent for like five seconds, and you can jump onto each other from ladders and shoot each other with bazookas and like, it would be on live TV too. So, nobody would die. And whatever trouble that country has with the other country will just have to be sorted out.

Naturally, it’ll be pay per view. But not very expensive. And all the money will go to renewable energy and food development in third world countries and cancer research.

Anyway, I’m just writing to let you know that it’ll be done pretty soon maybe.

On an unrelated note. I’ve started welding in my spare time. It is great fun! It’s like a more dangerous, bigger version of Lego. I used to love Lego when I was a kid. If you don’t know what that is, then probably google it and make sure your kids find out about it.

Anyway, have a wonderful night or day, bye bye.


Smiley McGee

Posted: February 3, 2014 in uncategorised
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Good evening friends, I’m writing something now to you from my computer board. I am not trapped inside it. I am outside it right now, it is on my leg, and I am pressing the keyboard all over the place to make words that I like appear on the screen, then I’ll let you know that you can see it on your screen too, by email or facebook or something, and you can decide whether you like the pressing of the keyboard.

Anyway, I’m writing about Smiley McGee, who is the man I met tonight very briefly, he’s probably not called Smiley McGee, but I imagine him to be.

He was very old, maybe late 70’s or mid 80’s. But had good muscles. And he was exceptionally happy.

I met him because I responded to his Gumtree ad. He was selling an electric chainsaw sharpener for tuppence.

When I handed over the $30, he was so distracted with gleeful happiness that he stopped talking about the machine and just stared and rubbed slowly together the two notes. A ten dollar note and a twenty dollar note.

His smile was so genuine, and his happiness so truthful, I feel like going round his house in a week and offering him $30 for one of his spoons. Or a piece of paper. No doubt he will think he’s fooled me into spending a whole massive thirty dollars on something that is not worth thirty dollars. He’ll think he’s the very King of Crooks, which will double his joy at receiving the thirty dollars.

But it will all be worth it for me cause he was so damn happy about it.

Part of me thinks he was going to have to sell it to me hard, or be in for some serious haggling. Like he knew I was only in it about 20%, and he had to lay on me his most professionally deadly sales pitch. But when I rocked up and handed him the bucks and took off within two minutes, he croooned with happiness. Crooooooned of the sky and the sun and love and laughter and all things good.

Right now I imagine him sat in his kitchen, at the kitchen table, with a cup of tea, just staring at the thirty dollars as it lay. A few metres across from him next to the kettle. Just thinking to himself at how bloody successful his amazing financial adventure has been.

I was very glad to have been a part of it. Long may his ambitious ventures continue. Maybe I’ll follow him on gumtree and make sure all the stuff he’s trying to sell gets sold. You can send me a private message if you like and I’ll tell you his username. It’s not fair to hide Smiley McGee from the rest of the world


Posted: September 20, 2013 in uncategorised
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hello there.

I didn’t see you.

I was quite preoccupied thinking.

What was I thinking? Well, that is a rather personal thing to ask. But I will tell you, because we are personal friends who share all sorts of deep and meaningful things with each other.

I ride a motorbike around the place. Not in a gang or to look cool. And not for practical reasons either.

Lately, a thought crosses my mind when I ride my bike.

I’m not a morbid person, and I’m not depressed, but as soon as I cruise along down past the cars stuck in a queue. I wonder if today will be the day I crash.

Lots of people have told me how dangerous riding a motorbike is, and how much more likely it is that you will be involved in an accident. I’ve heard all the horror stories. When I get on my motorbike I wonder if it is now.

I wonder if I will be lying on the cold pavement ten minutes from now. I try to imagine what it would feel like to fly off the motorbike. To tumble and crash and rip like a computer being thrown from someone’s window. Will my legs break like the computer monitor cracks and shatters. I picture it all in my head.

I don’t ride my bike dangerously, most of the time. And I don’t speed. But it doesn’t stop me from wondering just if today is the day. I’ve got kevlar jeans I wear whenever I ride my bike. I think about those jeans. Will they last.

I’ve never experienced extreme pain before. If I could choose, I would like the pain to be awful. But without leaving me unable to do the things I like to do. Like, climb trees and run and play sports. So, I wouldn’t want any long term injuries. Although, having said that, one thing which I wonder is, if I were to somehow become paralysed from the neck down, or the waist down, would I become very productive? Would I lead a more meaningful life? My natural talent is creating things. Like stories and ideas and pictures. But I am not very productive. If I were paralysed, or even if I was just hospitalised for a long time, would I create things more often than I do now? Would I really dedicate my time?

Have a think about it. If you were hospitalised for a long time. What would you do? Are you happy with your honest and truthful answer? You don’t need to tell anyone but yourself.

Anyway, thank you for reading my ramblings. I really have been thinking about crashing a lot lately, and I just had to spit it out of my head.

Good night

p.s here is a photo of my bike.954766_10151648495914292_107828134_n

Helpful Thoughts

Posted: September 7, 2013 in Fiction/Stories
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Writing on a piece of paper is like scratching your leg. It’s exactly like scratching your leg. The difference between different kinds of writing, is how you do it, and how your leg is feeling.

Sometimes my leg is very itchy somewhere, so I reach down my trousers and find the itchy spot and scratch it with my nails so that it goes away. Sometimes it goes away for a while. Sometimes it reappears at a spot near where you last scratched and you have to go and scratch more and more! Sometimes you feel it far away from the last spot, like you’ve just scared some unknowable, immaterial sensation to the other side of your body.

There’s a little man in your clothes running around and tickling you in places. He runs over to one of your body’s hairs and tugs and kicks it. But he’s very small so it doesn’t hurt. Then you come by and scratch. A huge great big scrape down from the sky, or a massive lunging mountain worm whooshing through your clothes.  And he hides.

Sometimes when I scratch, the itch just jumps a bit left or right, and back again. And I scratch and scratch but it never reaches the itch. Never gets it.

Now you can see, writing is exactly like scratching your leg. They are almost identical in every possible way.

One other thing I have realised:

Making fruit salad is exactly like setting a fruit salad on fire. The decisions made of ingredients, of juices, of bowls, are practically indistinguishable from the decisions of timing, fuel, location and who’s salad.

Let us think of the practical similarities.

When I make a fruit salad, I want it to make someone, usually myself, happy. The same is true of when I set a fruit salad on fire.

When I make a fruit salad, it makes me happy because it tastes delicious and makes other people happy.

When I set one on fire, it makes me happy because it is a funny joke and makes other people happy.

Occasionally however, it is not a joke. Occasionally, you must set the fruit salad on fire. You must. Because the fruit salad is covered in poison arrow frog’s, and if you do not set it on fire this instant, the children at the party will eat it all and eat all the poison arrow frogs too. There are no bin bags or plastic bags available, and the little children are uncontrollably tempted. The salad bowl is too heavy to lift, and you are in a location where there are no tall ledges or tables. The salad bowl is also very wide, and brimming with poison arrow frogs. The frogs are all knocked out, and will not be going anywhere. All of the other adults and people at the party are enjoying themselves and will not help because they believe the frogs are just gummy frogs. But you saw them leap in. You are in a clearing in the Amazon rainforest anyway. Next to the bowl is a lighter and a can of gasoline. The children, all the children, are running now to try the fruit salad and the gummy frogs, from 360 degrees round they are running. You have ten seconds.

For example, in this situation, if you are a sensible person, you will set the frogs on fire. No doubt you will have had to make a decision not dissimilar to this at some point prior to now.

Now you can see, making a fruit salad is almost a duplicate of setting one on fire.

I hope this has challenged your perspective and provided and alternative way of thinking about fruit salads and writing.

Have a wonderful day 🙂