Everything I've Written: 2010

by Matt Triewly

Preface

All my stories (adult and otherwise), memories and blog/diary entries in chronological order that they were written.


Sunday 10th January 2010: The Devil's Bitch - Short Horror Story

"Master of Pain. Master of Blood. Master of Death. I surrender to you my body and soul for all Eternity..."

*

She ran the blade firmly but steadily across his throat. She observed the pleasure transform to terror, the horror to pain. She bathed in the crimson fountain of his blood, peering deep into his bright blue eyes as the light of life dimmed never to shine again, and then with abandon, embraced the sweet rapture of his slaying...

*

"Mary Lesley Walker you have been found guilty of the crime of multiple murders. You will be taken to a public place where you will be stripped naked, secured to a whipping post and lashed fifty times. Thereafter you will then be hanged by the neck till you are dead. And may God have mercy upon your soul."

"I do not seek the mercy of your God. There is only one I serve - the Devil!"

*

Sarah Jane: pretty, young, petite and brunette. She had viciously whipped her naked restrained body, blindfolded with clamped nipples and labia. She had choked her to orgasm - it was what she had paid her for - and then choked her to oblivion whilst her bladder emptied in her death spasms. They had almost come together. She laughed...

*

She was totally naked and felt the warmth of the May sun upon her bare back. It had been a while since she had experienced that and reminded her briefly of her childhood sunbathing on the beach with her father. She was firmly secured to the whipping-cross - her arms, pale and bare, were outstretched and fastened by thick leather restraints to the oak cross member. Her torso was similarly secured to the upright forcing her breasts out each side of the narrow beam. The bottom half of the whipping-cross was in the shape of an upside down 'V' and her legs strapped firmly to the supports - her smooth shaved genitalia vulnerable both to eyes and shortly, very shortly, the 'cat'...

*

She dangled the severed black penis with blood dripping from its shaft in front of its agonised wide-eyed former owner, John Onogo, screaming mutely behind the ball gag...

She had been 'The Queen of Sheba' to his 'Nubian Slave'. He had been on the point of coming, his well-proportioned member quivering, when she had sliced it off in one swift movement with the sharp blade of a Stanley Knife...

She gazed into the dark abyss of his terrified dark eyes, dark eyes from the Dark Continent - how apt, she thought. He took a while to die, finally twitching as the last of his blood drained from his muscled blue-black frame as she climaxed rubbing her engorged clit with his, now flaccid, cock...

*

She was at the northern end, behind where the goalposts would normally be, of the Solent Stars football stadium. The rest of ground was full to capacity of those that had paid good money to see her suffer and then die - they were sick ghouls, but she kind of understood that. About ten yards behind her was the temporary scaffold with the noose awaiting her slender neck. Cameras had been strategically placed to capture every angle of her flogging and execution along with giant television screens around the stadium. She could also see the flag of the PNP - The Progressive Nationalist Party - fluttering from the awnings of the stadium. It was a compelling design she pondered - a golden yellow swastika with three curved spokes upon an Azure blue circle enclosed by a green rectangle. Its leader, Eric de Wolff and now Prime Minister, said it represented the sun in a blue sky shining down upon a green and pleasant land - a symbol of hope. Next to the flag was a giant portrait of the man himself, Eric de Wolff - flowing yellow hair, strong Nordic features and sporting a Viking moustache. Beneath the portrait was a banner with the words emblazoned across it - Justice Will Set Us Free.

She did not seek freedom herself; she only strove to serve one, the one - the Master of Pain, the Master of Blood, the Master of Death. And soon she would be kneeling in front of him.

She heard the tails of the flogger whistle through the air then rivulets of agonising pain sear into the flesh of her back...

*

A moment earlier he had said, trying to conceal the growing fear in his posh voice: "I'm actually a psychiatrist and I can help you-"

She had interjected and responded coolly, "You can neither help me. Or yourself."

He was a grey-haired man with grey eyes and a grey pallor - she found him repulsive and pathetic. He was tied firmly across a school gym horse and his buttocks were crisscrossed with crimson stripes where she had caned him hard - it was a re-enactment from his public-school days, and he had paid her handsomely. It only remained for her to sodomise him with a strap-on for his fantasy to be complete.

She picked up the red-hot poker in her gloved right hand and thrust it hard into his rectum...

*

She orgasmed and cried out both in pain and release as the forty second stroke of the 'cat' lashed across her bare buttocks. The crowd bayed now for her death.

*

The policeman flashed his credentials. "May I come in?" She let him into her dungeon. "Interesting place you have here. We're looking for a James Mayhew. He went missing three days ago..."

*

Strong arms guided her across the turf, up the steps of the scaffold and onto the platform. Her head was swimming and her back and buttocks were numb - she was beyond fear. Her wrists then her ankles were pinioned firmly before she was ushered onto the trapdoor. She felt the coarse rope of the noose tightened around her throat. A strand of her blonde hair blew briefly in front of her blurred vision before a momentary sensation of weightlessness that culminated in choking and a terrific pain in her spine. She struggled to get her legs back onto the platform to alleviate the horrendous agony that racked her naked body...

"Dance you fucking murdering bitch!"

*

The point of light began to grow, soon it had suffused her being. The pain dissipated. She felt blissful.

She was kneeling in His presence now.

"Surrender me your soul, Mary, and I will grant you every wish of your dark and deranged lusts. You will live for all time in the Rhyming Eternity, and so will The Dark One through you but know that these so called 'Men of God' will call you to account, for that is woven into the Fabric of All Infinities and cannot be undone. And they will punish you as you have punished, and for that time we will be apart, and you will be alone. But when it is done you will once again be mine. Now, bequeath me your soul, my child and let the night become your day."

"Yes, Master, Master of Pain, Master of Blood, Master of Death, I surrender my soul, it is yours."

She threw her unworthy naked body upon the cold granite slabs of His Temple and as He took possession of her spirit, she cried out in ecstasy...

*

She opened her eyes. She was back in her lounge and back where it had all began. She understood now, understood that each manifestation of The Rhyming Eternity would be changed ever so slightly from the one before. She realised that to serve Him was to serve her self - her soaking cunt was testament to that.

She picked up the local newspaper by the side of her sofa and turned to the 'Property to Let' section - she needed to have a dungeon as soon as possible. She knew she would do well as a Mistress with her statuesque figure, blonde hair and elegant features even though she was only just twenty.

She suddenly fancied a coffee, it was just seven, and stood up to go into the kitchen. On impulse she clicked on the television. Channel 4 News had just started, and John Snow was addressing the audience: "Tonight we ask how long the Conservative government under David Cameron can survive after Eric de Wolff, the charismatic foreign secretary, resigned both his post and the party today..."

Friday 15th January 2010: Zen and the Art of Rudeness - Short Story

"Value is the true meaning of life, if indeed there is such a thing as a meaning to life."

Having stated that, I stretch across the table, pick up a poppadum, break a bit off and then dunk it in the lime pickle.

I'm in the Ryde Tandoori and it's Saturday evening. There are seven of us, including yours truly, sitting round two tables pushed together. On the opposite side from left to right is Lena Zavaroni, Jeremy Irons, Amanda Donohoe and Carol Vorderman. To my right is the Auto Pilot from Airplane and to the far right is Arnold Schwarzennegger. I'm directly opposite Lena Zavaroni.

Okay, they're not the real celebrities but they are real people and I'm identifying them with the famous individuals they most resemble. It's also a kind of a game I play. Indulge me.

I munch into the poppadum cupping a hand underneath in case a bit breaks off and falls onto the clean white tablecloth, and if it did it would land chutney side down. I seem to be getting clumsier with every passing year, and I'm only thirty-three. Perhaps I'm turning into Frank Spencer. Remind me to tell you about the toilet block later.

"What do you mean by value exactly?" Jeremy inquires of me. Jeremy and I often have these deep conversations about life, the universe and everything, to borrow a title from one of Douglas Adam's books. Actually, neither of us are Einstein's but we can certainly hold our own among the pseudo-intellectuals. In fact, Jeremy has got some rather interesting speculations about time himself. I'll get him to talk to you about it, some time.

Apologies for the digression - it's one of my idiosyncrasies.

"Well," I respond before breaking into my rehearsed spiel, "we all agree that the universe sprang into being by a causeless cause at the beginning-less beginning of time, but for what reason?"

"How can you have a causeless cause and a beginning-less beginning? It doesn't make sense," Arnold interjects.

Arnold owns his own building and scaffolding firm - he's doing some work for Lena and Jeremy - and he is quite personable. He likes to project himself as a likable rogue, but he possesses a temper and has been convicted for assault in the past. Jeremy had confided to me that he was on a suspended sentence and had to be careful or he would be looking at six months. Physically, he is about five foot six and of slight frame but he's extremely strong and pretty useful apparently. His sandy hair is cut to a grade four, presumably to lessen the effect of encroaching baldness on his crown, and his eyes are an intense blue-grey - the eyes of a psychopath? His features do resemble Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I suppose he's more of a sawn-off version of him. I think he is thirty-two.

"To answer you Arnold, the universe couldn't just have started because one would have to ask what preceded the beginning and what caused the first cause. The alternative is to say that the universe has always been there, but that doesn't make sense either because an 'infinity of time' would have had to pass before we got to the present which is a bit like waiting for the end of eternity - it just can't be done or conceived. Since we are in the present the only illogical statement that makes sense, or half sense, is the theory of a causeless cause and a beginning-less beginning. There is nothing wrong with reality, just our failure to construct a mental model of it," I expound.

Carol catches my eye and her gaze lingers just a little too long. Carol is thirty-one, I think. She has long dark hair that tumbles onto her shoulders and I suspect she has a hint of Latin blood. She's not beautiful but she's attractive, and as I have already stated, has a similarity with Carol Vorderman. She's got lovely big brown eyes and a dazzling smile. She's wearing a sleeveless black top which displays her tanned bare arms which are slightly hairy but not enough for me to find them off putting. I find myself fantasizing about being spanked by her before shagging her, the doctor having recently advised me it was a good idea to pursue an outside interest.

Arnie looks across - I think he may have picked up on something - so I look away. A 'spanking' from Arnie just doesn't quite have the same appeal.

"So, Matt, what is all this 'value' about?" Jeremy probes me.

Jeremy is six foot and the tallest here. He is well spoken but not posh and you can always rely upon him to look smart. He works in IT, doesn't everyone nowadays, and is well paid. I sometimes wonder if that's the main attraction of him to Lena, his partner - or am I perhaps being too cynical? Jeremy is darkish and has a good head of well-groomed hair. He is thirty-two.

Jeremy and I have been friends for over twenty-five years - perhaps that calls for a silver anniversary of some sort. We spent a lot of time together as we grew up. We played soccer, Subbuteo table football, table tennis, chess, and even wrestled. We've also been little rascals at times too - knocking on peoples' doors then running off and smashing windows with catapults - and we never got caught.

The other thing we did but aren't really proud of is torturing woodlice. We burnt them with magnifying glasses, boiled them alive and on one occasion electrocuted them by holding them across the terminals of my model railway transformer. I can remember their little legs waving as the current passed through their bodies, then we would reverse the polarity and their legs would wave in a slightly different direction, like cornfields in a changing wind. We were cruel.

I'm not like that now of course. Perhaps one day Jeremy and I will be hauled in front of a 'Court of Creature Rights' and charged with 'crimes against species'.

Lena, Jeremy's partner, is dressed in a white blouse and a dark knee length skirt - perhaps a bit sensitive of her rather large thighs. Her hair is cut to her shoulders and her eyes are grey. Her complexion is also a bit pale and I wonder whether that is to do with being a vegetarian. She puts me in mind of a grown-up Lena Zavaroni, if you can remember the child prodigy.

I am not convinced she is that keen on me because she can be ignorant and quite rude to me at times. I have to tolerate her because Jeremy is my best mate and for some reason he loves her. Lena is twenty-eight and I hasten to add not married to Jeremy which I suspect is a bone of contention between them.

Once again, I have gone off on a tangent - back to 'value'.

"Well, Jeremy, the universe has gone to all this trouble to create itself - Big Bangs, expansion, cooling, gas clouds, the precipitation of galaxies, stars, planets and life - but for what? My answer is that must be value in it. Everything we do, we do because we gain, or hope to gain, value from it. There is value in breathing, drinking, eating, sleeping-"

"What value is there in suffering and death then?" Arnie breaks in.

It's a good question.

Immediately to my right is Auto Pilot and I'm getting the impression he's not really interested in the conversation at all. I have to say, perhaps I'm being cruel, that he really does remind me of the Auto Pilot in the spoof disaster movie, Airplane as he's chubby with a wide face and got side brushed light brown hair. I think he's overdressed for the evening because he's turned up in a pin striped suit - but Jeremy is also in a suit though his is Navy Blue and at least he hasn't turned up in a pilot's uniform. Okay, I jest, he's actually a sales rep and on good money and not averse to swanking about it along with his wife Amanda.

Auto Pilot is alright, but I find him a bit immature at times, like an overgrown schoolboy. When he's had a few to drink he sometimes thinks it's amusing to grab testicles which makes me wonder if he's not a bit latent.

His wife, Amanda, has come out in a longish floral-patterned dress - I quite like it. She's a quietly determined woman and is astute with money - not really surprising as she works in a bank. She is not ashamed to admit that she is quite ambitious and covets the material things of this world. She has two children with Auto Pilot but don't ask me how old or what their names are - I'm just not that interested. I do know however that she is twenty-nine and Auto Pilot is thirty-one.

I'm still going to respond to Arnie's question, be patient, but you may be wondering what well known person I resemble, well, I'm not going to tell you-

"Marty, can you pass your dish over?" Lena asks me with a mischievous grin spread wide across her face as waiter collects the last of the starter dishes.

Marty? My name is Matt.

Then it registers and with the exception of Jeremy all the other diners look a bit quizzical.

"Jeremy and I were wondering the other day who you reminded us of and both of us in unison said, Marty Feldman." Lena looks sideways at Jeremy for support as though perhaps she had gone too far this time and needed to shoulder the blame with her partner.

Okay, I admit I have got a Roman nose, but I've grown a neat little goatee beard to balance it out. I've got thick curly dark brown hair with a hint of red in and I also have large brown eyes. I'm of largish build though of average stature - five foot ten. I'm not handsome but I don't think I'm a minger either otherwise Carol wouldn't keep looking over. It's beginning to unsettle me just a little.

Lena knows she's being rude because Marty Feldman is generally accepted as being an ugly man though I certainly wouldn't mind his talent and money. I have a feeling he is dead now. It could be the truth that I resemble Marty Feldman - we have it drummed into us from a young age as how important it is to tell the truth - but in this world you don't just consider what a person says it's why they say what they're saying.

So, why has Lena chosen to mention it? Well, underneath she doesn't like me and it's her way of getting at me. She thinks I'm a bad influence on Jeremy, that he may see my 'single' life as more desirable and fun than his 'henpecked' existence with Lena. She wants me out of his circle of acquaintances so she can control and shape him more for her own purposes.

I choose not to rise to the bait.

"You have to admit you have a got a big nose, Matt." She was in her stride and so far, I had never been rude back to her for fear of upsetting Jeremy - I really did value him as a friend.

"It's just nature's way of compensating for a small penis!" I retort.

Everybody around the table laughs - and relaxes. I have handled what could have been an awkward situation well.

The smart looking waiter had now wheeled the serving trolley with the main courses alongside the table. He lays out the dishes and then places the warming trays in the centre. He distributes the portions of Pilau rice and carefully places the metal serving bowls containing the curries on the warmers before withdrawing. I feel that I can now continue with my lecture on value.

"We cannot really define value, Arnie, we can only experience it-

"I think you have read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig. He called value, 'quality'. It was a good book though I didn't fully understand it."

Arnie was smart - I would have to be careful not to underestimate him. And even more careful not to cross him.

"Yes, I have but I see things slightly different to him. Pirsig postulates that value or quality is a positive thing, he talks a lot about the good, but I believe that it is more useful to think in terms of the less bad-"

I scoop up a spoonful of Chicken Dhansak and rice and, as I feel that I am about to present them with something deeply profound, I want everybody here to feel that this moment of enlightenment will be etched forever in their memories, kind of like a slice of classic cinematography - the waterfall in Zulu or the halted panting steam locomotive in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid just prior to the posse emerging from the cattle wagon...

I start to bring up the spoon, slightly slower for effect, but then notice too late that my sleeve, partially rolled up, has slipped down and caught the side plate to my right, causing it to tip up such that an onion bhaji is starting to roll off. I bring my left arm across in an attempt to grab hold of it but only succeed in knocking my right arm and depositing the contents of the spoon onto my chin. The onion bhaji rolls off the plate drops under then out from the table and into the path of the waiter who unknowingly squishes it underfoot.

Okay, it's still a classic cinema moment, if you're a fan of Laurel and Hardy!

I mop up my beard as best as I can and wait for a witty remark in response to my clumsiness.

Strangely it doesn't come.

"For example, we eat not because it is good to eat but rather that it is bad to starve. We wear clothes because we don't want to freeze to death - and pleasure is merely the release of tension. Pirsig says, in Lila, that elements chemically combine because there is value in them doing so at certain times and there is also value in them detaching themselves at other times. To summarize, value is more negative than positive, it's relative in time and space, and it's subjective. You asked me, Arnie, what value was there in suffering and death, well if we are in extreme pain, imagine been burned alive, then the attainment of oblivion, death, couldn't come soon enough though if you were fit and well and happy in life then oblivion would have little value. That is one example of the subjective and temporal nature of value. Of what value is suffering? Well suffering can sometimes be of value if it takes us to a higher state of value, fighting for freedom perhaps or just studying hard to improve our quality of life. There is something else though, it may be that our suffering and death serves a higher value, a transcendent value beyond our own narrow sense of being. I can't really answer that..."

I tail off because I'm close to concluding that value is God and God is Value. I also notice that there are quite a few glazed expressions round the table - I'm boring everybody. I wonder if my beliefs really matter anyway. What will be, will be.

We are all close to finishing the main course - you can't beat a Chicken Dhansak, a sweet and sour curry. Whoever thought of that needs a medal.

"Thanks for that Matt, you have somewhat lost us though." Jeremy takes it upon himself to respond for the others.

"I'm not certain that you aren't full of shit!" Arnie adds with an ambivalent smile.

Lena turns to Amanda and Auto Pilot and says, "How are you settling into your new house, you two?"

I finish the last of meal and lay my utensils down on the plate. I knew I had talked too much - I would keep quiet for a bit whilst Amanda and Auto Pilot bragged about their newly acquired upmarket residence. I look up, but not too late, to catch Carol quickly turn her alluring brown eyes away. She was becoming ever more attractive to me. I take a swig of Cobra lager.

The dirty plates are removed, and the waiter then returns with the sweets menu. Meanwhile, Jeremy and Arnie have got into a discussion about the Ian Huntley case. Arnie has just aired his opinion that Huntley should have been publicly castrated and then hanged. "He'd never do it again and it would serve as a deterrent!"

Jeremy was taking the contrary position - perhaps he was still feeling guilty about the woodlice. "We don't want to lower ourselves to their level and beside what if his conviction is overturned in the future as so many have recently, do we really want to hang an innocent man? Life imprisonment is surely punishment enough."

"He's as guilty as fuck, Jeremy, and the money saved could be ploughed back into the health service. As for so called 'miscarriages of justice' they're normally only technicalities. I mean are we going to ban cars just because of a few accidents-"

"Dying in a road traffic accident is the most likely cause of death up to the age of forty-five," I throw in.

"So, what's the main cause of death after the age of forty-five then?" Auto Pilot queries.

"Heart attacks, brought upon by the stress of all those near misses!" I retort wittily.

"Televise the executions like they used to do in Iraq." Arnie is not to be deflected.

Ali arrives with the desserts. I wonder, him being a Muslim, what he thinks about our conversation.

Lena, Amanda and Carol are engaged in a conversation about plants - I notice that Carol seems a bit out of it. Lena and Amanda are quite good friends though not above a bit of competition when it comes to who arranges the best dinner party - dinner parties to which I am not invited.

We commence to tuck into our desserts. I'm having coconut ice cream served in one half of a coconut shell as is Lena. Amanda had ordered what looks like to me a Knickerbocker Glory and is just about to plunge a long-handled spoon into the tall glass-

"Lucky you never ordered that Matt because you'd probably get your nose stuck in the glass, and then we'd have to get the fire brigade out to free it!"

Out of the blue Lena insults me yet again, but she's only just got started. She then tops it by putting a forefinger to her nose and then exaggeratedly traces the outline of my nose upon hers - repeatedly.

I decide not to lower myself to this kind of crass behaviour - I'm beyond this and others will see her for what she is. But then something takes over me.

"Well, actually Lena you have a large unsightly mole on your cheek which resembles a bit of discarded chewing gum flattened into the pavement, and your nostrils remind me of inflamed torpedo tubes!"

Have I really just said that?

Suddenly it's kind of quiet around the table. Lena, I can see, is seething inside. In her hand is the coconut shell from which she had been scooping out the ice cream. In my mind is the maxim, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold'. Should she elect to throw the shell at me then it would be, 'Revenge is a dessert best served cold'. Actually, now I think about it, it wouldn't be revenge - she fucking started it.

Lena smiles thinly and carries on eating. Jeremy silently breathes a sigh of relief. I get the impression she won't be taking the piss out of my nose again. Arnie gives me a knowing look and as for the rest of them, they all maintain straight expressions.

The waiter, impassive as ever, duly collects the empty wine bottles and glasses - it's time to get the bill.

Auto Pilot nips to the loo ushering Amanda out of her chair and I notice that Jeremy's eyes meet Amanda's. Sly bastard, he's knocking her off. I just know it. Well, well.

But, I'm no better as I'm surreptitiously ogling Carol - we'd be good together.

We work out what to pay and then chip in accordingly.

"Does anyone fancy going down to The Balcony?" I inquire hopefully.

The waiter takes the bill along with a wad of notes and pound coins - we leave him a generous tip.

Auto Pilot returns and we all get up in preparation to leave the Ryde Tandoori. It was a great meal - and fun.

"I'm off home Jeremy. You go if you want to." Lena places her arm around Jeremy and gently kisses him on the lips. What she means is, if you don't go then you're on a promise and if you do go then you can just forget about a fuck when you get back!

"I'll just have a couple then come back about twelve." Jeremy treads the middle path of wanting to have a few more beers but not wanting to upset her. Lena feigns a hurt expression.

"Matt, your aftershave is rather interesting," Lena throws in with a wry smile.

Shit.

In a rush to get out of my place earlier on time I had inadvertently got confused splashing mouthwash on my face and gargling with the aftershave. The spicy meal had fortunately taken away the taste of the aftershave but obviously, despite repeated hurried rinsing, the chemical odour of the mouthwash lingered. I would have to nip back home, rinse yet again, and then apply a very liberal application of Aramis before going on to The Balcony.

"Lena, perhaps us girls could pop round yours for a night cap and then wait for the boys to get back?" Amanda suggests.

"What a splendid idea Amanda!" Lena retorts.

We are now outside the Ryde Tandoori in Union Street. "I'm going to nip back home, and I'll meet the rest of you down there in about twenty five minutes!" I shout out.

The others turn round and Jeremy shouts back, "Okay!"

I walk up Union Street and notice that it has become quite chilly - I can see the vapour of my breath. And smell the alcohol upon it too.

I let myself into my basement flat in Lind Street and then head straight for my bathroom where I wash out my mouth with Listerine, lather my face with soap, run a brush through my hair and then splash my cheeks with more Aramis.

Back outside, I walk swiftly along Lind Street then turning into Union Street - effectively retracing my steps. I pass Wetherspoons and clock a sexy pretty young blonde in the window - skimpy black dress with shapely golden tanned legs and arms. I really must get a woman. Soon.

I pass outside The Ryde Tandoori again then down to The Esplanade and along to the Balcony Bar night club. The time is ten thirty.

The entrance to the club is 'guarded' by two beefy bouncers - black suits, black bow ties and white shirts. They swing open the toughened glass doors for me. I idly wonder how Arnie would fare in a tussle with them - probably get flattened I conclude - and then hand over the four quid entrance fee to the girl on the desk. I enter the dimly lit, noisy and smoky atmosphere of the club.

The Balcony Bar consists of a largish dance floor with two semi-circular bars located to the north, sea facing end of the club. The DJ's box is raised slightly and faces the western end of the dance floor. I espy my friends propping up one of the bars, and I'm surprised to see Carol with them. But also secretly pleased.

Jeremy asks me what I fancy to drink.

"Pint of Fosters please, Jeremy."

Everybody else's glasses are full, so it looks like Jeremy has already bought a round. Jeremy attempts to attract the attention of the barman.

"Jeremy, I hope I haven't got you into trouble with Lena."

"No worries. Matt, to be honest, things haven't been going that well between us recently. I can see us splitting up."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Jeremy." I'm not sorry in the least but strangely feel the need to make sympathetic sounds.

Jeremy finally gets hold of the barman and orders my lager. Carol wanders over whilst Arnie appears to be in deep conversation with Auto Pilot. Auto Pilot looks quite pissed and unsteady on his feet. I can just make out Arnie talking about adding on an extension to his house and what the work would actually entail.

Carol suddenly presses close to my body and whispers seductively, "Glad you could make it. I like a man with something to say."

I certainly would be a man with something to say if Arnie was to glance across at this exact moment - the word would be, 'Help'.

Despite the increasing effects of intoxication, I feel my penis begin to swell. It's just at this moment that I notice Auto Pilot, with an inane grin upon his face, reach for Arnie's groin area before closing his fingers around his genitals.

Fucking hell, I think.

There is a kind of silence and then Arnie smashes his right fist in Auto Pilot's face. The Terminator versus Auto Pilot - no contest really. Auto Pilot reels back knocking into a girl who screams shrilly when she realises what is happening. The Terminator follows up with a left hook to the cheek and then rapidly with a right hand to Auto Pilot's ample belly - I half expect him to pop and whiz erratically around the place before dropping deflated to the ground like a balloon.

Okay, it's not funny.

Auto pilot, completely stunned, drops to one knee then keels over. Two doormen appear, as if from nowhere, and attempt to grab Arnie who manages to head butt one. Number two bouncer grapples Arnie and puts him into some sort of judo lock - and it's all over.

We rush over and try to assist Auto Pilot to his feet. He still doesn't know has happened to him. He's got blood running down his chubby face from a cut beneath his eye and a large swelling already on his cheek. He's also wheezing heavily from the last blow which knocked the wind out of him.

It's funny what you think at a time like this. Only a few minutes ago Auto Pilot was a pretty smug fellow with his attractive wife and pretentious lifestyle, and now he's just a pathetic twat on the floor. I wonder how along it'll be, after the public humiliation he's just undergone, before he feels like making love to his wife. But perhaps Jeremy has already done the job for him?

I'm a wicked bastard at times. Still, I don't reckon he'll ever grab anybody by the bollocks again.

Carol has gone over to the doormen who have Arnie well and truly pinned down. The bouncer he nutted is holding up a handkerchief soaked with blood to his face. Over by the main doors I see the police arriving. The main lights flick on.

In this moment I realize that all of our lives are changing - some undoubtedly for the worse but some for the best - after tonight. It looks like Arnie is going to be indisposed for a while, and that is good news - I look across at Carol. I also reckon that Jeremy has seen the light with Lena, so I get my friend back, and he gets his life back.

All in all, a rather interesting evening don't you think.

Oh, yeah, nearly forgot, I was going to tell you a little tale. About three weeks ago I was off to visit my uncle and auntie and just freshening up in readiness to go. I had just visited the lavatory and had gone into my bedroom to lace up my shoes when I had this sudden urge to lie back on the bed. It was lucky I did because I felt something press into my lower back. When I examined what was pushing into me, I discovered a toilet block hooked to my belt. It must have attached itself when I had pulled my trousers up. Can you imagine me strolling down the street with that hanging onto the back of my trousers? People would have remarked: "He must have a fucking bad B.O. problem if he's got to wear one of them!

Fucking hell.

Friday 22nd January 2010: Fucking Freaky - Blog

I have just experienced one of those spine chilling moments that shatter your perception of reality.

Last night or morning I dreamt about a former conductor, P who used to work on the buses. I also dreamt about meeting another former employee, Roy. In the dream I was in Shanklin and I bumped into P who looked younger and quite sprightly. I told him that he looked good and he told me that he'd kicked his alcohol problem and had got over his emotional trauma. I felt pleased for him. Also in the dream I met Roy but then the dream fades out.

In reality P had left the Company several years ago. He lived with his father for many years till his father died. After a bit P took his PCV and transferred to driving buses, which he never really got on with. He also came out of the closet and confessed to being gay for which everybody held him in respect. Unfortunately his mental problems began to weigh heavily on him and as a consequence he began to take increasing refuge in drink. He suffered two minor strokes from which he fully recovered but lost his job in his mid-fifties. His behaviour became increasingly erratic and he could be violent. He got into a few scrapes with some of the employees and was banned from travelling for a bit. But the last time I spoke to him he seemed okay...

Anyway, I have been in most of the day sorting out my stories and catching up on chores. About half three I decide that despite the weather I'm getting out for a bit. I make myself a flask of tea and prepare a roll with the idea of having a leisurely stroll along the seafront. By the time I get down to the Esplanade the rain is getting quite heavy. I see a train at the top of the pier and think: I'll get on that, I have free travel, keep out of the rain and maybe drop off at Lake, walk along the cliffs and perhaps have my food and drink in a shelter.

Bad move. Having got off at Lake I discover there are no shelters so I walk all the way in the wet to Shanklin and finally have my tea on the seafront in a shelter there.

I then walk back up the hill to the railway station and catch the 1718 back to Ryde. At Ryde St John's Road station Roy gets on and sits next to me. Roy worked for the Company for many years but got out early as he is fairly well off. He is an 'anorak' who has written several books about the Island buses. Not to be outdone I have written a humorous short story about him. Coincidentally Roy and P are the same age: sixty-one.

Roy informs me that several bus staff have passed away recently, and then says: 'I got a phone call from the police this morning. They told me that P had been found dead in his flat and mine was the only phone number they could find. I went round and visited him a few weeks ago. He was in a bit of a state. He also confessed to me that he made a complete mess of his life. What could I say?'

What indeed could he say?

But what I couldn't say was that I had dreamed of P within the last 24 hours, instead I just had one of those scary moments when you realize that maybe there is more to this world than meets the eye. I have never dreamed of the fellow before so why now on the very day that he dies?

I couldn't tell Roy because he'll think I'm either crazy or bullshitting, but fuck me this is weird.

Of course it could all be coincidence...

Sunday 24th January 2010: Just Thrashed Juki - Blog

Just thrashed Juki. I've been 'promising' her a good beating for ages and did she get one!

20 with the cane. 20 with the 'obedience' spoon and 20 with the leather paddle - that hurts the most.

I have uploaded the photos and I am just waiting for them to be approved.

It has also cured her headache!

Friday 29th January 2010: Voodoo - Horror Story

He woke with a start in a bed that was not his.

He reached out and switched the bedside light on - it was not his bedside light. And the woman sleeping next to him was not his wife.

He looked down at the muscular dark-skinned arms - they were not his arms.

He then slipped out of the bed in the room that was not his and walked to the door. And the woman that was not his wife stirred.

He walked across the landing in the house that was not his house and swung open the door to the bathroom that was not his.

He urinated in a toilet that was not his toilet with a penis that was not his penis.

He then flushed a toilet handle he had never flushed before.

He washed the hands that were not his hands in a sink with gold plated handles. He peered into the mirror and the face that stared back was not his - it was the face of his nemesis.

He then walked back out of the bathroom - he needed to dream another dream.

Without warning there was shouting and the sound of gunfire. Men rushed out of rooms and went to his side. He did not know these men, but these men knew him.

Then the men around him began to fall as if in slow motion. And when they were all still and bloody on the floor another face appeared around the door. The face was smiling, and the face was his.

How had he done it? How had the 'Master Criminal' swapped bodies with the Chief of Police?

"Voodoo," the Master Criminal mouthed before blowing his brains out, the brains that weren't really his, with a single shot...

Saturday 30th January 2010: My Life is a Fucking Mess - Blog

When you look in a mirror at yourself there are two things you cannot see: one is the glass and the second is your soul.

*

Before I woke late this morning I had been dreaming of Sharon yet again. In the dream we were going to have coffee and then go jogging together.

It is quite clear that I still love her. When you truly love someone you never stop loving them.

As I lay in my bed with the sun streaming through my window I finally surrendered to the fact that everything is a mess in my life: The flat is in a mess; I'm in a physical mess; I'm in an emotional mess; I'm a sexual mess; My son's in a mess.

It is all likely to get worse.

A voice in a dream once told me: "You cannot win in life but at least put off losing for as long as possible."

Sound advice?

Ronan: An optimist is merely someone who isn't yet in full possession of all the facts.

Sometimes I wonder if surrender isn't really victory...

Yesterday I decided that I would stop writing short stories and fantasies for a while - it was making me weary. I collected what I considered to be the best of my works and self-published them on . I also submitted several tales to online competitions.

I do not expect to sell a single copy nor win a single penny - that is how pessimistic I feel about things.

Once again I am reflecting about my charade of a life: My kinky desires; My unconventional values; My wish to conform though underneath feeling very different from the majority; My awe at the achievements of individuals yet my contempt for the mass of humanity; The lies and fabrications fed me as a child but worst of all the lies I told myself.

On the news yesterday I watched Tony Blair answer questions at the Iraq Inquiry and realised that the man actually believes his own lies. We will never really know though. It is an interesting state of mind.

Tomorrow I will begin the story of my life on here - plenty of deceit in that too. I hope you find it of some interest.

Monday 1st February 2010: It will be Getting Dark Soon - Blog

Yesterday I spent too much time again on the computer - what am I doing now? - composing my autobiography. The flat definitely needs a good tidy and there are other things I ought to sort out. In the morning though I did nip out and have an all-day breakfast at the Wimpy before doing some shopping at Somerfield.

Should I been indulging in a fatty all day breakfast in my state of health?

Well, my theory is that because I didn't eat originally crap, and exercised regularly also, and still ended up with high blood pressure and cholesterol then diet is very little to do with it; if it didn't cause the condition in the first place then it isn't going to make the condition any worse. I can't say I am particularly bothered now whether I die or not; I've pretty well had enough of life where I often feel unwell anyway. Also despite all this rubbish about coming out of recession the country is well and truly fucked so there is nothing for anyone to look forward to anyway.

Enough moaning.

Anyway I finally went out for a walk about five and ended up strolling around the harbour and then round the Canoe Lake. I stopped outside The Bombay Palace and decided that rather than cook I would have something to eat there. I phoned Juki up and she caught a taxi down.

The Bombay Palace is a really nice place - good food and very polite staff, though still think Ryde Tandoori might serve the tastiest dishes. I shall go again.

I told Juki about how I had a chat with TH from the buses on the way down and how he had told me that not only is ED ill again with cancer but that GC, Lulu's son, had a lump that was found to be malign, and that it has spread to other parts of his body. I was completely shocked as GC probably isn't thirty yet and he always looked fit and well - I remember wishing I could swap bodies with him at one point. His mother, who not only did I go to primary school with her but also went out with for two years a few years back, will be at wits end - I feel so sorry for her. GC also has two kids who absolutely adore him. I really do hope he can get through this.

When we got back Juki and I watched Intacto - it was okay. I will also be giving her a good beating later during the week. I bought a nice little wooden paddle in a sex shop in Brighton last Thursday. I shall look forward to that.

Early this morning, I wanked about thrashing a naked Juki and then getting her to rub Calamity's nipples whilst I licked Calamity's sexy fanny. I also imagined them naked together and cuddling.

Another strange thing out of the blue was getting a text from Lena saying: it will be getting dark soon. This is a reference to a story about Claudia's grandmother from years ago who was going gaga and kept saying that phrase to me over and over again whilst I was waiting to go out with her. Claudia that is. Funny enough, I reckon Lena could be interested in spankings - though she wouldn't admit it - because she loved hearing about my encounters.

Talking of which I will be hopefully getting to the Isle of Wight Munch on Saturday.

Wednesday 3rd February 2010: Deleted Profile on IC - Blog

I deleted my profile on Informed Consent yesterday because I was wasting too much time with it - I've got all I want out of it and I think I may be getting a bit too old for it all though I shall continue to spank and cane Juki every couple of weeks. She's getting quite addicted to it now and I'll be beating her in the next couple of days - full description of it when I do.

Once again I didn't do a lot yesterday but the electric did cut itself off just before nine in the evening. I finally managed to get hold of the electrician and he sorted it out - turned out to be dampness in the socket next to the sink probably from drying cutlery dripping into the plug.

I watched the end half of Survivors which despite the cringe inducing political correct message wasn't too bad. I also managed another episode of Cold Feet.

Today I am going to tidy up and try and get a few things sorted out.

Friday 5th February 2010: Saw Two Ex's - Blog

Today is the 8th anniversary of Vanilla Sky Day - eight years since that fateful or fantastic day. The funny thing is I nearly forgot till the reminder on my old phone sounded.

I also dreamt about Sharon's daughter and my son last night - sad fucker still.

Went up to the bank and sorted out my finances for the next year - fuck work!

Whilst up town I popped in and saw Lulu at work. She told me about her son and how he has got Hodgkin's disease. The clear up rate for this form of cancer is very high but it must still be an awful time for them all. We're going to meet up for lunch during the week which will be good.

Funny enough I bumped into the Minger on the way back. She told me that she had split up with the fellow she had been with since she had dumped me. Apparently he had an affair with this woman who took him for eight thousand quid - and then she dumped him. All the time I was talking to the Minger I was thinking about the times I shagged her, and whilst I was with Lulu too - I'm a bastard. I wondered whether to suggest meeting up but then decided against it - let sleeping dogs lie.

Juki texted me to ask me to spank her - she may regret that tomorrow at half seven!

Cooked dinner and then spent rest of evening watching Cold Feet before checking my views on - they're rising quite fast and I now have five fans in just two days.

Sunday 7th February 2010: Another Beating for Juki - Blog

Yesterday, I went shopping in the morning and then popped down and along the seafront to take some photos whilst the sun was out. I was going to walk to Puckpool but didn't bother in the end and had a flask of tea whilst sitting on a bench at the swimming pool end of the Canoe Lake.

When I got back Brosnan phoned to let me know that he and Farrah would be on the Island Friday for a short while. They'll be in the Castle in Newport High Street if we want to pop in. Brosnan then enquired about my sex life - I told him that I was into S & M and about a few of my recent encounters. He wasn't that surprised, in fact he seemed quite interested. I also told him that I punished Juki on a regular basis too. Anyway, it was good to chat to him and hopefully I'll see him Friday.

Portsmouth lost to Man U by five goals to nil. It looks like my £100 is safe on them to get relegated provided the club doesn't get wound up - I would get my stake back in that event anyway. If they do survive and get relegated I will clear £250.

Juki duly turned up for her punishment at half seven. I made her strip, profess her love and obedience for me before ordering her to prostrate her naked body across the punishment stool. I then gave her thirty strokes with the junior cane followed by thirty strokes with the obedience spoon across both buttocks. Some of the whacks were really quite hard which made her cry out and flinch but all credit to her for taking them so stoically. I then decided to try out the wooden paddle I had bought in Brighton - it snapped on the second stroke and will teach me not to buy cheap implements in the future. I then gave her eighteen swats, some very hard, with the leather paddle. I could see she was in absolute agony at times but once again she did herself proud by taking them.

When the punishment was completed I gave her a long cuddle and told her it was okay to cry which she did. Most of the tears were down to the fact that she had had a stressful time at work the previous week. Once we had wiped away the tears she thanked me for the beating as it had taken away a lot of the stress. She also told me that she was close to her limit but wanted to see how much she could take. I may buy some nipple clamps for her. We settled down for the evening and watched Natural Born Killers - great film.

Juki left about half ten and I went off to bed. I read quite a bit of A View from the Foothills by Chris Mullin and then decided to have a wank. It's annoying because over the last year I rarely get proper erections but I can still climax okay - I think that may be down to all the tablets I take. I wasn't quite sure what fantasy to play in my mind but opted for the one of Juki tensing herself and then crying out as I landed the leather paddle hard on her bare buttocks.

Monday 8th February 2010: A View from the Foothills - Blog

Yesterday I got out and took some photos of East Cowes and the house I used to live in with Sharon. I also took some of Red Eagle the Red Funnel car ferry.

Jeremy popped round later and we had a chat about my stories and also about sex in general.

Getting into A View from the Foothills and it just reinforces my belief that the country survives (for the moment at least) in spite of government not because of government. I also read that Gordon blubbered over the death of his baby son in the interview with Piers Morgan. Message to Gordon: Please don't bother with trying to look like you are emotional as it won't fucking wash. Everybody knows you don't give a damn about all those young men being maimed and killed in foreign wars that don't concern us or the grief you cause those families. And also Gordon using Remembrance Day as a photo opportunity was absolutely disgusting. You convince nobody when you put on a sombre expression to express regret at the latest avoidable casualty in Afghanistan - it is as false as that smile you interject, on advice from your image consultant, periodically during interviews. In short you are a second rate actor, a third rate prime minister (unelected) but a first rate cunt!

I had a weird dream last night - aren't most dreams bizarre? - in which I was in America when the earth began to get very hot and then turned into a volcano erupting. I couldn't get away from it and it was quite scary. I also had this young lad keep trying to steal my wallet. I then got bitten by two venomous snakes and passed out - it was kind of a relief.

Tuesday 9th February 2010: Bitter and Twisted - Blog

Yesterday I bumped into Dee outside the house. Dee is probably early to mid-forties of average build with dyed blond hair and quite tanned - I fancy her. She is also quite bigoted and I suspect has a temper. She seems quite bitter about how life has turned out - I got on well with her. She told me that she hadn't got a job and was finding it, after being a housewife for most of her adult life, difficult to get employment. We both had a good moan about the state of the country. I then went off shopping.

As I wandered off a wicked thought crossed my mind: I wonder if I paid her she would cane me every three to four weeks? I visualised her with a skimpy top and her strong suntanned arms whacking me hard and then getting her to take her top off and rubbing my nipples whilst I wanked myself off ogling her tits. I also thought I would like to see her punish Juki too.

I pondered this all the time I was shopping but I wondered 1. How I would broach the subject and 2. What if she went off on one and called the police.

I decided to leave it for now. The funny thing was that I bumped into her again on the way back. She always seems in a hurry when she sees me so probably not a good idea.

I was a little bit concerned when I saw on the news that there is a possibility of a hung parliament even though the Tories are about ten points in the lead - how can we call ourselves a democracy with that kind of system. Five more years of Brown, Harman, Darling and co. will just about bankrupt and destroy the nation - something that Hitler, Napoleon and Philip of Spain all failed to do. The problem with Cameron is that he is just another slimy career politician and probably the lesser of two evils. We have no leaders of any calibre anymore, even John Major would be better. I shall either vote for UKIP or the Green Party not that either have the remotest chance of getting in but it may make the arrogant bastards start to realise that they are actually paid to govern for us - not starting wars to impress Washington or fiddling their expenses. Of course at some point they will have to introduce conscription because the armed forces are seriously short of manpower - you won't see that in the manifestos though. MP's sons will naturally be exempt from serving in the same way that Prince Harry was quietly taken out of harm's way in Afghanistan.

My views on have gradually started to rise which is quite satisfying. I have also come to the conclusion that my writing is considered good enough to read but not quite good enough to be bought - C'est la vie. 'Jeremy' posted a comment on my story Zen and the Art of Rudeness which was rather amusing.

I have also been reflecting on what kind of a person I really am and this is what I concluded:

I like simplicity; Thinking stresses me out unless it's for pleasure; I'm conservative with a small c; I like routine and familiarity with the occasional spontaneous event; I'm kinky though not depraved; I like to be in control of my own destiny as much as possible; I have 'anorak' tendencies; I believe in boundaries in real life and respecting the rights of others; I have no boundaries in fantasy and nor should there be; I believe in living within one's means and not scrounging off others; I do not care what happens in the rest of the world so long as it doesn't affect me; I care about some people but not others and I accept that now; I believe that we have been created to create not only value for ourselves and others but for a transcendent value beyond our comprehension - some may call that value, God or the Tao.

That is enough thinking for today - time to carry on tidying up and divesting myself and the flat of junk.

Wednesday 10th February 2010: Dumping Shit - Blog

Yesterday I dumped, I mean donated, a load of old books to the Heart Foundation shop in the High Street. I also got a tenner from P for a dozen old DVDs. I have decided each day to get rid of a small pile of my junk and hopefully in a few months' time I will finally attain my aim of living a life of minimalism. My intention is to have just one rack for CDs, one rack for DVDs, two bookcases, one box of photos, three pairs of trousers, ten shirts, ten pairs of underpants, ten pairs of matching socks, ten vests, two sets of clean bed linen for each bed (two), one coat, one pair of gloves and one woolly hat, five towels, four tea cloths, one wardrobe, one bedside table, one tool box... and maybe one model train set!

Okay, that's enough dreaming.

Yesterday afternoon I caught the bus to St John's Road Railway Station. As the bus swung round the roundabout on the Esplanade I noticed some kite boarders in the sea which was annoying because I could have got some good shots of them - maybe another day. Anyway, I took some photos of the trains at the station and then caught it to Lake where I got off and captured some pretty views of Sandown, the Pier and Culver Cliffs. I then got the same train back and cooked dinner for myself.

Later, Juki popped round and watched Survivors which is becoming rather predictable now - I'm finding many of the characters rather stereotypical and the, we-may-be-all-different-but-we-will-all-stand-together message rather cringe inducing. I shall stick with it though.

Jeremy texted me to tell me that Amanda (his wife) had read my story Zen and the Art of Rudeness and had really enjoyed it. He then went on to say that he thought I resembled John Thomson from Cold Feet - this was in reference to the fact that my short story employed celebrity look-a-likes. I wasn't sure that I did because my eyes are dark brown and his nose was a lot smaller than mine. We both have a goatee, similar shaped eyes and the same kind of head shape. I reckon I'm bigger than him but our builds are alike too: short legs and broad shoulders with stocky arms. I suppose we could be cousins. The interesting thing is that one of Calamity's friends was good at associating certain types of faces to regions in the UK and also the continent. She reckoned mine was seen a lot in the Midlands, Sharon's from Scotland, Juki's in Ireland and Calamity's in Denmark. Just recently I underwent a DNA test to establish my heritage and it will be interesting to see what my lineage is. My mother reckoned that her father's family had some trace of Latin blood - we will see.

After Survivors I let Juki give me a moderate beating - I needed it and it was a chance to get her own back on me. I stripped off and took about thirty with the junior cane and about twenty or so with the studded leather paddle. Juki reckons that the paddle is worse but I think the cane is far more painful. Whilst I was lying on the bed being caned I thought of the prisoners in Malaysia who must really suffer when they take a really brutal judicial caning. I also gave a few whacks to Juki when the coin we tossed to see if she should came up tails. I also put some pegs on her nipples to see if she can endure nipple clamps. She is also going to shave her fanny and I shall be taking some more photos of her naked which she quite liked. We also talked about Calamity because I think Calamity may be bi-sexual and I would love to get the two girls playing together but that will probably remain just a fantasy. Juki would not only like to punish another woman but she would also submit to being beaten by one too - interesting.

Another thing is that I still keep wondering whether to invite the Minger round one night. I would love to give her bare back a really hard scratching (she quite liked blood being drawn) which she relishes. She's as ugly as hell but there is something sexy about her. God I'm weird.

Okay, time for a shave and a shower as it is Wednesday.

Thursday 11th February 2010: A Dream about Hitler - Blog

Woke up this morning after having had a dream in which I was sitting next to Hitler in a cinema. He was accompanied by skinheads on either side who were hanging on to every word he said. Out of the blue I turned to him and said: "You're not Hitler, you're doing a very good impression of him and I don't know what your motives are, because Hitler turned fifty in 1945 and that would make you a hundred and fifteen years old!" Hitler just smiled back at me. I got up out of my seat and ran down the aisle. As I did so I heard something drop - it was my gun and the bullets were spilled out everywhere. I didn't stop but the thought came into my mind that if I had to continue to fight it would be with a bow and some arrows. It was at this point as I ran out onto the street that the dream ended.

Changing the subject I popped into town yesterday and had a chat with a woman who used to be a regular passenger when I drove minibuses round Binstead. She told me that she had left her husband of twenty three years because she was fed up that his life revolved around the pub (agree on that one) and that she was forever at his beck and call. This all happened six months ago. We had a really good chat and I got the impression she would have liked to have met up for a coffee some when. She's reasonably attractive though does smell very strongly of stale tobacco - I don't mind women smoking but too much can be off putting. Later on I wondered what her naked body might look like, whether her fanny was shaved and also if she enjoyed being licked off. I don't change.

Whilst I was watching Cold Feet last night Ronan texted me to see if it was okay to pop up Sunday and go back home Monday as his wife is away. I told him it was okay but not sure whether Juki will be up to another beating by Sunday as I promised him, he could watch me cane her at some time. We'll see.

Friday 12th February 2010: Fantasies about Willow - Blog

Yesterday afternoon nipped out and took several photos of the town and seafront. I was disappointed not to catch any kite surfers but did get some good shots of St Cecilia's Abbey and the Appley Tower. I didn't realise how cold it was and even opening a thermos full of tea on a bench overlooking the Solent wasn't the usual simple pleasure. When I got back I loaded up the photos onto the computer and then did dinner. Juki texted to see if I wanted some company, but I declined as I felt rather weary. I shall probably catch her later today.

After dinner I made the mistake of putting on the news. It was really depressing. I can see us ending up in a war with Iran for starters but not only that it looks like we are going to end up bailing Greece out when we've got enough debt of our own thanks to greedy and irresponsible bankers and that profligate prick Brown. The other thing that really annoys me is that I've worked, with few breaks, since I was sixteen and now that I've left work through illness the fuckers don't want to give me a single penny. The best of it is they even had the audacity to tell me I may have to pay tax on the two hundred quid they reluctantly gave me. I suppose someone's got to pay for moat cleaning and the upkeep of duck houses! I'm okay for money for a good while but it still rankles with me that we reward the financially reckless and penalise the prudent. I'm still convinced that we have yet to see the worse of the recession and possibly another financial meltdown. Another trick I suspect 'Bankruptcy' Brown will try to pull is to dip into the pensions funds again, bonds (which will turn out to be next to worthless) will be issued against them to con us out of our nest eggs. In China they would have stuck the corrupt and incompetent cunt up against a wall and shot him long ago!

Talking of pricks I woke up with a really hard one this morning - not often that seems to happen nowadays. I was thinking and fantasising about Willow. Willow used to be a regular passenger on the buses years ago when I was with Sharon; when I was happy-ish and monogamous with Sharon. For some reason Willow really took a shine to me and one New Year's Eve, down the Cellar Bar, she attempted to snog me even though I was with Sharon at the time. I nearly weakened but Sharon dragged me away. Looking back I wish I had shagged her though she was married to a really nice fellow - and still is. Willow was a very attractive woman. She was tall, around about five foot eight, and facially resembled a younger version of how Twiggy looks now - if that makes sense. She was blue eyed, dark blonde, long limbed and quite slim. Her flesh was very sexy being golden tanned, slightly freckled and blessed with an abundance of small moles which I can find quite beguiling. I still see her around town from time to time with a couple of kids and still married to the same fellow - and yes she is still quite horny even though she must be middle to late forties. I sometimes wonder what would have happened had I responded to her advances. Would I have married her and had kids by her? It's all speculation but the funny thing is that I never fantasise about sadomasochism with her, it's all vanilla with her: giving her oral, massages and simple penetration. The last time I saw her was in the outside drinking area of the Black Sheep Bar in Union Street - ironically over the old Cellar Bar - when she was passing by and spotted her sister, who is the wife of an ex colleague, I was chatting to. She joined us and we both said hello. I wondered what she was thinking, perhaps: Thank fuck I never left my husband for him. He's turned into a right fat ugly cunt!

Saturday 13th February 2010: Brosnan, Bugner and Frazier - Blog

Yesterday Jeremy and I caught the bus over to Newport to meet up with Brosnan who was over on a flying visit to the Island. We set out early as Brosnan and Farrah, his wife, were intending getting the nine o'clock car ferry. Whilst on the bus Jeremy told me what he thought of politicians and governments: that they were all in it for themselves, were corrupt and were for the most part useless. So, I'm not the only one who thinks so highly of our honourable members.

Anyway, the two grumpy old men got to the Castle which is a lovely 'olde worlde' pub at the Carisbrooke end of Newport High Street, just after six. Brosnan was there with one of his mates Pel. Brosnan bought us a drink and then explained that Pel was getting divorced, though I'm sure Pel could have told us himself. I felt very sorry for Pel because underneath I could see he was hurting as he was definitely the quiet, stay at home, family type of man. Whilst we were standing at the bar I momentarily felt odd so suggested we all sit down. I feared that I was going to collapse and the last thing I wanted was the embarrassment of having an ambulance called. I didn't tell anyone that as I hate this condition. We all had a good chat about a range of subjects before Pel shot off to pick up his daughter. The topic then turned to relationships and step-children - both Jeremy and Brosnan have them. Both of them handle that minefield, in my opinion, very well as neither of them pretends to be a dad. When I was with Sharon it was one thing I could have handled better. Sharon used to moan about Sophie and when Sharon couldn't cope anymore I would sometimes intervene but then all of a sudden Sharon would then accuse me of interfering. I couldn't win. Ironically I got on really well with Sophie in the end.

Brosnan then reckoned that all three of us were predators who if we thought we could get away with it would shag around. He did say that he thought that if I had met the right one I would have stayed absolutely faithful - he's right as I would have done. Underneath I believe infidelity to be wrong though not my business to preach to others. Funny enough I don't believe Jeremy will stray as he and Amanda are really well suited. I hope not anyway. I get the feeling that Brosnan and Farrah will last too but not without the odd crisis as we're all getting too old for all this fucking around.

Farrah picked Brosnan up at about half eight so Jeremy and I made our way back to Newport Bus Station.

As we ambled down the street, and after the rather disconcerting episode in the pub, I looked at all the buildings, the night sky and the street lights and wondered how long I would be experiencing this construct of my mind - will it all soon be the free floating of nothingness?

The bus station was full of noisy chavs and 'chavettes' and as luck would have it most of them were getting the bus to Ryde. I said to Jeremy: "I can understand why the Muslims think we are decadent and that our society is ripe to be taken over."

Jeremy replied with a sigh: "How bad is it going to get?"

We boarded the bus but then moved seats shortly after it departed as the racket was horrendous. Whilst we were chatting this young girl in front of us turned round and agreed with us about the noise: "They're giving me a fucking headache, you used to be a bus driver, can't you say nuffing to 'em?"

"I'm not a bus driver anymore. Probably best to put up with it for now as there is a load of them and they may duff us all up!"

"They wouldn't duff me up!" she responded with bravado.

I wondered if there was going to be trouble, with me half hoping there would be. But instead we ended up chatting quite pleasantly with the girl who turned out to be actually twenty one. She was also very pretty with dark hair and lovely blue eyes and will be a heartbreaker - if she isn't one already.

We got back to Ryde and Jeremy and I opted for a quick pint in Wetherspoons before calling it a night. Whilst in 'Spoons we saw an old colleague, Bruce, in there with a few other work mates. We exchanged pleasantries and agreed to meet up for a meal sometime which I doubt will ever happen. The truth was that I wasn't paying much attention to the conversation as the two girls from the bus were sitting across from us. They had both removed their coats to reveal bare skin, sexy bare skin. The dark one had very pale flesh with some very beguiling small moles on her back and the strawberry haired one, though less pretty, was blessed with a very freckly complexion. I would have loved to spank either one of them naked. I can dream.

Whilst there I used the toilets and afterwards washing my hands I looked at myself in the mirror: grey thinning hair, tired looking and fat. What a state. I used to have a full head of curly auburn hair and was about four stone lighter, was quite toned and pretty fit and strong. I hate getting old and hate even more looking old!

Jeremy got himself a doner kebab and walked back to mine where we parted ways. I was back home at half nine.

Once in I loaded up my photos onto Flickr and when that was done logged onto YouTube. I watched a couple of music videos and then clicked in Joe Frazier versus Joe Bugner - the complete fight was on there. I have always been a fan of Joe Frazier, and Joe Bugner for a while too. I had never seen the whole fight, only clips, but what a contest it was. The twenty three year old Bugner stood toe to toe with one of the most fearsome boxers in history and gave him one of his toughest fights. We all know how good Frazier was but Bugner really was quite nimble with a very fast left jab, fit and durable - he could have been world champion. Frazier was given the decision but it was very close. The seventies really was the golden era of heavyweight boxing with Larry Holmes eventually reigning supreme. With the exception of Tyson at his peak and maybe Lennox Lewis there are very few since who could seriously challenge them.

This morning I put money on Southampton to beat Pompey, Wales to beat Scotland and France to beat Ireland. I shall probably dip out but it will make the afternoon more interesting.

Ronan is coming up tomorrow so it'll be good to see him. I'm hoping Juki may be up for some punishment as I think Ronan would like to see some action.

Tuesday 16th February 2010: Juki Beaten Again - Blog

Ronan travelled up from Brighton on Sunday and arrived about half two. We had a good chat and then walked to Quarr before catching the bus back to Ryde.

Just after six Juki turned up for her beating. I made her strip, blindfolded her and then ordered her to lie across the punishment stool. Ronan was not only there to witness but to learn because if anything happens to me I want somebody to take over her regular beatings. As she had only been punished at the beginning of the week I decided to be lenient. I gave her twenty with the leather paddle and fifteen with the cane. She got an extra one with the paddle after she cried out which is in breach of the conditions of the punishment. She took her beating well and after I gave her a cuddle. Ronan was also impressed with how stoically she took her chastisement.

Amanda and Jeremy turned up about half six and we had a meal at the Bombay Palace. The food was good but not as tasty as the Ryde Tandoori. We had a pleasant get together and a few laughs. Jeremy dropped us off at our houses around about half nine. Ronan and I watched the French film Camping Sauvage which was very good and then turned in about midnight.

Monday morning we had bacon sarnies and then watched another French film: Au Revoir Les Enfants. That was also good and worth watching too. We went up town and had some lunch prior to strolling along to Appley for yet more coffee! Ronan caught the catamaran back at 1445 - he'd had a good time and especially enjoyed watching Juki's beating.

In the evening though quite tired I walked round to Juki's for a roast beef dinner. It was delicious. She told me that she really needed a severe beating towards the end of the week as the one on Sunday wasn't quite enough. I will of course oblige. She also showed me her bruises which weren't that bad. She also showed me a little piece she had written about the thrashing I had administered previously and intended to post on IC. It was quite enlightening to see what was going through her mind whilst undergoing a caning.

When I got to bed I had a quick peruse through Gordon is a Moron by Vernon Coleman which Ronan had returned to me. It was written prior to Brown becoming PM and the financial crisis. It was really prophetic.

I got up this morning and felt quite tired so going to take it easy for a couple of days.

Wednesday 17th February 2010: Crying, the Scream and Death - Blog

I had lunch with Lulu yesterday. I wasn't going to as I felt weary but as I had to nip up town changed my mind and called into her shop where she is manageress. I have known Lulu since I was about seven as we attended the same junior school. It was quite a strict little school and we have often talked about the slipperings that were meted out on a regular basis - I thought they were excessive but was also fascinated by them.

That's all in the past.

Lulu has got quite a lot to worry about because not only has her partner lost his job recently but her son, Ray, has been diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease which is a cancer of the glands. The clear up rate for this form of cancer is very high but for some reason I feel very gloomy about his prospects and naturally I conveyed the exact opposite of what I felt to console her. I filled her in on the gossip in my life but not all the details which took her mind off things and I also took a photo of her. Lulu is quite a pretty woman but I never felt I had the chemistry with her. I could never love her. She's nice natured and can be fun to be with - she'll also do anything in bed to please a man. Whilst we were eating I thought briefly about the times I licked her out but it didn't do anything for me. When she dumped me, during extra time of the 2006 cup final, for Lennox, I felt far more relief than sadness.

Hopefully Ray will make a good recovery and in a few years she can retire to Jamaica with Lennox who is originally from there and enjoy her retirement in the sun. I walked her back to work and then popped into Somerfield to get some bits and pieces.

I spent the afternoon watching the remaining episodes of Cold Feet and ended up crying because it was so sad. In fact I ended up crying about everything: Mum, Sharon, James (I can't get hold of him). I was in a right state but fortunately I got a phone call from Tallulah which shook me out of it - she's so interesting and intelligent. We talked about the picture by Edvard Munch: The Scream, which has always fascinated me, and she speculated that the figure has much of a cadaver about it - interesting. I shall have to peruse it again.

I made the mistake of watching the news after Survivors - which I am rapidly getting bored with - to hear about more tragic loss of life in Afghanistan and the fact that inflation is rising - surprise, surprise. I wonder if that's a consequence of printing money. What do you think Gordon, you fucking warmongering, profligate, incompetent, lying, expense fiddling, arrogant, hypocritical, charisma challenged prick?!

I finally went to bed thinking about suicide. But I'll never do it, though the thought of death and oblivion bizarrely comforts me.

Thursday 18th February 2010: Going Bonkers over Strawberries and Cream - Memory

I am twelve years of age. I am sitting in a tea garden in Godshill Village on the Isle of Wight and I am going quietly bonkers. I am going quietly bonkers because I don't want anyone to know that I am going bonkers and because I've kind of got used to repressing weird and shameful thoughts.

I am surrounded by people who aren't bonkers though my mother does occasionally go bonkers from time to time; which is ironic because it is time, or the thought of time, that is making me go bonkers.

It is a sunny day in June and in front of me is a bowl of juicy strawberries with a large dollop of clotted cream on them. I am not eating them just yet because I am bathing in their reality.

"Don't you want them Matt? They weren't cheap you know."

The words slip into the river of time and begin to recede. I dig my spoon into the strawberries making sure that there is cream on them. I place them in my mouth and eat them as slowly as I can to slow down time though I know that it is futile - and they are delicious. I look at the bowl and realize that soon it will be virtually empty. The passing of time is driving me bonkers but maybe time will also release me from being bonkers too eventually.

"You're quiet. What are you thinking about?"

"Um, nothing, Mum."

I can't tell her because she'll think I'm bonkers but what I'm thinking is that there are all these people here in this tea garden and milling round the street and that not one of them is thinking that it is all bonkers. You see, it is the fact that everything, pleasant or unpleasant, passes. It means to me that nothing, good or bad, has any ultimate value and that to me is completely bonkers. What is the point of the world if nothing lasts? It's all completely bonkers.

I finish the bowl of strawberries and cream. Their reality is gone now.

We walk to the car park and I get in the car. I know that this moment in time is lost for ever.

My mother starts the car and we drive out of the carpark and onto the main road. As she does, I look ahead and focus on trees or bushes and attempt to slow down time so that we will never reach them. But we do, and then they too are in the past. I cannot hold onto the present. It is all bonkers.

I look across at my mother - she is completely oblivious to the fact that the passing of time is all bonkers. I ask myself a question: Is it me that is going bonkers or is it everybody else? I also ask myself another question: Why am I me and not somebody else? But then I realize that if I was somebody else, I would still be me.

We get home and I try not to think about time. I know the battle against going bonkers will be long and hard...

Friday 19th February 2010: Sordid Liaison with the Minging Slut - Slut Fiction

She is lying on my bed with her ugly face pushed into the pillows. Her fat and unsightly body is naked.

I am raking her bare back with my uncut nails - the minging slut craves that. Every time I run my nails hard along her pallid flesh she flinches with the pain but lets out ever increasing grunts of arousal. I intend to draw blood - I like to see little beads of crimson whether it is from nails, studded paddles or canes. I do not need to see rivers of blood, just a trickle for me to whet my appetite.

People think I am a nice person but it is merely a front to protect myself; and a ploy to lure the unsuspecting in. I love to see females suffer physically but there is also the exquisite gratification of watching them in emotional pain like dumping them the day after they have fallen in love with me - ecstasy! I build their little egos up with false attention and insincere flattery then, like a bored infant knocking over building blocks, I pull out the rug and watch them tumble to the ground savouring every last drop of their anguish. I am a cunt.

She is bleeding now and her back is becoming smeared with her blood. I suck my finger and taste the metallic tang.

"Turn over on your front."

She obeys.

She is the ugliest female I have ever fucked. Her features are lopsided and her left eye is opaque and blind. Her complexion is jaundiced and she has several age spots on her cheeks. Her nostrils remind me of a pit viper's and her lips sit at an odd angle. She is overweight and flabby too.

It is at this point that I want to slap her misshapen face hard but I resist the urge, instead I thrust my fingers into her soaking and smelly unwashed cunt. She gasps and momentarily arches her back. I then grab her tit roughly squeezing it till she asks me to stop - it makes me smile when she registers pain across her uneven features. I begin to circle my thumb around her clit - she likes that - and knead the nipple of her large saggy left breast. Her lips are slightly apart and bring my head down to kiss them. Her breath is rancid so I do not linger but instead suck and bite her right nipple. Her breathing intensifies till she finally heaves and gives herself to orgasm. I feel the contractions of her cunt and thrust hard, thrust hard to hurt. She cries out and then slumps exhausted back onto the mattress.

I look at her with a kind of contempt and speculate that this is as good as her pathetic little life gets; she is an ageing single mother on benefits living in a shit hole she can't afford to repair and the only fellow, who had convinced her that 'beauty is only skin deep' but maybe not himself, betrayed her with a gold digger who subsequently took him for his savings. I guess I'm no better: a sad middle aged bastard in a run-down town preying on vulnerable woman.

"Do you want to fuck me?" she offers.

"Na, just rub my nipples whilst I wank myself off."

She twists into my body and brings her fat moley arms across my chest. I grab hold of my cock and start rubbing it. She briefly snogs me and then pulls back a little. As I become more turned on I become aware of the pungent cocktail of her body odours: her bad breath, the fishiness of her cunt, and perhaps a trace of stale urine from her unchanged and holey knickers. Her over-large tits hang over me and I notice the stretch marks for the first time. I glance down at her pot belly with the large unsightly mole on it and her unkempt pubic hair that is the colour of a sewer rat; she really is fucking repulsive but I really do need to climax.

I quickly reach the point of no return - the slut knows to how to massage my nipples I'll give her that - and I 'whiteout' with orgasm with my last vision of her fat white arm across me, and then fall back spent onto the bed.

I thank her but all I want for her to do is go; she has served her purpose now.

She brings her face into mine and as she does her unattractive rust dyed hair falls into my eyes making them water. She sweeps it back and then gently kisses me on the lips. I feel briefly like vomiting but manage to fight the impulse.

"Just like old times eh, we should do this more often. I've often thought about you over the years."

"It was good to see you too, never thought this was going to happen. See you next Friday?" I reply. It's kind of a Homer Simpson moment.

We have a cup of tea before she goes. I quickly write the account up of our sordid little encounter and then post it on a website; it excites me to do so, to let people in on my dirty little life and my weird sexuality.

I close the computer down and then walk up town to go shopping, a sad and perverted middle aged man in a downbeat little town extracting all the depravity he can whilst his life, money and health run out like the grains of sand in an hourglass...

Monday 22nd February 2010: Juki's Harshest Beating Yet - Blog

Saturday evening and just after half past seven.

Juki is naked in front of me and very apprehensive - she is to receive thirty hard whacks with the studded leather paddle followed by thirty strokes of the cane.

A part of me does not want to do this. A part of me does not like hurting women - a part of me. Sometimes though one has to be cruel to be kind.

I attach a peg to each of her pink nipples. She flinches.

"I'm going to wash my hands and then I'll be back to punish you. If you remove the pegs I will give you two extra strokes with each implement. I see you have shaved your fanny. Good."

I instructed her to do that over a week ago and if she hadn't then she would also have received extra strokes for that small act of disobedience too.

I return to the room and remove the pegs. She lets out a little sigh of relief. But the real pain is just about to begin.

"Do you love me?" I ask, matter-of-factly.

"Yes."

"I do not love you."

"I understand."

I move closer to her and hiss in her ear: "I am really going to hurt you now."

Do I detect a tremor?

"Lie across the punishment stool."

She complies and I slip the leather blindfold over her eyes. She is ready now for her chastisement.

I pick up the leather paddle and savour her pale unmarked buttocks for a moment before bringing it down hard upon her left cheek. A loud 'thwack' echoes around the room and I notice that the flesh is already reddening - how satisfying.

I have elected to allow twenty to thirty seconds to elapse between each stroke such that the pain will not have fallen away completely before the next agonizing blow - her suffering will be exquisite.

She takes another twenty nine delivered alternately on each cheek. I watch her naked left leg rise briefly from time to time as she struggles to come to terms with the pain. She only cries out once - she fears extra strokes as I have commanded her to suffer in silence - when I hit her with full force. I begin to admire her courage.

Her buttocks are red and sore and I espy two pinpricks of blood - but that will not save her from the cruel bite of the cane.

I listen to the whoosh of the cane and the crack when it lands on bare flesh and wonder how it must have felt for miscreants in the old days to hear the cane swish split seconds before the agony seared into them. I wonder also what must be going through her mind, what I am impacting into her mind.

She is stoical but I suspect close to breakdown - I know she is counting down each burning blow.

I reach twenty nine and for the last one I hit her as hard as I can - she yelps.

"Okay darling it is over."

I help her trembling and naked body to her feet and remove the blindfold.

"Thank you," she says, her voice breaking.

I take her in my arms and cuddle her. She begins to sob. I stroke her hair and hold her tight.

"Is it the pain?"

"The pain releases repressed memories. Crying helps me."

I say nothing and just hug her for ten minutes till the tears begin to subside. I guide her into the bedroom where she lies face down on my bed.

"Rest a while."

After a bit I get her to turn over and then cuddle her again. I massage her and feel genuine concern for her.

"I needed that. I really did. You make me feel wanted. I feel so close to you when you beat me. As though I matter. It is so hard to explain."

"I do not love you, but I am very fond of you and care about you. I want to take some photos of you now, of your buttocks and cunt."

"I love it when you do that too."

"One day I will take you out to the Long Stone and beat you naked in the open air with the risk of being caught. Are you up for that?"

"Yes."

She will do anything for me - it will be hard for me now not to push her to the limit, maybe over. But for tonight a coffee and a film beckon...

Friday 5th March 2010: 52 Hard Strokes for Juki - Blog

As I compose this Juki is recuperating on my bed. I have just given her 31 hard whacks with the leather paddle and 21 strokes of the new cane.

Punishment was commenced at 20:15 when she presented herself naked for correction. She was ordered to kneel across the punishment stool after inspecting her body to make sure she was shaved to my satisfaction - extra strokes would have been administered had she not.

I elected to play Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No.2 for the session.

She received 31 swats with the studded leather paddle alternately pretty much on each buttock - it was clearly painful but she took it well with only mild whimpers and could also remember the correct number of strokes.

I then administered another 21 strokes of the new cane - I ensured that each stroke 'whooshed' to ensure the requisite level of pain.

Despite outward registration of pain she managed to stay composed during the beating.

Once the beating was over I helped her to her feet and then gave her a cuddle - there was only a brief moment of sobbing and I conveyed to her how brave she was. She thanked me for beating her. I then took her out on the landing to cool off whilst I took some photos of her abrasions.

I then put my arm round her and guided her to my bedroom where she is lying down and reflecting about her submission to me.

ETA: She has returned to the lounge having had a little cry and feeling a lot better for being punished.

Friday 12th March 2010: Why Can Clever People be So Stupid at Times? - Blog

Intelligent people scare me - they always have. Deep down, maybe not that deep down, I don't trust people as sooner or later they will either shaft me or hurt me. It's not a good way to go through life and I've modified it to an innocent-till-proven-guilty strategy as that seems to cause less friction. I have in the past adored, worshipped and totally trusted several women - none had my best interest at heart and it destroyed what little faith in humanity I had. What I craved for more than anything was a woman who loved and understood me and for me to love her back with all my heart. I thought I had that for a while and it made me very happy to walk, as it were, through the 'Valley of the Shadow of Death' and fear no evil. I am now, as you know, shivering in the penumbra again.

I also take no pride (though sometimes an inexplicable twisted delight) in admitting that I have let down and hurt others who have trusted and loved me. I can be dangerous.

I have digressed. Sorry.

So, I am wary of people to say the least and my philosophy is to get hurt or ripped off as less as possible - there is no final victory in life so postpone losing as long as you can. But who are the people most likely to do you the maximum of damage?

Is it the burglar or car thief? Having your property broken into or your car stolen isn't nice but most people have insurance and get their lives back pretty quickly.

Is it a murderer? Your chances of getting murdered are very tiny, so horrible but highly unlikely.

Or is it the lawyer who charges you the earth and still manages to lose most of your house?

What about the National Health dentists who decades ago performed totally unnecessary fillings on children to claim millions off the taxpayer?

What about the global warming scam? Is that money going to be paid back?

Perhaps the hacker who siphons thousands out of your account?

What about somebody like Tony Blair who has made millions out of his position yet his policies have bankrupted the nation and cost the taxpayer billions?

The scientists and technologists who develop weapons of mass destruction?

And what do all these people have in common? Answer: they're intelligent, educated, articulate and fucking dangerous.

Most people would run a mile from a Del Boy or an Arthur Daley but we all fall for the 'integrity' and 'sincere' tones of the man in the suit in the practice with the professional qualifications on the wall in gilt frames.

I think I have kind of made my point but there is something else I want to draw your attention to.

How can clever people be so stupid at times? I mean, why could a twat like me see the financial crisis coming years ago and yet someone like Gordon Brown who apparently has an awesome I.Q. and an in depth knowledge of economics couldn't?

Why could a twat like me see that global warming was a scam?

Why could a twat like me see that the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were going to be a tragic disaster yet John Reid - Doctor John Reid no less - claim that no lives were going to be lost?

Why could a twat like me see that these wars were going to lead to terrorism and yet Tony Blair highly educated with again an awesome intelligence couldn't?

Why can a twat like me see that we are heading for times of great hardship when all the politicians are claiming we are out of recession?

Why?

Okay, time for a couple of tales.

I'll be honest I struggled at school even though I passed the 11+ exam. I always performed poorly and in the first two years at Grammar School the best I ever achieved for term work was second from bottom and for exams, twentieth out of twenty seven - Gordon Brown, hot house; Matt Triewly, dog house.

In 1970 the school became comprehensive and they stopped reading out the results in assembly - about the only good thing I can say about the comprehensive system. Anyway the only subjects I found interesting were Chemistry and History though I sometimes used to like composing essays for English Language. The education system seemed to be largely a waste of time for most children and an even bigger waste of money for the taxpayer. I still think it is now.

Because the only subject I was good at was Chemistry I decided that the best career (note how career sounds so much better than job!) for me was in the Civil Service as a Scientist. I struggled to get five O'Levels after two attempts and then after a bit I managed to land a position as an Assistant Scientific Officer.

For a while I had visions of a slow but steady rise through the ranks. I also used to imagine me coming in to start the day in a smart blue suit greeting the junior staff with a cheery 'morning' before pushing back the frontiers of mankind's knowledge, which would of course lead to Utopia...

Crap.

The actual position entailed analyzing engine oil samples from helicopters. Basically we determined the amount of wear metal by using an Atomic Absorption Spectrometer. If the wear metals began to rise too fast then it would suggest that vital bearings were about to break up. It gave advance warning of catastrophic engine failure which not only saved pilot's lives, it also saved millions of pounds for the taxpayer.

I was quite proud of my job and I thought I was good at it. I was good at it in actual fact because I was conscientious and accurate. But the head of department took me aside one day and informed me that I wasn't going anywhere because I lacked ambition and drive. I responded that I did everything I was asked to do. He then told me that I didn't show enough interest in the rest of the department. I explained that I was taught to respect boundaries and not to poke my nose in where it wasn't wanted. It was to no avail.

The boss was a highly educated man who only failed to attain his PhD because a fire destroyed his work before he could submit it. He was basically a decent fellow but he didn't suffer fools gladly. He was also a bit of a snob and looked down on the working classes. Naturally he was a socialist and voted Labour.

The upshot of this encounter was that he wanted me to undergo an I.Q. test - the other members of the department had taken it so I couldn't really refuse. I took the accursed test and my I.Q. was measured at 105. It was higher than the man in the street but the lowest in the department. Shades of Grammar School and end of term assemblies.

I felt humiliated and my confidence never recovered. I also failed an exam at college. In truth my career was over before it had even started but what could I do? I soldiered on and tried to make the best of things. I was not yet twenty, unable to get a girlfriend because I was plain, spotty, big nosed and skinny, and to boot my professional dreams were shattered. I did think about suicide.

I eventually left the establishment much to my colleagues' relief but not before a few rather satisfying incidents which consoled me a little.

As I explained earlier my job - which a trained monkey could do according to my immediate boss - was to analyse oil samples from helicopter engines to pick up excessive wear and prevent system failure. One type of engine was prone to aviation fuel seeping into the lubrication system. If too much did then an engine fire was a possibility. It was due to a design fault on a seal which was being looked into. In the meantime we were to sniff each oil sample and then determine how much fuel as a percentage was in the system - if it was more than ten percent then the oil system was to be drained and then replenished with new oil. After a while one could guess just by sniffing what the level was. If not, we would distil some of the oil and determine it more scientifically.

One day I came into work and the boss was absolutely incandescent. An engine had burst into flames and it was thought the cause was fuel seepage.

"I want to find out who analysed these samples and didn't check for contamination. What are we doing paying good money to these retards who can't even be bothered to do the job properly!" the boss had ranted before storming into his office slamming the door behind him, and probably more concerned about how this would affect his career rather than any safety issues.

I said to the fellow who worked with me analysing oil samples who was even lower than me in the hierarchy: "I don't think we're retards, and I know you are conscientious just like me. Something isn't right here."

A few minutes later the boss emerged and ordered me: "I want you to dig out every oil sample from this engine, determine how much fuel was in each, and more importantly I need to know who was responsible. I'm considering disciplinary action."

Sure enough I rechecked the samples and discovered who had analysed them - not one had me or my colleague been responsible for. They all had above levels of fuel in with the last one being well over the safety level. The last one I had real trouble in finding out who had done it because the record card had gone missing - surprise, surprise. I persevered in my search and eventually found it - the last oil sample had been analysed by the boss's blue eyed boy. Result or what!

Because we were a seven day a week facility other staff member of the lab would work weekends analysing samples - 'trained monkeys' on double time and expenses. In the rush to get away for sailing or golf they had failed to perform the job to the standard of the 'retards'. I felt totally vindicated. Of course no disciplinary charges were levelled against the blue eyed boy but for the sake of appearances we were all called in to listen to the boss give us a pep talk on the importance of vigilance. At the end of the talk the boss turned to me and said: "You look like you have something to say?"

"Yeah, I was just wondering what we are doing paying good money to these retards who can't even do the job properly."

The boss looked daggers at me and then stormed out. I felt like I had just scored the winning goal for England in the World Cup.

Not so long after the boss challenged me to a game of chess. We went through a phase of playing chess during the dinner hour and had a chess ladder. Despite my low I.Q. I could hold my own and while never top I was never bottom either. The boss possessed a very high I.Q. and obviously felt he could thrash me - the 'retard' remark had rankled with him and it was only fitting that I be put in my place. I agreed to the challenge and looking back it was Mensa versus Denser.

We commenced play and there was no doubt that he was very clever - he set up some very subtle traps for me which it took a lot of concentration to suss out and then avoid. In fact he spent all his time scheming on them whilst I carefully set up my attack. It was a real shock to him when I announced, "check mate".

"That was a fluke. I'll play you again!"

He played me again and it was the same pattern - I won. This time he was absolutely livid.

"Put your lab coat back on and get back to work - NOW!"

He spent the afternoon in his office sulking. I had now equalled Geoff Hurst.

His weakness of course was that he couldn't see the bigger picture - depth reduces field of view. Is it more desirable to have less resolution and 180 degree vision or to be focused with tunnel vision? I'm putting it simplistically but I think there may be something in it. I have another speculation about this but I will leave that for another day. Okay, one more World Cup goal...

The fellow who was my immediate boss wasn't that keen on me and he often treated me like shit - dressing me down in front of others when he should have taken me to one side. I really needed to get him back. And I did.

The main laboratory was the largest section of the establishment with the smaller offices radiating round it. There was a lot of equipment humming with cooler fans and ticking over. We would finish work at a quarter to five and just a few minutes before that time I would switch everything off. The boss wouldn't allow it to be turned off too early so as to create the impression with his superiors that we were an establishment always ready for everything. I noticed that as soon as I turned everything off my boss, like Pavlov's Dog, would get into his motorcycle waterproofs, put his helmet on and then shoot off. My boss if the big boss was away would come in late and go home early but the week previous, he had been driving out of the yard only to be caught by the big boss - he had been bollocked, and everyone knew he had been bollocked too. This one afternoon I waited for the big boss to go and visit some big wig and when he did I clicked off all the instruments - it was twenty past four. My boss fell for it, put on his wet weather gear and left the lab about twenty five minutes before he should have. Once he had gone I switched back on all the instruments. A few minutes later the big boss returned and asked where my boss was.

Dishonesty isn't really a part of me. "I think he's gone home," I said.

He was called into the big boss's office the next day first thing. I didn't laugh. Much.

Sunday 14th March 2010: Four Letters and an Apostrophe - Short Emotional Tale

Four letters and an apostrophe...

The thought began to tragically take form in her mind...

The ramp of the Chain Ferry, also known locally as the Floating Bridge, clattered and scraped metallically as it lowered onto the concrete slipway. Immediately a handful of passengers hurried off the vessel and stepped onto the land of West Cowes. She heard the engine of a car rev up and then pass her as she made her away along Bridge Road. Two other cars followed and then there was a kind of pause. She heard a seagull shriek and then listened to a pennant flapping from the mast of a distant yacht. She discerned the faint footsteps of people on the pavement as they walked towards the centre of the town.

She glanced up. The sky was a beautiful blue. She felt the gentle breeze tickle her face and softly blow strands of her hair across her forehead. On this day she was more aware of what it was to be alive than any other day. She attempted paradoxically to conceive the inconceivable: nothingness, oblivion.

She reached down into her coat pocket - the photo was safely still there.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

Three quarters of the way along Medina Road she halted. It was the spot where the photo had been taken.

She slipped the picture out of her pocket and turned to face the road she had just walked along. The picture was dog eared and had been taken nearly two and a half decades ago. She held the photo in her right hand at arm's length - she needed to see what he had seen all those years ago.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

The photo showed a young woman in a halter neck top with a short skirt on a sunny day. The woman though smiling looked serious. She was an attractive, though not beautiful, woman with long curly auburn hair, neat featured with big blue eyes. She was slim yet large breasted, and she could understand why he would want to take a photo of this woman. It was of course, her.

She remembered him standing outside the entrance of the drawing office, where they both worked, camera in hand. He had been waiting for her, waiting for her in the early morning summer sun. She hadn't stopped to pose for him but had carried on walking. She had been flattered but had felt a little uncomfortable with his attention; she dressed to attract attention but not his attention.

She recalled him as being nice, mildly witty, kind - and harmless. He was friendly and only ever asked her out once, but she had politely declined and he had taken it on the chin. She had felt a little bit bad about hurting him but they had become friends and would sometimes meet up for a coffee.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

Physically he was average looking, of average build, of average height. His features were neat but boring, his views conservative with a small c. He could be funny and generous, but he never did anything for her; he was the kind of guy a husband or boyfriend never minded you meeting. She sought more. And she got it.

Rob was tall, dark and in possession of smouldering good looks. He was fiercely intelligent with a buccaneering approach to the world. He had set up a small engineering consultancy fresh out of university, taken on and taken out some of the big boys; he wasn't just going places, he was the place.

He had picked her up in the Ryde Queen - an old paddle steamer converted into a nightclub and moored along the River Medina - swept her off her feet and married her in six weeks. He had taken her around the world as he negotiated contracts and secured work. He borrowed recklessly but the risks always paid off - handsomely. When they had returned to the Island it wasn't just with suntans - she was pregnant. He rented out a quaint little cottage near Osborne House for her and then took off to take on the rest of the world again.

He was away when she gave birth to his daughter. He came back two weeks later; and something had changed. She plonked the baby in his arms.

"It's not mine, neither of us have red hair."

She thought he had been joking but he handed her back.

"I'm leaving you, and you'll have to move out. I've lost everything. I'm bankrupt," he added flatly.

He then walked out pulling the door quietly behind him. She then placed the baby - which was his - in the cot, sank to her knees and cried till the early hours. She was just twenty, and now a single parent. She would never see Rob again, and nor would her daughter.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

The council set her up in a house in Vectis Road; she hated it there but what could she do? She struggled to get by on benefits and would sometimes help at a bar for cash in hand whilst her parents would baby sit. It was a miserable existence and she would constantly think back to when she travelled the world...

Then one day she got a knock on the door. It was Tony from the drawing office, the drawing office she had left when she had married Rob. She had been genuinely pleased to see him; he was a nice man. She didn't fancy him and never would, but she felt fondness for him. He started popping round on a regular basis and would take her and the little one out in his car at weekends. It kind of surprised her when they ended up in bed; she never thought she could sleep with a man she neither loved nor fancied but with her eyes closed, she could imagine it was Rob, wildly passionate Rob...

Four letters and an apostrophe...

It had made sense when they had brought a three-bedroom house in Hefford Road. Tony had steadily progressed at work and was on a good income. He had been kind and perhaps more importantly patient, with her daughter as she grew up. They had got married after three years but despite Tony's desire to have children together she had refused. The problem was that she couldn't stop thinking about Rob. She had made discrete inquiries about him from time to time; apparently, he had got through his bankruptcy and was now in employment. He also had another wife and a couple of kids. That had hurt.

The years became decades and her daughter left home to train as a nurse. She now had a job in the local hospital as an administrator and Tony had progressed to a career in Computer Aided Design for which he was remunerated generously. They were on the face of it quite comfortable.

She should have been happy; but she wasn't. Underneath she still craved to be swept off her feet, shown the world and shagged senseless by a gorgeous man: a man such as Rob had been, and Tony wasn't.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

The problem was that despite his loyalty, his generosity, his reliability, Tony bored her. He was never spontaneous in his actions and never passionate, even his surprises were predictable; she always knew what he would buy her for a birthday, always knew where he would take her for a celebratory meal. Sex was the same.

Sometimes she would stroll past her old council house in Vectis Road to view the 'scrap heap of society' as she condescendingly referred to it and convince herself that she was a lucky person to have escaped that fate by meeting Tony. After a while that didn't work; she could still have got out of it she rationalized.

This slow death by boredom had prompted her to question the marriage; she was forty-four and felt eighty-four.

Four letters and an apostrophe...

It had all come to a head.

"What do you want from me? I've been totally faithful; I've always provided for you. I don't knock you around, I don't drink, I'm careful with money and I've looked after your daughter as though she was mine." And for the first time he raised his voice to her: "WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?!"

She hesitated before dropping the bombshell.

"I don't love you."

Four letters and an apostrophe...

His mouth had dropped open and she thought he was going to speak but instead he had soundlessly swivelled on his feet and walked out into the cold February evening. It was the second time a man had walked out on her.

After forty-eight hours he still hadn't returned; she had become concerned for him. From the day they had moved in together he had never spent a night away; it was two nights now. She phoned the police. And within thirty minutes an officer was at her door.

"Earlier this morning a yachtsman discovered the body of a man washed up on the sides of the River Medina by The Folly Inn. We believe the body to be that of your husband."

For some reason she had remembered the photo taken all those years ago by Tony - she had kept it in a drawer because shortly after she had met Rob. But now, but now she realized with tragic insight that Rob was just a fantasy; her feelings for Tony had never percolated into her thoughts. She had been blinded by an impossible dream.

I don't love you.

Four letters and an apostrophe had murdered a man. A good man. A kind man. A loving man. She had wielded that word, consisting of four letters and an apostrophe, as effectively as an assassin with a knife.

"I do love you," she mumbled dreamily in the street.

She slid the picture back into her pocket and saw that the sun was low in the sky. It occurred to her that if she kept walking west then the sun would never set on her. She turned and headed west towards the town. Once through the town Gurnard would be next, Yarmouth, Lymington, Bournemouth, Devon, Cornwall, America...

Four letters and an apostrophe...

Tuesday 16th March 2010: Star Trek: the Next De-Generation - Piss Take

Captains Log (Picard Voiceover): The Enterprise is on a routine mission to the Planet of the Clangers which is a planetoid sparsely populated by humanoid type life forms. Star Fleet's wish is to welcome the peace loving and gentle Clangers into the Federation and offer them a lucrative contract for them to supply chicken soup to passing ships. Perhaps in time we will establish a permanent cultural mission on the planet. Obviously in these early tentative approaches tact and diplomacy are paramount but the task is well within our professional capacity... mind you... I'm a little worried about some of the crew... for instance there's Wesley... so obviously besotted with Deanna Troy on the one hand but exhibiting mild hostility to Worf on the other - I'm concerned that his previously high standard of work is going to suffer. Then there's Riker, he's so petulant and he doesn't think I heard him whisper after I'd accidentally walked into one of the sliding doors yesterday whilst entering the bridge: "To BALDLY go where no man has gone before... fills you with fucking confidence when you're travelling at seven times the speed of light." Still, never mind, I'm above all this... I think I'll nip down to the holo-deck for a bit of intellectual stimulation. End log.

The holo-deck about fifteen minutes later: Picard's face is a picture of contentment. The view-screen flicks on. Data's face appears - he looks anxious.

DATA: Sorry to disturb you Captain but a strange energy field is obstructing our course.

PICARD: (business like) Say no more Data, I'll be with you immediately.

DATA: Captain... uh, is that (screen blinks off) quite wise?

Captain Jean Luke Picard strides purposefully through the fluorescently lit and gentle curving corridors of the ship. His expression is one of practised grim determination however, passing crew members, initially astonished, struggle to stifle giggles.

The Bridge: The automatic doors slide open with a characteristic hiss. Picard emerges in true dramatic fashion and then bewildered as the bridge personnel strain, and some fail, not to break into laughter.

PICARD: (Turning to Riker) What is the source of all this mirth Number One?

RIKER: (With a smirk on his face) You've left your bondage gear on sir.

PICARD: (Reddening rapidly) Yes... um... uh.

DATA: (Interjecting in a factual tone) Bondage: A peculiar sexual deviation whereby gratification is derived...

PICARD: (Breaking in) That's quite enough Data... thank you.

DATA: (In full flow and not to be denied showing off his encyclopaedic knowledge) ... by the wearing of restrictive clothing commonly fabricated from...

PICARD: (angrily shouting) SHUT UP DATA! (returning to normal authoritative mode) Now then, what's this unknown force?

DATA: (Unfazed) Quite extraordinary sir, the energy field appears to consist of millions of tiny heliocentric particles which are gradually drawing us to the core of the effect.

PICARD: Enlarge the image Data.

The screen expands to reveal countless thousands of dancing, pulsating, golden swastikas bathing the bridge in an eerie yellow glow.

PICARD: (Gasps) My God! It's a Nazi metamorphic force field... like the one that engulfed parts of the Earth during the nineteen thirties... and we're being sucked in... I want the engines maximum warp speed in reverse... NOW! ... this is an emergency.

A large clank resounds throughout the ship as the engines falter and then grind to a halt.

GEORDIE: (In futile desperation) The engines... I can't believe it... they've failed.

PICARD: (Through gritted teeth) Fucking Skugos... I told Star Fleet they were crap but no they wouldn't listen... (Collects himself and adopts a Churchillian posture and addresses crew) We must all steel ourselves for the dark period that lies ahead. To stand alone, once again, resisting the evil of Fascism is our duty... nay... our cosmic destiny. Let us not be found wanting.

Stirring rhetoric, imminent danger - not one word is uttered, the bridge is silent and still. A whizzing sound punctuates the quiet. The crew swivel to see a nipple clamp, having worked itself loose from the Captain's garb, fly through the air, strike Riker on the cheek and then drop tinnily onto the deck.

The Enterprise is irrevocably drawn into the zone. Strange malevolent forces transform the ship and all contained within.

The star ship is now liveried in Field Gray and blazoned across the superstructure is the name, RICHTOFEN. Within the vessel the stirring and stridency of German Marching Music has become all pervading. The crew have all taken on Nazi personas... except for Geordie who by a quirk of Chaos Theory has assumed the form of Stevie Wonder.

PICARD: (Resplendent in the uniform of a Field Marshall turns to his Science Officer and speaks in a German accent) Herr Data, how long can ve expect this magnificent effect to last?

DATA: I estimate a minimum of vone hour before ze effect wears off sir! (clicks heels together)

PICARD: Let us hope there is yet sufficient time to carry out the aspirations of our Glorious Fatherland... yes... the complete annihilation of Planet Clanger and its parasitic, veak and sub human species. (Addressing an out of frame subordinate) Get me Von Worf!

The Richtofen (Enterprise) speeds to Planet Clanger and then places itself in orbit.

The Bridge: Field Marshall Picard can be seen consulting his trusty security officer, Von Worf.

PICARD: Vorf, ve have it is estimated no more than twenty minutes to vipe out ze vermin...

WORF: (Matter-of-fact) Redirecting all available power into ze lasers and proton torpedos and then systematically sweeping the planet... I calculate fifteen minutes.

PICARD: (Rubbing his hands gleefully) Excellent, excellent... (Catches sight of Geordie, sporting dark sunglasses and clutching the Stevie Wonder Song Book, in the process of manoeuvring a piano into the lift)

PICARD: (Suspiciously) Vot are you doing Engineer?

GEORDIE: (Thinking quickly) I thought perhaps a little Wagner to inspire us all?

PICARD: (Completely taken in) Ah... how appropriate for an occasion such as this... (Sighs contentedly)

GEORDIE: (Muttering under his breath) Hope there's enough power left for the speakers.

On the small planet's surface destruction rains down upon the stunned Clangers and between explosions and high pitched shrieking can be discerned the cheerful tunes of Stevie Wonder - for many of the inhabitants their last recollection, before a fiery vaporisation, is that of 'You Are The Sunshine Of My Life' or 'Isn't She Lovely'.

Swiftly all is reduced to a smouldering charred mass - surely not a living creature could have survived: genocide is complete, absolute.

The Bridge: Picard surveys his handiwork and that of his loyal Nazi crew through the view-screen.

PICARD: (Exuding twisted satisfaction) Wunderbar, Wunderbar...

The Marching Music begins to fade; the uniforms revert to those of Star Fleet and the Teutonic accents are lost. Wails of remorse begin to rise and then self-recrimination as the crew realise the enormity of the crime and their complicity in it. How could it happen? Other voices ask. Have we learnt nothing? More questions.

PICARD: (Sombre, picks up the mike and broadcasts throughout the Enterprise) You are all aware of the terrible atrocity we have just committed against innocent beings...

Everywhere heads are hung low.

PICARD: (Continues with gravitas) Their blood... the blood of our fellow creatures will forever stain our hands... the guilt... that oppressive and unrelenting millstone... I will turn the ship round and surrender ourselves to the authorities... (He sees himself in the dock sentenced to life imprisonment... no more holo-deck stimulation... ever)

PICARD: (Mumbles almost imperceptibly to himself) No more holo-deck... (Collects himself) ... right... let's get the hell out of here before anyone realises it was us... we can blame it on that Romulan ship that was in the sector... and I'll lynch any fucker who breathes a word of this to anyone outside.

Virtually every crew member nods in assent.

PICARD: (To ensign) Warp Factor nine!

The Enterprise accelerates smoothly and effortlessly.

PICARD: (Turns and addresses Riker who is distractedly probing a tender area on his cheek) The old Nazis may have had a bit of a bad press when it came to human rights but, let's be honest, their engineering skills were second to none... just listen to those engines purr...

An hour later:

COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER: Captain Picard, there's an urgent message from Commodore Wright of Star Fleet Command.

PICARD: (Still in bondage gear) Put him on screen.

COMMODORE WRIGHT: (Screws up his face in puzzlement for a moment and then speaks strongly with a voice not dissimilar to Gene Hackman) Good God Picard! What on earth are you wearing?

PICARD: (Stuttering) Ah... yes... um... it's a special support for my slipped disc... sir.

The bridge staff, as one, raise their eyes skyward.

COMMODORE WRIGHT: Anyway, I haven't contacted you just to check on your dress code... Picard, we have unconfirmed reports of a massacre of genocidal proportions on Clanger Planet. You were heading in that direction on a minor mission... did you see anything? Can you shed any light on what happened? Why on earth would anyone want to slaughter the peace loving gently Clangers? What kind of sick and deranged mind is out there?

PICARD: We did pass a Romulan ship...but then we broke down... Geordie managed to fix us.

COMMODORE WRIGHT: (With an expression of I-know-you're-bullshitting-me) Hmm... well let me know if anything comes to light. Now then, something more important has come up - a time hole has opened up close to earth. We have sent some ships to investigate but it may help if you attend... you never know in a situation like that.

PICARD: We'll set a course immediately sir.

COMMODORE WRIGHT: You sure you don't know anything about this massacre... be just like you bunch of clowns to loose off a proton torpedo by mistake.

PICARD: I can assure you sir we had nothing to do with it.

As the Commodore cuts off the communication Picard turns to the crew - they are all pulling rictus grins.

Just below the razed surface of Clanger Planet a pile of rubble begins to tumble. A head and neck emerge from the debris - it is the Soup Dragon. He surveys the dreadful carnage wreaked by the Enterprise and its crew. His friends, his only friends, are all dead. He vows revenge and like his chicken soup it will not be a dish served cold...

Monday 22nd March 2010: I've Been Sold a Fucking Lemon - Blog

Today, I believe in God.

I have too much time to reflect yet I fear that there is too little time. I have wasted my life. I have hurt too many - far too many. I am wracked with guilt. I do not and cannot believe what others believe.

This is what I believe: Happiness is an illness and depression is enlightenment, the first step to true freedom: the freedom not to be.

I believe that health is merely illness deferred and that life is death postponed.

We live in the vain hope of a tomorrow that never arrives: the future is today; tomorrow never comes.

We love in order to lose and the greatest curse is the will to live.

Trust nobody and you will save your wealth but lose your soul. Trust everybody and you will still lose your soul.

Everything is borrowed in this world; ownership is merely control.

It has been said that all property is theft but whom are we thieving from but other thieves?

No desire can be truly satisfied; the Buddha was right all along.

Do not love and do not hurt. Do not love and do not live. How exquisite is the dilemma.

Suffering or oblivion: the final choice.

Life. I want my money back. I have been sold a lemon.

And I was never given a choice to buy or not to buy.

Wednesday 24th March 2010: Juki to be Beaten Friday - Blog

At 8 o'clock for those that are interested.

It's actually going to be a really tough one for her because the number of strokes is being upped from 52 to 60 and each one is going to be administered with full force.

It will be: 20 with the leather studded paddle, 20 with the 'obedience' spoon and 20 with the cane.

She will of course be naked and blindfolded.

I suspect she will opt for our old favourite Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No. 2 to accompany her suffering.

I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

Results of Genealogy Test - Blog

Found out the results of my DNA testing today and though I need to study it in more depth I discovered that the greatest number of people who were closest to me genetically lived in the Netherlands... with ze vindmills and ze clogs.

The nations that followed closely behind were Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Germany - not many in England or the UK as a whole.

There was a slight trace of Turkish but that was it really.

Mymother was wrong about the Italian connection despite me having brown eyes - my lineage is heavily Northern European.

Interesting.

Thursday 1st April 2010: The Day my Grandfather Died - Memory

I'm skipping along narrow Crown Street in Ryde between the Crown Hotel and the newly constructed National Provincial Bank. I have just finished school and I'm on my way home. It is snowing, not hard or cold enough to settle, and it fascinates me. It is also April Fool's Day and a Monday - the year is 1968 and I am ten years old.

I cross busy Lind Street and then run down St James's Street to the family house in Spencer Road. I patter down the stone steps, the ground floor is slightly below the level of the street as it is constructed on an incline, and let myself into the hallway. I open the door to the kitchen where I see my mother looking serious and my grandmother sniffling.

"Grampa died today, Matt, this afternoon," Mum informs me. I must look blank because she adds: "You will never see him again, never. Do you understand that?"

I don't know whether I do...

*

Just over three months previously I had experienced the happiest Christmas ever. I remember him warming himself up in front of the log fire in the lounge with a cigar in one hand - he had given up smoking many years before but would occasionally indulge in a cigar for special events. That Christmas he had bought me a Triang-Hornby electric train set - I had loved it. He had also let me have a tumbler of Woodpecker Cider too.

He wasn't a tall man, but he had a presence about him - I respected him. Mum thought he looked a bit like Ernest Borgnine the actor, and perhaps he did. He had been born in 1893 in Forfar, close to Dundee, on the eastern coast of Scotland. Throughout most of his life he was employed either as a book-keeper or stock-keeper - he was meticulous and good with numbers. He was also fluent in French, Swahili and Persian - he worked abroad often; including upon the heightening of the Aswan Dam. He was also a Freemason (I still have his tin with his regalia in) and I have photos of him with fellow members of his lodge abroad. During the Great War he served as an aerial observer and was shot down over German lines where he was treated in hospital before spending the rest of the war in a POW camp - before that he was in the trenches. He was wounded twice: shot in the arm (he described the pain as similar to having a red hot poker thrust into your skin) and once having a bullet graze his nose. He also recounted the tale of how one of his comrades had been wounded and stranded in No Man's Land - the enemy fire was too intense for anybody to attempt to rescue him. They heard him moaning all day and it wasn't till nightfall that he was picked up - he should have bled to death, but he staunched his wound with mud and that saved him. On another occasion a German soldier who had surrendered was told to go back to his lines but unbeknownst to him a long delay hand grenade had been slipped into the pocket of his great coat - he got about fifty yards before been blown apart. My grandfather had been quite horrified by that.

After the war he married but lost his wife during labour along with the twins she was carrying - tragic. He then met and married my grandmother in 1926 with whom he had my mother in 1927 but my mother had become ill as soon as she was born. It looked as though she was going to die having never left the hospital. My grandfather's response was to remove her, despite the protests of the staff, from the hospital. "Underneath these people don't really care, a baby needs to be with its mother," he had told everybody. He was right - my mother survived.

He spent the next three decades working for oil and construction companies across the world: Nigeria, Egypt and Persia amongst others. He made certain he was out of the country for the Second World War. "One war is enough for any man and planned by those who don't do have to do the dirty work," he had muttered tersely when I had spoken of it.

In the late fifties he had settled down to retirement on the Island - where I come in. I recollect him working part time preparing accounts for a local garage owner (who was mentioned in the book: Babycham Nights) and also running a beach kiosk on Ventnor seafront. He was a terrible driver too having been given his license before compulsory tests. On one occasion he left the handbrake off on his Ford Popular and had to chase it down a hill, jump on the running board stretch in through the window and pull the handbrake on before it crashed into a wall - I think he was in his early seventies then.

As I was a child I never spoke deeply with him but he had a couple of outlandish views - I believe he read Omar Khayham and other mystical poets in Persia which may be where he derived some of his philosophy from. My mother was once bemoaning the fact that she was unsuccessful in life (she was deeply ambitious underneath) and my grandfather had merely replied: "Tens of thousands of swimmers swam for the solitary place on the lifeboat - you made it and they all perished. Is that failure?"

I also recollect him saying on New Year's Day (1968) in front of Nana and I: "We are closer to the end of time than we are to last year." I knew what he meant but Nana didn't.

*

The last time I saw him alive was in St Mary's Hospital - he had suffered a heart attack a few days previously. Mum had driven Nana and I up to see him. He was in good spirits and looked to be recovering. He told us how he had a very vivid dream of driving round a lake in Africa and how wonderful and tranquil it was. We know now that the lake represented the Great Unknown. We had all gone home expecting him back - it never happened as he suffered a massive fatal coronary at about three o'clock in the afternoon on the 1st of April 1968.

*

I am in the lounge at home. I am throwing catkins into the log fire and watching each one burn brightly before merging into the flames. I am repeating this time after time.

My grandfather's funeral took place this morning. He was cremated and for some strange reason I need to recreate it repeatedly.

*

I am thirteen years old and in bed. I am thinking about Grampa. I am thinking about what it must be to be oblivious for all eternity. For a split second I comprehend it, and then it is gone. I will never grasp it again.

*

"Well, he certainly fooled us all, dying when we thought he was on the mend," my mother states as though he did it on purpose.

I just nod. I don't really understand.

Saturday 17th April 2010: "See Ya" - Blog

"Hi."

"Oh, hello, sorry, I was in a bit of a dream world. How are you?"

I recognise her now - she sometimes helps out at the café off the roundabout by the pier.

"You're not on the Dotto Train anymore then?"

"No, I've finished with the Company now, I'm not allowed to drive because of my illness so I've been paid off. I'm in limbo, the Social say I'm not ill enough not to work and even if I was they still wouldn't give me anything as I have more than sixteen thousand in the bank. The longer and harder you work, the more you put in, the less you get in this country. The sooner we get rid of Brown the better."

I resist the urge to rant further.

"Yeah, you're right, the country's in a state. You still getting the vertigo attacks?"

"Now and again. I've been to see a specialist and he thought it may be due to a condition called Migraine Associated Vertigo, but I've had a letter from him since telling me that it may be that but it could be due to the progressive hearing loss in my right ear. The attacks may also be caused by elevated blood pressure or a slightly enlarged heart, which I also have. Oh, and I have a very small scar in my brain which again may cause these symptoms. I'm not optimistic so I just take one day at a time. It's a toss-up as to which will run out first, my health or my money."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Everybody in the long checkout queue shuffles along one place and I'm suddenly reminded of the scene from the Full Monty in which the fellows unconsciously start practising their dance routine whilst waiting to sign on.

"Busy in here, I thought now it had been taken over by the Co-Op they would have got some more staff."

She nods and then asks me: "You still with that girl then?"

"Do you mean Juki?"

"Yes, is that her name?"

"Sort of, we don't have a conventional relationship as such. If you're not in a rush do you fancy a coffee? And I've forgotten your name..."

"Marlene, Matt isn't it?"

The coffee shop in the Co-Op, previously Somerfield, is surprisingly empty considering the numbers in the store. I'm studying Marlene, who has her hands cupped around the mug and realize that if I end up in bed with her it will be the first time I've ever shagged a woman with grey hair. The problem is that the longer I talk to her the more attractive I find her. She's probably mid-forties but she's rather good looking in an understated way. Her skin is tanned yet smooth and her eyes are a rather alluring olive brown; it wouldn't surprise me if she had a Turkish or Greek lineage.

I also wonder if the opportunity does present itself whether I will be able to rise to the occasion. Maybe.

"You were going to tell me about you and Juki." She places her mug on the table.

I take a deep breath...

"We don't have a normal, vanilla, relationship as such. We don't have sex but I'm very fond of her, very fond, however we do have a D/S relationship-"

"What's a DS relationship?"

"Dominant Submissive, I beat her every two weeks, it's something she needs, and something I like doing. I don't love her, in fact I can't love her, and I can't love anybody anymore. The last girl I loved, Claire, dumped me and broke my heart, yet I crave to love and be loved."

I stop. I have said too much. Too much.

She stretches over and gently touches the back of my hand. "It's okay, I understand. My husband left me two years ago, we fell out of love, it was all very amicable and the worse kind of split as we didn't even have the passion to row. I haven't made love in four years..."

"But you must have had offers, you are after all a very attractive woman."

She fields the compliment with the nonchalance of a Brian Lara swing to a soft ball.

"I am." She smiles wistfully.

"Do you know what, when I first saw you on the Dotto Train I thought you were a bit of a big headed twat with all your banter and showing off, but underneath you're quite a kind person, and rather damaged too. You've grown on me, I really quite like you, have done for a while. There's something else about you too, and you've just confirmed it for me, you have a controlled sadistic yet caring side, and it's something that I need and crave."

What!

"I want you to take me home, force me to strip, tie me to the bed, spank me till I can take it no more and then to shag me hard till I bleed-"

"See ya."

"Huh, yeah, good to see you too. Take care."

She picks up her bags and strides off to the exit - back to her loving husband and happy home. I have been so lost in my depraved fantasy I can't even remember placing my items on the conveyor belt. I'm getting worse the longer my life goes on. I am becoming the last chapter of a Philip K Dick novel. And soon I will be unable to return...

Tuesday 27th April 2010: Fuck You - Blog

"It's good we never split up. I really love you."

Sharon is to the left of me, naked, in the single bed in my spare room which I have been using whilst I sort out a lifetime of accumulated junk in my main bedroom.

"I love you too," she responds before bringing her bare arm over to lie across my chest.

I feel good. I feel happy. I feel secure.

Her fingers begin to knead my nipple - she knows I love that and it is a prelude to sex. My penis begins to swell and I relish the moment when she mounts me.

I suddenly look down at her arm and realize that something isn't quite right - on her left arm are the constellation of small moles she should have on her right arm.

"What's the matter? Did you not know that in a dream everything is laterally inverted like the reflection in a mirror?"

"Fuck you!"

The phone rings.

Listening. Talking. Not listening. Listening again. Talking. Still not listening.

Thirty-one.

Thinking. Thinking: thinking is bad for you. Thinking of death. Thinking of suicide. Thinking of a suicide.

Late evening, 30th December 1971. Pete Duel, naked and drunk, places the revolver against his right temple. He squeezes the trigger and, quite literally, blows his brains out.

Why?

Young - thirty-one, good looking, well off, famous and with a string of women after him.

Suicide. The ultimate 'fuck you!'

There's a reason why I had to go back nearly thirty-nine years, and then return. Something was said today about tomorrow. There was a parallel and I understand now. I have been fucking blind.

Lateral inversion. Now what the fuck does that mean?

Tuesday 18th May 2010: Dress Like a Slut - Blog

Dress like a slut. Sleeveless top, low cleavage, no bra, short skirt, no knickers. You know what you have to do.

Okay.

Those were my last instructions (by text) to her this morning.

I hadn't heard from Lizzy for a year - not since she'd 'accidentally' locked herself out, got her nightie 'trapped' in the front door and had had to knock on her elderly neighbour's door totally naked for help.

Lizzy craves humiliation. She loves the taste of the slipper on her bare bum too.

I had been editing Juki's latest video for our forthcoming website when she had instant messaged me - I hadn't expected to hear from her again.

We had exchanged pleasantries but I knew what she really wanted - a scenario that would end in her being totally embarrassed and humiliated. I didn't intend to disappoint.

I suggested she go down town scantily clad and that if anyone ogled her she would have to self-slipper when she got back. She replied that she had to be back quickly because a man was coming to repair her washing machine.

A light-bulb in my head switches on - a show for the repairman.

I want him to catch a glimpse of a nipple or your pussy. Make it look like an accident then I want you to go in the next room whilst he's working and leave the door very slightly ajar. I want you to masturbate. I want him to just discern the sounds of you coming. It'll be exciting, very exciting. You only live once Lizzy. Do it.

Okay.

I have to go now, Lizzy. Bye xx

I click the close box.

A last message flashes up: What do you want me to wear?

Dress like a slut. Sleeveless top, low cleavage, no bra, short skirt, no knickers. You know what you have to do.

She may have done it, she may not have done it. Still it's good to catch up with long lost acquaintances.

ETA: She carried out my instructions but she didn't think the repairman heard her come!

Wednesday 19th May 2010: You're a Cunt - Short Piece

"You're a cunt."

It's been a long time coming, too long, but now we're face to face.

I want to believe that this is the final confrontation, but Fate is a tricky opponent.

"You're a cunt," I say again - I need for him to react

He looks at me. Impassive.

He appears stronger than me and exudes a confidence I lack, yet I know I am the one with more substance.

"You're a cunt."

He looks back at me with disdain, diminishes me as he always has.

"You could have been a nice person. You could have made my life less hard. I have lost friends because of you. I have lost love because of you. I have lost money because of you. And I am not quite nothing because that would be too merciful. You leave me a shell, a hollow empty shell echoing only with angst. You cunt."

I watch a faint ripple of a snide smile run along his lips, lips that may have once been sensuous and kind.

I feel the magma of my repressed anger rise up and vent. "You, you cunt and your fucking ego, you've ruined my fucking life. I hate you!"

I smash my right fist hard into his smug countenance - his features fragment in a violent crash and fall away. Jagged shards twist and tumble in a momentary shower of crystal and my hand burns with pain and crimson blood drips languidly upon a crimson covered floor.

Seven years bad luck they say.

Is that all?

It's a bargain. Bring me the contract, I'll sign for that.

"Cunt. Fucking cunt."

Saturday 12th June 2010: Cruelty and Compassion - Blog

At about half seven on Thursday evening I finally got around to giving Juki a fucking hard thrashing - the beating had been postponed due to her first being bitten by a horse fly and her leg becoming infected, then me feeling rough and finally her having to go away for a couple of days with work. The delay had led to tension because we are both very much addicted now to pain and the infliction of pain; along with the emotional charge.

Prior to her punishment - her only 'crime' is to know me - she was extremely scared and excited because I had promised to use the flogger on her for the first time. Nevertheless I made her strip and then walk the short distance to my bedroom.

She got onto the bed and then knelt as she was instructed. I then switched the camera on to record her agonies. I kissed and embraced her naked form because once again I was enthralled to the heady mix of sadism blended with compassion for her imminent suffering - and my God I can be cruel.

I requested her to assume the punishment position which she did immediately. I then picked up the leather paddle and administered twelve very hard blows - she was sobbing after about five and her feet rising and lowering poignantly (is that the right word?) in response to the waxing and waning of the pain.

A part of me wanted to stop hurting this poor woman but I knew she craved the agony.

I then gave her eleven strokes with the cane - I knew she could hear the brief swish of each stroke before the searing impact upon her reddening and bruising buttocks - and savoured both the sound and the reaction upon her exposed and vulnerable frame to each one.

The second phase of the beating over she complied with my wish for her to lie flat. As I grasped the flogger in my right hand I could both sense her fear - and her inner strength. I lashed the leather falls of the flogger across her tender buttocks seven times - each one harder than the one previous and the last one with all my strength to which she folded up her bare legs for the final time during her cruel ordeal.

I assisted her back into the kneeling position and she threw herself crying into arms. I kissed and stroked her then broke away to stop filming. I then cuddled her for far longer than I had beaten her. I asked her if she had needed it.

"Yes, I did, very much so. Thanks."

After a while she ceased sniffling. "Would you like your massage now?" I asked her gently.

"Yes please."

She then lay down on the covers as she had a few minutes earlier but this time to relish the warm glow of bliss. I watched her close her eyes and drift away to a faraway place as I softly applied the scented body cream to the smooth skin of her back...

Monday 28th June 2010: Twilight Encore - Weird Tale

Could the cleverest mathematician or the most powerful computer, given every possible variable, model and predict the pattern of the myriad of waves breaking relentlessly upon the small stranded beach beneath me?

It is a question I have pondered many times before. It is also irrelevant because if I was to know the answer then it would leave me little or no wiser.

You see, I have come to the conclusion that I am in a coma and that everything around me is some sort of mental construct. I have arrived at that inference because always I find myself peering down at the sea and entertaining the same speculations. I also know that in a few minutes I will walk the short distance across the pier entrance and place my right foot on the platform of a bus that will never take me home.

I watch the seagulls screech and wheel down, briefly touching the seaweed strewn beach in their search for morsels.

The mid evening breeze picks up momentarily to waft the stench of rotting seaweed and decaying sea creatures into my nostrils and as if on cue the lamps spaced evenly along the pier click on and flicker into an orange glow. I observe dispassionately the tidal current as it flows east, forever flows east, creating mini whirlpools in the wake of the corroded iron stanchions supporting the half mile long pier - the complexity of the illusion never ceases to enthral me.

I cast my eyes skyward to the wispy clouds hued crimson by a sun that has just slipped beneath the horizon - a sun I have never seen in this domain. I am condemned for all eternity, or so it seems, to a poignant twilight yet I am not dead - how can it be?

I sometimes see a lorry careering towards me on the wrong side of the road - terror, numb terror. I can recall nothing else of the life I must have once possessed.

I imagine myself upon a bed in a darkened hospital room attached to drips and monitors. I wonder if I am on a ventilator and I speculate as to how along it will be before that ventilator is switched off.

Shortly I will turn away from the chest high stone seawall and watch a middle-aged lady with two Scottie Dogs walk past. She will cast me a polite half smile and then dissolve into the ether at the periphery of my vision.

I hear the diners across the road in the Chinese restaurant and I wait for a plate to be dropped, broken a thousand times before. I glance across at the warmly illuminated King Lud public house with patrons standing just outside on the pavement smoking and raising glasses periodically to their lips.

I watch a two-toned green double-decker bus roll into the bus station, the bus I will never quite catch.

I stroll predestined across the entrance to the pier as a reluctant actor in this short endless loop of a film spliced by who-knows-who out of the few remaining fragments of the memories of, what must be, a massively mashed brain - I guess I should be grateful.

A sluttish looking girl with tattoos on her arms lounges slovenly against the window of the Travel Office in the bus station and looks me up and down - it still makes me shiver after all these times.

The passenger door of the vehicle hisses open and the friendly young spectacled driver beckons me on. I put my right foot on the platform...

*

Could the cleverest mathematician or the most powerful computer, given every possible variable, model and predict the pattern of the myriad of waves breaking relentlessly upon the small stranded beach beneath me...

Tuesday 29th June 2010: 'Dempsey' - Blog/Memory

I was just past the Liz Earle shop on the right-hand side of bustling Union Street when I had recognized her, recognized her after all those years. I was strolling down, and she was marching up in the early June sun. She wouldn't have acknowledged or greeted me because she didn't know me, I think, but I knew her. Kind of.

She was probably middle to late forties now, but she hadn't lost her film star looks, though I was far more interested in what her thoughts and reflections might have been. I must admit, she had looked composed and at ease. But then she always did...

*

About thirty years ago we used to frequent a bar, the Ocean Breeze, on Sandown sea front. It was only a road's width from the sandy beach and the English Channel and aptly named.

In those days I worked nine to five with weekends off and weekends meant drinking, socialising and occasionally, very occasionally, getting lucky with a female. Most of my chums were now paired up and I was beginning to feel a little out of it. About ten months later I too 'paired up' and in retrospect feeling a 'little out of it' was a hundred times preferable than being 'fully in'. But that's another tale.

Still, I had a couple of mates who I could phone and persuade to accompany me out and we would normally start the weekend on a Friday night. On the Island in the late seventies and early eighties most people looking for nightlife would head over to Sandown and Shanklin which was effectively one stretched town along the coastline of Sandown Bay since the boroughs merged into each other.

There were a lot of great establishments to enjoy: The Crab Inn, Holliers, The Chine, Keats Inn, The Eastcliff Club, The Beachcomber Bar - which kept young alligators in a pool separated from the clientele only by a low pseudo stone wall, The Bird Cage discothèque - so called because extremely scantily clothed ladies would be hung tantalizing above the dance floor in a cage, The Jolly Sailor, Colonel Bogey's nightclub and The Yaverland which we found at later was a gay bar. There were numerous other pubs and hotel bars all crammed in the busy summer season and more so at weekends.

Being only about fifty yards away from Colonel Bogey's, the Ocean Breeze, along Culver Parade, was normally the last regular bar on the reveller's itinerary as you could park your vehicle in Colonel Bogey's car park before it got busy and then walk to the disco's entrance. It also wasn't a bad idea to divest yourself of the car prior to the police turning up at about eleven to make their presence known as we all used to drink and drive in those days.

The Ocean Breeze was a single storey affair with a glass frontage bisected by a door normally hooked open. It was probably about twenty-foot-wide with roughly carved wooden tables and bamboo backed chairs each side of a central aisle - to allow access to the bar at the far end - and about fifty feet deep. It was low ceilinged and illuminated dimly and cosily with low wattage red bulbs. The walls were clad with a faux bark in, what looked like, an attempt to recreate the interior of a Polynesian hut with a few garish murals hung up of Pacific Islanders fishing and sailing to strengthen the effect - I rather warmed to it, but then I'd never been there during the daylight hours or when sober.

Beyond the single bar would be the storage area and modest living quarters, the exclusive domain of the owner and manager, Dempsey. Dempsey wasn't his real name - I did know his real name for a short while but I have forgotten it now - but I labelled him that because it kind of suited him.

Dempsey was middle-aged with thick black hair slicked back across his crown and around about five eleven in height; he was possibly only a little overweight. He had a round florid complexioned face from an excess of alcohol with puffy eyes and a slightly flattened nose; at first sight the word 'pug' would come to mind, but he was a gentleman.

We knew he'd been a boxer and that he'd been in the Royal Navy - the black and white framed photos on the side of the bar told that story. One picture showed a wiry young handsome man in a singlet holding a trophy up in a ring amongst his entourage and another was of him in a petty officer's uniform in front of a warship in a foreign port; Singapore? Gibraltar?

Those days were over now, and so I guessed was his marriage. He would have been okay money wise with a good pension and a pay-out from the selling of the marital home though I am joining the dots now as I don't really know. He was obviously well off enough to buy a bar and a profitable bar at that.

He was an affable man and would always address you as sir, or madam, but you knew if you gave him serious hassle, he'd knock you cold, clean out. He had a style about him: Rick from Casablanca or Maurice Allington, played by Albert Finney, in The Green Man; though I never saw him don a white dinner jacket. He would wipe the tabletops and empty the ashtrays whilst he left his staff to serve; he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He was socially adept; always said the appropriate thing and took the right actions. I sort of admired him. And now I must explain something.

I have always hated the idea of getting old, and now I am old, I fucking hate it. I never relished the prospect of going grey, wrinkly, flabby and losing my health and sanity. I always vowed that I would kill myself before I reached that miserable condition; I guess there's still time to minimise the suffering. The human condition to me doesn't really make any sense, I mean nature brings us into being and at the same time gives birth to an ego that rebels against the ways of the very agency that created it in the first place. The 'oneness of nature' - pah!

I have digressed - sorry. As I have just stated I always hated getting old but when I used to observe Dempsey, I would be early twenties then, I started to think that if you could cultivate a style such as his then maybe it wouldn't be too bad ageing - maybe. Naturally, I never revealed my inner thoughts or fears to any of my friends; that's another of my problems: repression.

Anyway, one evening a beautiful young woman came into the bar, ran up to Dempsey and threw her arms around him.

"Lucky old fucker. How did he manage to pull a gorgeous creature like her?" my mate had waxed enviously.

"I think it's actually his daughter," I responded, correctly as it happened.

I reckon she was about eighteen and she did indeed have film star looks: naturally blonde, very pretty, perfect complexion and stunningly proportioned figure. Well out of my league.

We saw her quite a bit after that - she was regularly down at Colonel Bogey's - and I was infatuated with her, so infatuated with her that I could never pluck up the courage to approach her. She was constantly surrounded by admirers though I never saw her with a boyfriend. I would fantasize about being with her and having Dempsey as a father figure. I'd sometimes wonder what they would say if they knew what the quiet, skinny and plain lad was imagining. It's odd how we become obsessed with people we only know on the outside; and really don't know at all.

When I look back there was no doubt that she was a daddy's girl; there was a strong bond between them.

About three months later Dempsey had committed suicide; he'd attached a hose to the exhaust pipe of his car and gassed himself. I read the report a dozen times in The County Press. I couldn't believe it. He was only forty-nine. Only.

I thought a lot about her; and cried for her sometimes when I was alone. It also struck me that his whole persona was a mask, a carefully constructed mask to conceal his deep depression, magnified by alcohol, perhaps because of the break-up of his marriage. I wondered if he too feared the onset of age.

I stopped thinking about it all after a while because I met the person who was to become my wife; and she wasn't too dissimilar physically from Dempsey's daughter coincidentally...

*

I'd let her pass me in the street but really, I'd craved to introduce myself and blurt it all out. I'd wanted also to know how her life changed after that terrible tragedy, but I'd never had the courage; just as I had lacked it three decades previously.

Enough said.

Saturday 3rd July 2010: Do You Ever Really Know Anyone? - Blog

For the last couple of weeks - since pretending to be a macho man and carrying the spanking bench upstairs single handed - I have been suffering from a bad back. By last Saturday the worst of it appeared to be over so I took a bus over to East Cowes in order to take some photos for one of my stories I intended to upload to YouTube and ended up walking the length of the River Medina.

Not realizing that the old fart had overdone it I was back to square one with the back when I woke Sunday morning - typical! Touch wood, but I now seem to be on the mend.

Anyway, yesterday I nipped into town for a spot of shopping, occasionally having to stop when the back gave me a twinge. When I got to The Crown, Angel rushed out. Angel is about forty five, blond, full figured with a Cockney accent and is one of those what-you-see-is-what-you-get types. She also possesses a heart of gold.

"Have you seen Blue recently?" she seemed uncharacteristically serious.

"I haven't seen him for about two weeks, not since we all had a drink with him in The King Lud."

Blue is fifty-six, slim and bearded - he reminds me a little of a Bee Gee. When I was on the Dotto Train we used to wave to him as he used to regularly walk along Appley to Puckpool - he was always cheerful and seemed a nice fellow.

At the beginning of this year I bumped into him in town and ended up having a coffee with him. He told me that he had retired early after working in an operating theatre - I wasn't sure whether he was a doctor or an anaesthetist. He told me how stressful and emotional the job could be at times and that he had probably got out at the right time as his blood pressure had begun to rise. We exchanged mobile numbers and agreed to meet up again.

The next time I had seen him he was in a state of shock - his identical twin brother had dropped dead after suffering a massive stroke. We had a long chat and I warmed to him even more. A few weeks later I had seen him with Angel who was as lucky with men as England are with penalty shoot outs - yet they seemed really good together. I suggested we could all have a drink sometime (drink in my case implies two Magners at most!)

As I have already said, the last time I saw him was to have a drink with him in The King Lud - strangely, for a man who claimed to be of independent means, he had no money on him, so I bought all the rounds. He regaled us with tales of operations, some very tragic, and enlightened us about procedures. Then suddenly he announced: "I've got to go." And with that jumped up and left the establishment.

Returning to Angel.

"What's happened to him, Angel?" I feared for a moment that he may have had a stroke like his brother.

"He's stolen my father's wedding ring."

"He's what?!"

"About two weeks ago he was round mine and I showed him some of the things that had sentimental value to me. I really trusted him, Matt, and believed him to be a nice man. I let him try on my father's wedding ring, and it got stuck and we couldn't get it off. He told me that his finger had probably got swollen with the heat and that the best thing to do was for him to go home, get to bed and when he had cooled off remove it then. I trusted him, but I haven't heard from him, and his mobile is turned off. People say they have seen him but all he has to do is pop in and give me the ring. I can understand if he doesn't want to see me anymore, but that ring means everything to me."

She looked like she was going to burst into tears. I felt really sorry for her and placed my arm round her.

"If you see him, can you ask him to bring the ring back? If he doesn't then I will have to call the police."

"Okay."

I left and carried on walking up the town. If it's true what she said then I have a feeling Blue is not what he seems at all. And I'm wondering if any of what he says is actually true.

In this world you never truly know anyone.

Tuesday 13th July 2010: I Punch Ugly and Fat BNP Slut in Face... - Violent Tale

... before kicking her in the cunt...

As I listen to her pathetic whimpering in the corner punctuated only by her desperate panting I ask myself from whence did the red rage come from? I need time to think - "Shut the FUCK UP unless you want my fucking boot in your eye socket!" - and a bit of quiet too.

She isn't going anywhere, she's well tied up, and so well tied up the cord is biting angrily into her pale flesh.

The thing is, I'm not going anywhere either, well not for a while. I can't let her go, can't let the fat bitch go running to the cops.

"Please, I beg of you, let me go. I'm really, really sorry I upset you..."

I don't want to kill her, but what choice do I have?

I bend down close to her, her pale blue eyes register terror and she recoils away as much as her bindings allow her.

"Don't worry my little maid of the master race, I'm not going to hurt you, anymore."

I dip my finger into the blood that has pooled to the side of her, blood that has dripped from her broken nose, and write the word SLUT on her expansive back.

I straighten up and step over the spreading pool of her urine before walking up the steps of the cellar. I afford myself one look at her obese and trussed, trashed body in the stark illumination of the naked light bulb - her matted pubes, her bruised and grazed flesh.

It must be quite cold for her on the flag stones, I think before pushing up the heavy wooden trap door.

I stroll causally into the kitchen. I pull open the drawer and select the carving knife, the blade glinting in the cold light of the fluorescent strip light.

I make my way back into the hall-

The chimes for the door play. Fuck! It's Joshua, the first black policeman to grace our parish, and a truly decent man. Truly decent.

I have to let him in - he saw me in the kitchen. The business in hand can wait. I open the door.

"Evening Vicar, how is it tonight at the Manse, that little oasis of tranquillity?"

"HELP ME, SOMEBODY. HE'S GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME!"

I remember now not putting the six-inch-thick trap door back down.

"Oh, it's just champion. I'll turn the telly down and we'll have a nice cup of tea, Joshua."

I clutch the long-bladed knife behind me and prepare to plunge it fast and hard into his neck...

Wednesday 21st July 2010: Breezy Beach Rendezvous - Weird Short Story

He found himself standing on the beach. He was naked yet curiously he experienced no shame or embarrassment and he was at the shore's edge impassively observing the wavelets break relentlessly upon the rippled sand.

The sea was green, the sky was blue and the sand yellow. It was like a child's crayon drawing - primary colours in a primary world.

He had alternately swum and sun bathed here many times in the past. It was his home town, the town of his birth and childhood.

Something suddenly came to mind that he thought he had long forgotten...

He was fourteen again and lying on a towel spread over the powdery sand. His eyes were closed as he had felt the sun's rays warm the flesh of his chest and torso. He had thought of his body changing, changing from boy to man.

A part of him had sought to become a man, he craved the power a grown man had. Yet another part of him had sought to remain a child.

He had lazily opened his eyes and cast a glance down at the golden tan of his tummy. It was a part of him that was still soft - and feminine. He liked that, to be the female he wished to possess.

His gaze had slid further down to his strong legs, masculine limbs now hairy and he had felt reassured by the sight of them - they were the legs of a man destined to be rarely bested...

"Contradiction, conflict, paradox, oh, the delicious irony of existence, darling."

The honeyed voice had startled him and he had twisted round but only the breeze was there.

"I will always be behind you - and never seen," she teased.

He felt her lips, lips composed only of a gust of sea air, kiss him tenderly upon the nape of his neck.

"I am going to give you what you so thirst for, and deserve."

She ran her ethereal fingers across his nipples and he surrendered to her intangible embrace.

"What is it that I so desire?"

"To be a woman, but blessed with a man's yearnings."

"How do you know this? I have told no one."

"Have you not guessed yet my sweet?"

He imagined her pouting her lips.

Yes, it was all coming back to him. Him diving into the river to rescue the lad on the bike who had taken a tumble by the bank and fallen in.

"I'm drowning, and this is all some sort of hallucination or illusion brought on by oxygen starvation. I'm at the bottom of the river-"

"Not quite dead dear, but close, which is why you are here with me and I'm your friend. Call me Luci."

"I get it. Hal-LUCI-nation, LUCI-d dream, LUCI-fer. So, you're just an illusion, Luci, the body making my death a comfortable death."

"An illusion is just an extinct reality, is it not Douglas? Surely you have guessed who I really am now?"

"You're God - and a woman."

"Exactly right, honey."

He opted to play along, he had no other option.

"That's okay, you play me along," she responded patronisingly, reading his thoughts.

He stared out to sea and fixed his gaze upon the distant coast of the mainland. He did indeed feel tranquil. Dying wasn't so bad after all.

Her invisible fingers caressed his thighs. Aroused him.

He waited for the last few seconds and anticipated the curtain of descending darkness as his awareness ebbed away.

"The boy is going to live, you saved him. Just thought I'd let you know."

"Luci, I have some questions for you."

"I'm sorry but there isn't time."

She pressed her soft lips against his...

*

Greg removed his mouth from Douglas's. It was the first time he had been called upon to utilise his resuscitation training.

"He's gone. I did my best," he explained to the small throng of onlookers on the bank.

Greg gently pulled the eyelids of the corpse down, the cold gaze into infinity chilled him, and reached across to pick up the coat he would place over his face.

"The boy's fine though a little shaken up, and cold. He would have died had he not dived in. He gave up his life..." Greg's colleague explained to the small crowd.

"He may have suffered a heart attack, I don't think he drowned though he had water in his lungs." Greg talked distractedly over his colleague from River Front Auto Services before noticing a young, and rather attractive, dark haired woman hurry along the walkway. In the distance the banshee wail of the ambulance sirens drew ever nearer...

*

Maria slotted the key into the lock of her door, pushed it open and entered her flat which had been converted tastefully into luxury apartments, Holland Mill House, from an old warehouse overlooking the river.

On the mat was an envelope with the single word scrawled on it in black biro: Maria. She picked it up and then placed it down on the small table in her small hallway. More correspondence from the Residents' Association she suspected.

She slipped off her expensive Italian leather handbag and removed her coat with the image still fresh in her mind of the rather disturbing incident on the river path a few minutes earlier in which it had looked like a man had died whilst rescuing a young lad from drowning. She recalled the drenched and shivering boy, with a coat draped over him, sitting on the grass with his knees folded into his body. He had appeared only to be shaken but not hurt and she was relieved by that, relieved for those that loved him.

The man, in tragic contrast, of whom she only stole a brief glimpse as she had hurried by, looked as though he was indeed dead - glassy eyed and slack jawed, such that his mouth gaped open. He was middle-aged and overweight.

The macabre tableau had quite shocked her and she was looking forward to talking about it later, talking it out of her system with her gay partner, Jayne, of four years whom she loved deeply.

She entered her kitchen and realised she wasn't that hungry yet, it wasn't quite half five, so she emptied her shopping bag, placing the perishables in the fridge-freezer and the rest in the cupboards. Anxious to get out of her work garb Maria ambled out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.

She paused in front of the full length mirror and then stripped completely naked, she liked what she saw, and was mildly and guiltily excited by it too.

Reflected back in the soft bedroom light was a slender female of five foot seven inches, tall for a woman, with wavy raven hair tumbling onto bronzed shoulders. Her round face was pretty with large brown eyes, a small nose and full lips. Jayne had remarked once, whilst they were watching an early film in the Pink Panther series that she thought she half resembled the actress Claudia Cardinale.

Her breasts were of modest size but firm and her dark nipples were quite prominent and sensitive, though she occasionally relished them being lashed with a small flogger. Her arms were long and quite toned probably from carrying books around all day in her job as manager in a bookstore and she noted the just perceptible shadow created by the fuzz of tiny black hairs on her forearms. Her tummy was tidy and the neat slit of her close shaven cunt quite visible. Her legs were long and shapely.

Maria felt that her skin and complexion was good - she developed a deep tan during the summer months which only faded very gradually through the cooler ones. She suffered from very few imperfections - a small mole on her upper right arm and a slightly larger mole on the mound of her left breast. But that was it really.

Not bad for thirty four, she concluded with some self-satisfaction.

Maria, still nude, moved over to the bed and flopped down onto it. Head on the large lemon coloured pillow, hands behind her head, and eyes unfocused, Maria replayed in her mind the last time Jayne had beaten her without mercy her unclad body on this very bed just ten days ago.....

"Hands by your side and head down.... NOW!" Jayne barked in her South London accent.

Marie immediately complied like a trooper on the drill ground yet couldn't resist sneaking a glance at Jayne in her leather boots, shiny leather micro skirt with leather cap atop her flaxen haired head.

"You will receive twenty strokes with the paddle, twenty strokes with the cane and twenty strokes with the cat. Get onto the bed and assume the correct position for your punishment."

Meekly, Maria clambered onto the mattress, knelt down and then rested her forearms on the covers allowing her head to sink down in an attitude of resignation.

She heard Jayne pick up the paddle, imagined her weighing it in her right hand, visualised her more than ample breasts, her fair complexion with light freckles dusted upon her arms and shoulders. She saw her pretty face with arctic blue eyes, thin but strong lips and straight nose-

The heavy blow of the leather paddle rocked her nude frame simultaneously as the pain spread like fire across her left buttock. She gasped and clenched her teeth - the first one was always the worst. Till the second one.

The sound of the impact reverberated around the room and she let out a small gasp, yet already her cunt was flowing with juice.

Blow after blow landed on her reddening cheeks, and each one only served to deepen her submission to Jayne, to worship her...

The last cruel cuts of the cane broke her skin, she could feel it yet she asked for no let-up, and the last phase of her beating with the flogger was nearly upon her.

She discerned Jayne place the cane on the glass top of the bedside table.

"Lie flat on the bed with your limbs spread out."

Though her posterior still burned she obeyed without question. Limp, she allowed Jayne to cuff her wrists and ankles to the bronze frame of the bed. She knew it would be hell.

She heard the momentary swish of the leather tails a split second before what felt like a thousand blades callously bite into the tenderised flesh of her buttocks. She began to sob - and she still had to suffer nineteen more...

Finally it was over and her body was awash with a mind blowing cocktail of endorphin and hormones.

"FUCKING FUCK ME JAYNE!" she screamed.

Still restrained, Jayne, with the help of a double headed strap on, penetrated simultaneously her cunt and anus. Within seconds she cried out as her body arched and her cunt squirted.

"MY GOD JAYNE, I LOVE YOU..."

The last spasms of her orgasm faded away - she hadn't intended to pleasure herself as she wanted to save herself for Jayne. And where was Jayne? She would have normally texted by now. She glanced across at the bedside clock - seven o'clock.

Actually it wouldn't matter if she was a little late as it would give her time to prepare a meal as she felt hungry now. She slid off the bed and wrapped her robe around her before crossing the hall and noticing the envelope.

I suppose I'd better see what it's about.

As she slid her finger along the envelope to open it she thought of the man who had drowned - and how tragically unlucky some people were. She realised in contrast how lucky she was to have Jayne, Jayne who wasn't just kinky but was kind and generous, and funny. What would she do without her?

Maria pulled out the note, unfolded it and read:

Dearest Maria, I am so very sorry that it all has to end this way, I know how much you love me and how heartbroken you will be, but the truth is that I have never loved you and never will. I only wish I could.

This is the hard bit, I didn't know whether to tell you or not, I have met someone else and I think I could fall in love with them. Time will tell. We only live once and everybody deserves at least one shot at love. Please try to understand.

Don't get me wrong Maria we had some great times but underneath I always felt something was missing. I don't know why because you are great looking with a fantastic figure and good company too. I really admire your talent for drawing and painting. You should do more!

Maria, please don't try to contact me, it will be less painful that way. I have left Marketport for ever, left the job and vacated my room. I have told no one where I have gone, not even my family, and changed my mobile number.

Once again, I am very sorry Maria. I will never forget you and the good times we had. In time you will move on yourself.

Thinking of You

Jayne xxx

Ashen and shaking, Maria's arms dropped to her sides. The letter slipped out of her fingers and like a mortally injured butterfly fluttered to the floor...

*

She screwed the tap off - there was more than enough water now. It was two in the morning and she would not live to see the sun rise for another day. There was no point in carrying on - she was gone, gone for good...

I have never loved you and never will...

I have never loved you and never will...

I have never loved you and never will...

She had rushed round earlier to The White Castle Hotel where she had lived and worked for the last five years. The manager did not know where she had gone - she had collected all her belongings, ordered a taxi at nine this morning, and then just left. Her mobile wouldn't even connect to Jayne's voicemail. She had gone, gone for good - Who's good?

She watched a tear drop into the water of the bath, watched the ripple expand out. She felt woozy from the sleeping tablets - she couldn't delay any more.

Naked, she stepped carefully into the bath and lowered herself down. The water level remained below the sides.

She submerged her pretty face and with an incredible act of will, in defiance of nature, breathed in a lung's full of warm water. She coughed violently and her body fought to expel the water. It wasn't easy dying...

*

Douglas spluttered and vomited.

"Fucking hell, he's alive!" Greg shouted triumphantly and tossing the coat away he was going to cover his face with.

Douglas rolled over onto his side and vomited again spewing bile and muddy river water onto the grass.

"What the fuck is going on?!"

*

Maria slotted the key into the lock of her door, pushed it open and entered her flat which had been converted tastefully into luxury apartments, Holland Mill House, from an old warehouse overlooking the river.

On the mat was an envelope with the single word scrawled on it in black biro: Maria. She picked it up and then placed it down on the small table in her small hallway. More correspondence from the Residents' Association she suspected.

She slipped off her expensive Italian leather handbag and removed her coat with the image still fresh in her mind of the rather disturbing incident on the river path a few minutes earlier in which it had looked like a man had died whilst rescuing a young lad from drowning. She recalled the drenched and shivering boy, with a coat draped over him, sitting on the grass with his knees folded into his body. He had appeared only to be shaken but not hurt and she was relieved by that, relieved for those that loved him.

The man, in tragic contrast, of whom she only stole a brief glimpse as she had hurried by, looked as though he was indeed dead - glassy eyed and slack jawed, such that his mouth gaped open. He was middle aged and overweight. There was also something vaguely familiar about him too.

The macabre tableau had quite shocked her and she was looking forward to talking about it later, talking it out of her system, with her husband, John of seven years whom she loved deeply.

She strolled into the kitchen to prepare the evening meal for them both - John would be home just after six. She clicked the kettle on and remembered the letter.

As she slid her finger along the envelope to open it she thought of the man who had drowned; and how tragically unlucky some people were. She realised in contrast how lucky she was to have John, John who wasn't just hunky but was kind and generous, and funny. What would she do without him?

The letter was from Eve, the self-styled spokesperson of the building.

Maria, I don't know whether you are aware but it appears that one of our residents is 'entertaining' gentleman. Well, I don't know how you feel about it but many of us here are outraged by the prospect of prostitution amongst our upstanding little community. The lady in question resides in Flat 5 and her name is Jayne Marshall...

Maria let her arm fall.

Yes, that was where she had seen the drowning man before - he must have been one of her clients. She recalled that she had once bumped into him on the landing, he had seemed quite nervous. But he wouldn't be visiting her again.

Jayne Marshall, why doesn't that surprise me, bit of a Cockney slapper, she thought.

She recollected Jayne trying to engage her in conversation once but she really wasn't Maria's type - too rough.

She heard the door open. It was John and he was early.

"Hi darling, I've got some rather interesting things to tell you."

Maria threw her arms round the only man she had ever loved...

*

Douglas lay in the hospital bed, his mind was still spinning though he had just been given something to help him relax. According to the doctor he had been clinically dead for a very brief period and he was a very, very fortunate man. He was also a hero for saving the life of the boy who couldn't swim.

It had been decided that he would be kept in overnight for observation. He felt drained but otherwise okay.

Penny and his youngest lad had been in to see him - he loved his family dearly. And that was what was troubling him. Penny his wife of twenty three years, though lovely and loyal, did nothing for him anymore. He had also harboured a secret craving to be a woman at times, it was something he had desired since childhood. And he also needed to be punished as a woman.

About six months ago he had contacted a local prostitute and she had agreed to allow him to dress as a woman and then cane him on a regular basis. He had felt dirty but it satisfied his needs and provided he was discrete he rationalised there would be no need for Penny to get hurt. However the bag of clothes he was carrying on his way to Jayne's today had got mislaid when he had dived in to save the lad. Where were they? With the police? With the hospital?

He could just visualise the headlines in the local rag - River Hero Who Plucked Boy from Death Was Cheating Sadomasochistic Transvestite!

He really didn't need that.

With a bit of luck his clothes were at the bottom of the river, where they would stay.

Then there was the lucid dream. It was so real, and exciting. Strange that he had become Maria the manageress from the bookshop, transforming himself into her and even incorporating the drowning into her life - weird. He also cringed at the time he had bumped into her on the landing where Jayne lived and worked. He didn't think Maria knew him though - and he couldn't really tell anyone about the hallucination either.

He yawned as sleep beckoned...

*

He found himself standing on the beach. He was naked yet curiously he experienced no shame or embarrassment and he was at the shore's edge impassively observing the wavelets break relentlessly upon the rippled sand.

The sea was green, the sky was blue and the sand yellow. It was like a child's crayon drawing - primary colours in a primary world.

He had alternately swum and sun bathed here many times in the past. It was his home town, the town of his birth and childhood...

"It was exciting today wasn't it?"

"Yes it was Luci. Exciting and dangerous."

"It felt good to be someone else didn't it, Douglas, and kind of ironic that in order to live life fully one first had to die."

He felt the gossamer touch of her fingers run up his spine.

"I liked it too, I was Maria, and you and Jayne. You see I can be anyone I want and it would be fun just the two of us, Douglas, don't you think, hmmm?" she purred seductively in his ear. "Let's do it again, what do you say, it'll be fun."

"Yeah, Luci, you may be just a dream but what the hell, let's go for it."

"That's my boy."

She took him by the hand...

*

In the subdued light of Douglas's hospital room the regular trace of the heart monitor suddenly flat lined...

Friday 23rd July 2010: The Beating Heart of a Nationalist - Short Story

In the little church hall crammed full of supporters the clapping and cheering reduced to a respectful murmur. The imposing figure of Eric de Wolfe rose to his feet and prepared to address the adoring throng...

"I can only express my heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you who made my release possible - thank you. And remember this day, savour this moment, for it is the day the National Freedom Party of Great Britain was born And yet it is also a day of great sadness, tragedy, for today three more of our brave soldiers have died, their blood soaking into the sand of a faraway land in a futile war, sacrificed so that our beloved Prime Minister can suck up to the American President whilst supping cocktails on the White House lawn and crow about the Special Relationship. Oh, they talk of freedom and democracy but where is that freedom and democracy now for the good people of The Falklands, our people, now under the jackboot of the Argentine Junta, all pledges torched, with relish, like the Union Jack. And what happens today in The Falklands, now Las Malvinas, will happen tomorrow here, in this once green and pleasant land."

He paused - silence had fallen upon the congregation - before taking a deep breath and continuing.

"It may be our destiny to fail, to be stripped of our rights, second class citizens in a third world state, confined to reservations, to shuffle along in the queue for the gas chamber. Yes, it may be our destiny to be wiped out. But it is not our destiny to go down without a fight - let the traitor and invader alike never forget the taste of his own blood."

He brushed back a strand of his thick flaxen mane of hair that had fallen across his strong Nordic features, his piercing blue eyes still mesmerising the audience who hung upon his every utterance...

*

"He thinks he's some sort of Mandela figure when he's nothing more than a bigot with the gift of the gab and he's going to undo all our good work to make this truly a diverse nation of equality and opportunity - though we still have a long way to go to get more women and ethnic minorities into employment and government..."

Joe McNab wondered if James (call me Jimmy) Black, and Prime Minister of Great Britain, would actually be prepared to practise what he preached and give up his own position to a woman or a member of an ethnic minority. He chuckled inwardly. Of course not and that was why he had been called in - to smear a potential rival (more often than not a member of his own party), to level false charges against more blatant threats (as had been the case against de Wolfe) or to actually liquidate a really dangerous individual (the last one being a weapons expert who had threatened to spill the beans over the veracity of a weapons dossier used to justify an illegal war).

"Joe, are you listening? This de Wolfe character is dangerous - he could be another Hitler, and cares nothing for the democratic will of the people. He has to be stopped and I mean... STOPPED."

"Yes of course, Prime Minister, I understand." Joe nodded and noticed that the Prime Minister's pallor was greyer than normal. Rumours had it that he was suffering from the early stages of heart failure.

"Good, for a moment there I thought you were in another world. Naturally I shall deny all knowledge if anything does go wrong. But then, you have never failed me before." James Black treating Joe to one of his trademark practiced grins.

"I shall attend to this de Wolfe character a.s.a.p."

"And Joe, before you go could you just drop this down with the Speaker - thanks."

As he left the office, he glanced down at the slip of paper Black had passed him - it was a claim for a new mobile phone having smashed the previous one after throwing it at the wall in temper.

*

A red dot briefly manifested itself on de Wolfe's forehead before blooming into a scarlet smudge. Eric de Wolfe pitched forward, as though pole-axed, into the crowd. For a second nothing happened. Then pandemonium ensued.

*

"Your husband was a fascist, a Nazi, a racist was he not Mrs de Wolfe - he deserved to die."

Silence descended upon the press conference - surely the reporter had gone too far.

"My husband was NOT a racist, he always claimed that it was the colour of a person's heart not their skin that counted. This corrupt and hypocritical government sanctioned his assassination, we all know that. The story that it was one of his own supporters is a lie, a DAMNED lie..."

She let her blonde head drop into her arms, sobbing - and then lifted it again, defiantly proud. "If he was such a bad man then why did he donate his organs, to anyone, of any race and religion? Tell me that, you callous bastard."

*

James Black sat up in his hospital bed - a private hospital bed paid for by the taxpayer - and read the Times. There were only a few column inches devoted to his admission for 'minor surgery'. Although he was still quite sore he actually did feel a lot better - the procedure had gone without a hitch - and he could stay in power for another ten years - there was nothing or no one to stop him, especially now that ghastly de Wolfe was out of the way. Still he could have done with some of de Wolfe's charisma, he thought.

He would also have liked to have thanked the family of the donor who had furnished him with a new heart. In addition, it would have made a great photo shoot. But he had to keep his condition quiet and besides even the surgeons wouldn't reveal who it was...

But for you the reader all I will say is that for the first time in over three decades it would be quite accurate to state that within the chest of the Prime Minister of Great Britain there truly was the beating heart of a nationalist...

Wednesday 28th July 2010: Charlotte Cougar's 'Mayhem's Messenger' Blog - Response

Juki and I have no desire to injure Charlotte Cougar with our comments over this blog but we feel that we have no choice but to challenge her over the veracity of this piece as it is indirectly critical of us.

The first point to be made is that she suggests her slave was loaned to us - this is not the case. I offered, in the role of a friend, to get her out of a tight corner because her slave was in a very low state mentally and needed company. She couldn't put him up because her family was staying with her at the time. It was the first time in my life that I agreed to allow a stranger to stay with me for a couple of days. I knew very little about him but I trusted her.

I met her and him at Portsmouth Harbour - paid for his ferry fares (a return ticket) and took him back to the Island. We did not expect to play but she asked us to punish him by proxy - we obliged, and he loved it but it was us who called a halt to the session, not him.

The next day her slave composed a blog on my computer entitled: Symphony of Pain. The blog waxed positively about his session. However, Charlotte Cougar ordered him to hide it, but there are a few on IC who recall it.

We warmed to her slave as he was intelligent and entertaining and we were unaware (not told) of certain problems at this juncture. We treated him with hospitality and generosity and he cleaned my flat in return. Everything seemed great and my reservations melted away.

That afternoon, the following day, he sought to be punished again. He relished it. I wasn't so certain but thought that it may take his mind off his worries and I agreed.

Because I had been previously invited to a party with some recent friends from IC I asked them if he could also come along as I didn't want him to be alone and brooding. They kindly agreed.

That evening I took him across with me to Portsmouth so that we could be picked up and taken to the party - again I paid for his ferry fares, and remember I'm unemployed too with only my savings to live on.

At the party he disgraced himself and highly embarrassed me. I am not going to go into details but those people there know what happened. The evening was ruined for all those nice people who had invited me, so much so that I deleted my profile. If that was BDSM I wanted no part of it.

I think his behaviour was due to his alcohol problem which I knew nothing of - I wish I had, but even if I had I'm not at all sure I could have controlled him as my health and fitness is not what it once was - he was a strong, younger and fitter man.

We got back to the Island - I apologised profusely to the host - and whilst waiting at the catamaran for the last sailing I was concerned that he may have kicked off and got us banned. Fortunately he didn't and we got back to the Island. I really had had enough of him at this point.

Early next morning he left - that had been agreed. I had even sorted him out cheap tickets to get back to London. I hasten to add that he had a return coach ticket to Leeds - there was no way that I would have left him without money to get home despite everything.

He left a lovely note thanking me and Juki for our hospitality which seemed so out of character for the mayhem he had caused at the party the night before - to be honest I was just relieved to be rid of him.

I'm aware that Charlotte Cougar met him in London but little else surrounding the circumstances of their meeting, in the same way that she knew nothing of the events that took place whilst he was with us.

He was a lovely fellow in so many ways but he really had some problems, problems which can only, in my opinion be dealt with professionally. Juki and I really do wish that he can get over them - we thought he had for a while.

Also, in the blog it was suggested that Juki and I had a full relationship at the time. This was untrue though we had experimented with corporal punishment, and Charlotte Cougar was fully aware of that. Our relationship has changed since.

I'm sorry that I and Juki have had to air this in the arena of IC, but the insinuations have to be challenged.

Once again, we do not seek to fall out with Charlotte Cougar - I regarded her highly as a friend - but what choice do I/we have?

Friday 13th August 2010: I Fell in Love with Juki - Blog

This morning I dreamt that Juki was swimming in the sea and that her head kept dipping beneath the waves. I was on the shore and I knew that if I didn't run into the sea and get her then she would drown. As I stumbled across the rocks I woke up and realised that I had fallen in love with her after all this time.

Tuesday 21st September 2010: And You Thought the Collection Money Was For Repairing the Roof - Blog

I was chatting in the High Street on Saturday to a friend of ours, who happens to know what we are into by the way, and he then recounted this rather enlightening little tale after we were discussing the Pope's visit.

Some years ago he was doing some repair work to one of the Island churches when he became aware of some faint hollering. A little concerned he traced the disturbance to a small room at the other end of the church. He very discretely peered through the keyhole and could see this teenage lad with his trousers down over the knee of the priest who was administering him an almighty (guess it would have to be almighty) hiding.

Not knowing quite what to do for the best he stole off and pondered his course of action.

A few days later he saw the lad and told him what he had seen - and would he like him to be a witness if he went to the police?

The boy replied: "Don't do that for fuck's sake, he gives me a fiver each time!"

My friend was a bit taken aback and ended up doing nothing.

So, now you know why you still get dripped on whilst praying...

Friday 24th September 2010: Sadness - Blog

Sadness at the loss of a kind and generous lady who welcomed me and my son into her family over seventeen years ago without prejudice. Some background:

I was born in 1957 on the Isle of Wight. My mother's name was Shirley and my father's was Jack. They weren't married which makes me officially a bastard, and strange that when I was a bus driver so many passengers and fellow road users also seemed to be intimately aware of my family circumstances! Anyway, the relationship was doomed for many reasons and they drifted apart. After a couple of years my father met a nurse at The Chest Hospital in Ventnor after he contracted TB - possibly due to his heavy drinking - and had a relationship with her which ended up with the arrival of my half-sister. They tied the knot and then moved to Exeter in 1960 leaving me for over thirty six years with just a couple of black and white snaps and a hazy recollection of being cradled in a man's arms with a fag hanging out of his mouth.

Over the years I was curious to find out what happened to my father but life got in the way and I never conducted a serious search but after my mother died suddenly in 1988 I became rather more interested to see what had become of my father and half-sister. Once again the pressing demands of day to day existence took over and it wasn't till I had a period of sickness in 1994 that I finally made the effort to have them traced.

To cut a long story short I discovered they were all living in Devon. My sister was married with two young children and to my surprise I also had twin half-brothers (fraternal rather than identical) fourteen years younger than me - the information having been furnished to me by my father's wife. I then wrote a letter to my father but heartbreakingly he didn't feel he could cope with seeing me - he did write and spoke to me once on the phone. I didn't push him, believing that in time, his curiosity would get the better of him - it never did and he died without us ever meeting.

His wife, who incidentally was German, couldn't have been more welcoming and over the years I not only grew close to my half siblings but also to her. She treated me as her son and my son as her grandson. She didn't have a lot of money, was in poor health, but was always generous and kind, and full of insights. To be honest, I don't think I loved her but I did have strong feelings for her along with a whole load of respect.

A week ago last Sunday she passed away.

Wednesday, just gone, Juki and I travelled down to Devon for the funeral which was on Thursday morning (yesterday). The service was a simple affair with no more than about a dozen mourners but it was moving and at one point my eyes dampened - it's not what she would have wanted because she believed in living life to the full in spite of obstacles.

Afterwards we all went to the pub, which had laid on a good spread, and had a raucous couple of hours.

Juki and I caught the 1518 train and arrived back on the Island about twenty to nine - worn out. When we got back to the flat Juki handed me the sheet for the service, so forgive me for concluding with this poem from Sylvia Lewis:

Although you cannot see me

I am not far away.

I'm in your mind and memories

Today and every day.

So dry your eyes and weep no more

Treasure what we had before

Smile when you remember the times we had

Try not to feel lonely or sad.

Life will go on without me

That's how it's meant to be

So make the most of it my family

For life is precious you see.

Let my love be your strength and anchor

Each and every day

To help you through this journey

That you take, come what may.

Be glad for the time spent together

The love that we shared through the years

Be happy now my family

And wipe away those tears.

Monday 4th October 2010: Juki and I Are Getting Married - Blog

Today, Juki and I arranged our wedding for Monday 25th October 2010. Just thought I'd let those that know us on here know.

Saturday 16th October 2010: I'm a Viking - Blog

I have just received my Certificate of Ancestry and I belong to Y-chromosome Haplogroup I1 which is found predominantly in Viking/Scandinavians but has its origins in northern France.

I guess that explains a lot, including the recent urge to cruise along the Fjords of Norway.

Sunday 24th October 2010: Just to Say Thanks to Everyone - Blog

And I mean everyone, who posted and memo-ed their good wishes for our wedding tomorrow.

We are both extremely excited about it and hoping there won't be any hitches. We are also hoping to both have some marks under our clothes too.

Thanks again!

Matt and Juki

Monday 25th October 2010: Bus Ride to Oblivion - Blog

I have a little time before I have to get ready for our wedding but I just have to share with you how helpless we are at the fickle hands of fate...

Yesterday Juki and I had a lazy day and didn't get out till about half three when we had to go shopping. After picking up a few essentials from the Co-Op I suggested, as it was a sunny day, a bit of bus surfing which means getting on the first bus that comes along and going for a ride.

At 1555 we boarded the Service 8 which goes from Ryde to Newport via Bembridge and Sandown - it's a very scenic route passing by St Helens Harbour and along Sandown Bay.

We managed to get the front two seats on the right hand side of the upper deck and were thoroughly enjoying the passing vista. Just after Whitecliff Bay I was looking out the right-hand window when I saw a small plane whizz pass before it touched down on the runway at Bembridge Airport - not an unusual event till Juki turned to me and said: "That plane just missed us by about a couple of feet!"

"What do you mean?"

"It passed at the same height as us but only about three feet away. We're really lucky, if we'd been only a few feet closer it would have crashed into us. He must have been lower than normal preparing to touch down."

Reflecting it on this morning we can't say for definite that we would have been killed but a light aircraft smashing into the top deck of a bus is going to lead to serious damage and injury - probably would have knocked the bus over at the very least. The other strange thing is that I was looking in the opposite direction so wouldn't even have seen it coming - one second, happy and content, the next, possibly dead and oblivious.

Can you imagine the headlines: Couple Planning to Wed Next Day Killed in Freak Accident!

Mind you the papers the next week might display different headlines: Sadomasochistic Riddle of Tragic Death Crash Couple...


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