CERTAINLY RATHER DENSE, NEEDS TO SETTLE A WEEK..:/ Crap...in progress..x Crap...in progress..x Domestic, day 47 ...piece needs draft - I was getting self-conscious...anyways...back in LITRO at the end of the week. Love Mat.
LOOK, LOOK humour story evil mother published Dear World, Happy Easter. … Two things. Firstly I have a story published on the [bladdy] front page of a massive mag. North & South And, down at the [mh] unit, my songs for the week: plus Love you Mat
Saturday morning, might polish my baby, or I might delete myself, again xx Good in parts [over-write, maybe some words out?] ... Some folk do not appreciate the majesty of a bus. ...on the writer forum a gremlin-type individual proclaimed: ‘I would rather go shanks’ pony than ever ride a fakking dirty bus…’ he snorted in his pig dialect. My skin prickled, on-line of course, and I dealt with this individual using private messaging: ‘Death, death, death to you mothafucker from anonymouse and everybody hates you prick…’ [It was] my usual warning that was posted, and I picked up a two week cease and desist 'ban' once more/and again for my efforts as the leading citizen-writer of the century. I pictured the stamping on that guy’s face - in the Orwellian manner after catching an aeroplane to his house - whilst sitting on a bus. My Tommy had chosen to sit downstairs [on] this occasion. I sat away from Tommy among the trolleys, and among the senior ladies and the gentlemen with their sticks - in like the crucible section. Tommy was owning the back seat frightening children returning from school. They were bunched up against one window. He was down the other end of the bench and looked straight ahead through his milk bottles. He hasn’t cut his hair in eight years. Nobody can ever touch Tommy’s hair. If we owned a cave Tommy would blend naturalistically [minus his spectacles] but we don’t own a cave. We have the ward to sleep in. Still sometimes people light fires in the ward. There are parallels and similarities running through the aeons. Tommy spent most of his day eating. I spent my day cleaning. I’m not saying occasionally I don’t pop one of those potato waffles into my own mouth, well actually I do not do that. I do not eat patients’ food. I’ll drink patients’ milk. Sometimes Tommy buys milk and the plastic carton looks at him in a funny way. He throws the funny milk in the dustbin, and afterward throws my milk into the dustbin also, and then he pisses in the dustbin. ‘Bad luck, milk’ I say, and ‘I suppose the lavatory was out of the question?’ ‘I don’t like you,’ says Tommy. ‘Ow,’ I say, ‘Baby don’t hurt me…’ I don’t say that neither. ‘But really Tommy I do not need knifing, despite your opinion…’ That was the day before. I needed knifing. I brought Tommy the blue towel after his bath. How was I to know? So the interesting thing was that as my shift drew toward the final three hours of total endurance, Tommy decided on a bus trip away because he loves buses. I have to go along, my duty, my lifetime’s calling. I suppose, in time’s past, predecessors had the freedom to order: ‘No Tommy, sit down and shut up, watch the coronavirus on our television,' but in these enlightened times I go on the bus trip. Light was fading, the rain hurled horizontal over the miserable northern city. When we stepped out of the ward I tried a: ‘Where are we going Tommy?’ ‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘Oh good,’ I replied. But anyway here we are on the bus. It’s so nice and warm, not like the bus stops. At seven o’clock pm we arrived at the coastal resort. What a wonderful coastal resort I cannot see. Tommy walked me down and away from the promenade, down the back streets and through a housing estate. He found a chip shop, all glowing on one lonely corner. I handed him ten pounds of real paper, and stood outside that glass with my hands in pockets but looking kind of important, a badge pinned under my zipper, not that one, in case of hoodlums, or punching of walls, or oaths thrown at pigeons, y’know. Tommy entered the chippy. ‘Do you know how to cook fish?’ he said to the boss manager. Now in my experience there are two kinds of people in this world. Some guys do get it, they say, a smile on the lips: ‘I have been cooking fish for thirty years, my lord.’ Other people maybe look at their feet, or bite a cheek. ‘Is your premises clean with a current health ranking of total excellence?’ said Tommy. I cheered when Tommy exited the third and the final fish and chip shop of our evening - there in the suburbs of nowhere - with his three bags of chips cradled aside two sausages, a fishcake, and six cartons of curry sauce. We headed back on feet toward the bus station, & avoided so many loonies under lamp posts, and awaited our bus ride back to a welcoming ward. ...
Anglo-Saxon Play for Today. Easy write, old themes. Total crap. Anglo Saxon Sitting here now at the desk I might twist my neck, and I did so just then, to see the South Bay where Hardrada’s longships ploughed up the soft sand, and that cut-throat Tostig leaped overboard, his face all red-whiskered. He cackled, waved his sword artlessly… …Whilst away – good-looking English ladies clutched at sackcloth, hemp petticoats, and herrings in the basket and baby on the back they took flight from Tostig. Probably some lad swam the Ouze to inform the hero of this story, our Harold. ‘Harold,’ he said ‘the fucking Vikings, I’m sorry m’lud, the Vikings have arrived in their yellow Wellingtons.’ ‘Eh bollocks,’ said Harold in his middle English, and, as we know he destroyed those Viking fools at Stamford Bridge, heads rolled in the rapids, waters turned ruby red. ‘I’m sorry m’lud,’ said another lad… ‘It’s your majesty actually if you don’t mind…’ said Harold wiping blood from his pinkie. ‘I’m sorry majesty. Normans landed at Pevensey.’ ‘Where’s that?’ ‘Well, we’ll just have to march and see.. Somewhere down there, and south.’ Harold, good Harold marched and was killed at Battle, near Pevensey, near Hastings by William the Conqueror, and for 1000 years hence we have been ruled by conquerors. Those Normans with their uppity mannerisms etcetera and beef when we had cows all along etcetera. Normans were fringed and swarthy. Vikings were blonde and bushy, by and large. SO where did I, and where do I fit into this family tree? I always wondered. That’s why I approached the genealogists of YorkshirefamilyOaks.org. I had much time on my hands after the quadruple by-pass, during my prostate removal and the kidney cancers. I needed distraction from bottles of liquid morphine, and from the stitches across my nipples, a new interest or hobby to replace the previous sexual predilection for which I was once well-renowned in villages. To lay some background carpets. When my Norma first set eyes on me she said ‘you was and is the embodiment of Bjorn-Becker scando-sexuality only writ large in shit clothes with a pony-tail..’ she said when I had hair… So you must understand my many good readers how I am a blonde gentleman in theory when not radiated… yet my skin remains dark. This is the great mystery. I feel your attentions deepening. Excuse me. And when I say dark I don’t mean Portuguese, that would be undignified, revolting in situ. I’m talking proud on the beach after only three days of amateur tanning. Perhaps I was a Viking man? Or was I a Norman in a wig? Or was I….my greatest fear…was I really Welsh? To this point I have disregarded Great Grandfather Thomas, the long journey from Cardiff to success at Kings Cross station as the ticket station stub sub-collector, and his subsequent proud barrelling toward the Langford-Thomas’ [of Woolworth fame]. No, I shall disregard the western line, the theory, 1881 census, occupation cow herd, location woods. Regular readers have heard it all before. No. My greatest wish, and I feel it in my waters, just about. My wish before the DNA analysis arrives from the Silvikrin laboratories is that the legend of Barnsley, so-called, bears fruit of inheritance. The legend being how Great granny were a gypsy princess discovered under the lamp post, and that she, in turn, absconded with that very same Jewish policeman, arresting officer. Could I be the Jewish gypsy? I could not be prouder. A Freeborn man
I visited the BBC Radio York studios the night of the coronavirus frenzy - for the playing of my story and an interview: https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p080b1zr It starts at the midway @1.07, hope you enjoy it, and what do you think of Harry?
Cracker’s Crack d1 by brightonsauce Wouterhagens [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)%5D … ‘Chairman Noir, Chairman Noir, I like it..!’ Cracker spun in the chair, ‘a Chairman Noir,’ he mouthed the words the one last time. He liked these words, very much so. He placed his palms on the arm rests and shuffled his ample bulk into the recess of the plush leather chair. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from. Executive range is always available to those who bring results for the Mcshaft Rib and Shake corporation. Let’s see those figures again,’ said Tom Bullitt, Standing at the window, his tie swung at his waist, his hands were pushed into slim hips. Across the desk, Cracker leaned forward in his new chair. He licked his lips and reached for the mouse. One click and Debbie’s astute financial account spreadsheet filled his screen. ‘Impressive work,’ said Bullitt. ‘Thank you,’ said Cracker. ‘You know a man like you might achieve regional vice assistant manager. Think you could handle the extra challenge? said Bullitt. ‘Always with the right team at my back. I mean any team of yours at Mcshaft is bound to have the right stuff I call it.’ ‘Good, good answer,’ said Bullitt, he stroked his jaw. ‘And how is this team, your team today here at the plaza?’ Cracker’s eyes shifted to the row of CCTV screens adjacent to his bureau. The new guy Roland, and Nancy and Micalia from Bratislava were slouched at a work station exchanging smiles. This was the opportunity for Cracker to demonstrate a higher managerial quality in action. He leaned into the microphone: ‘Workstation Eight, Workstation Eight. Get yourselves to the cold store. I want full inventory on beef, lamb and chicken portioning. Get to it.’ The figures, the grey silhouettes, departed the one screen, and they passed through into two others. With a click of his mouse Cracker observed the stairwell journey down toward basement destination. ‘Seems you run a tight ship,’ said Bullitt. ‘Thank you,’ ‘How about you make it a little tighter? Portland’s operating with just the two greeters at their door. I heard Enrico Nandez is causing quite a stir at head office, played a round of golf with old Mcshaft Snr , Lucky Springs. Old man said he hadn’t laughed like that since his wife passed. Cracker bit his cheek. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Cracker. Next Friday’s the Motivation weekender, I’ll see you there.’ ‘Sure, sure,’ said Cracker, and he was left alone in his chair. For a while he watched proceedings on his screens, the restaurant service approaching midday. Then he clicked to Facebook. There they were in the sub-directory, his team of thirty. Roland’s homepage stood impressive as ever, the stars and bars in background, the 7000 friends and his status ‘buy one get one half-price cocktail at Mcshaft every Tuesday.’ ‘Good boy,’ said Cracker. Micalia’s page was pretty with her cats, the national grandparents’ day reminder, and the portfolio of her snaps at the beach among the girls. Cracker recalled from interview their shared passion for beach volley-ball. Otherwise there was her page after page of Slovakian News, updates in Slovakian again. Maybe Cracker might have a ‘little word about the foreign.’ He clicked on to Nancy’s homepage. Some shit about a petition and the library. And what was this in the comments: health care, one-parent families? He clicked a sub-directory. Creative writing? He made his decision. He messaged Debbie, ‘send her up.’
Y'know, waking and I see @Iain's compared me to a woodlouse. I thought to chew back a little, just my poem comes across a bit crazy so I hid it, you know I'm not really Greta Thunburg chasing Iain across the planet. That would be ridiculous. I am Greta Thunburg. I stand at the rail where my mast is proud, the sail full. Vengeance burns in eyes for all of the children of the world. Crossing the Atlantic Ocean by digital power my showdown awaits United Nations. Now is time, or is now too late to picture my enemy? Fleshy wrists, the tummy, the tweed shorts, cravat and the spats on his feet. 'Semper Fidelis,' he croaks, squat toad aside a whiteboard throne, toad of the bearded breathing, and an ancestor by night times only, returns to his secret and his greatest dungeon under UN headquarters obviously; ...he meets his halfling, princess slave-wife, the accessory Thermidora. They baste the ox bellies here, and underground chitlings are chewed on their lips, sweetbreads savoured among tongues dripping blood; hosts of piglets squeal from the hooks. The 21 day grass fed baby calves roast to death, their hooves lined, blackened on regal barbecues purchased at the Amazon, shining. [FIX] Journey is so long. 'By Odin I must have judgement upon thee people, thee @Iain Aschendale, primus intra carnivoren, master of meatens, I destroy the beef. Feel the fear, feel meat sweats as I approach over waters. My fish swim below, and our dolphins leap yonder at this great vegan prow... ..'
Cookery Vegan Wellington [boot] free draft supplement for eyes of patraeoons only. Edit to come after biscuit. Washing up is perhaps my primary or my principle skill. Certainly I am the best ‘washer-upper’ inside this house. My wife Betty raised among the school of soak leaves a variety of pans on our surfaces filled to the brim. She says I flounce down the stairs, but I say: ‘Where to sooth my lady [or similar]: are the saucepans bathing?’ I have a good chuckle at this wit – it is very funny – and scrub down my little indians, the knives and the forks, rub the pot bellies of my assorted mugs. Nothing satisfies like a line of mugs on the draining board, or perhaps the greatest satisfaction is the wall cupboard creaking with mugs. When she opens the cupboard a mug shall fall on her head. ‘Well, well look where you are going, next time.’ The small victories sustain domestic combat to the end game choice of hospital or graveyard. [n v funny, please edit away] Washing up – because over the duration of the festive agony I kept abreast of the world events whilst washing plates via the wireless ‘housed’ in my kitchen. When not listening to the “Womens Hour” or the fourteenth instalment of some terrible play about Trains and Warlocks because there is nobody at the station, the radio station, pathetic, I learned on the cookery show about vegan lifestyle, and veganism taking the planet by storm as a pursuit. Slowly during the repeat episode I came around to their way of thinking. I suppose Greek Night was the key to the door. After a festival week of farting off the nitrates that now literally cling to the ceiling above me – here as I type, [and] after that humiliation with daughter staying, and her threat to ‘punch’ me ‘in my sleep’ because of the snoring… Or ‘seagulls’ as I informed the ignorant puppy… …Greek night came as a revelation. The slimy strips of aubergine weren’t too bad. The pitta bread piled with homus and an olive steak were adorable to my tuned taste buds. That night only silence echoed around the bedroom, a full eight hours sleep for everybody else in the house. As to health and fitness, I still struggle with my son’s accusation that I had stuffed the turkey under my jersey as some kind of malting preparation from the department of USA turkeys where they soak birds in orange squash and fanta and sugar puffs floating on the surface of the bird bucket. ‘Am I fat?’ I said to my wife again. She assured me how bones were big and my thyroid haywire. Where was I? So vegan veganism is THE future ONCE we have despatched the remnants of the pork from Saturday and yesterday, New Year’s Day’s beef that I slow-broiled for that distinctive flavour of grit. We dine tonight[!] on the last roast pork and beef platter, and pigs in blankets. Resolution to save the world and be vegan.