Come and inspire me, come and pull my strings, save me from silent glaring mannequins

I’m in need of a waterfall crashing down steep hills in cascades of feelings

You, I will let you

Whiskey with ice is a crime committed by swines and pitch-black hearts

Break the glass, select the largest shard – stab convention keeping us apart

You, I will let you do

Breathe heavy and deep, drown my faded pink, exhale burgundy reds with your lips on my neck

I walk, you follow, I talk, you swallow, inevitable thoughts of your tongue down my throat

You, I will let you do anything

We glide down parallel lines, I’m here and you’re there, you want me, throw the dice, live & dare

Take your time, please come fast, we’ve fallen, crossed over, it’s so late – too late in the day to be scared

You, I will let you do anything to

It’s not you, it’s me—it’s not me, it’s you—we’re so much of the same – balanced on opposite sides of the scales

On my skin, on my heart, it’s not a stain, it’s your name—you’re calling mine, in the dark—it is right, it is sane

You, I will let you do anything to me

*Is anybody else exhausted due to General Election? What a week it’s been. Special thanks to my friend Adam for closing it in style with me late last night, or rather early this morning*

Is Social Media making us miserable?

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

Social media, as with having children, you have to ask, what the hell did we do before? Presumably we whittled sticks, recorded TOTP on video compilations and skipped through the long grass?

‘I’ve left Facebook’ is greeted initially with shock, laced with considerable disbelief. And that’s before you’ve even told anyone. Ironically it might be your most popular update, that you’ll never get to see. There’s a stubbornness to it; like leaving a great party early, albeit a party at which people are sharing photos of food, children and fierce political party allegiances. And clips of dogs falling off bar stools. It must be that which keeps us all there. The dogs I mean.

Social media is a strange place that demands revisiting like an itch that’s impossible to locate. We are certainly addicted. If someone was checking for their car keys with such frequency they’d be advised to seek…

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I am so angry I am ready to take up arms and fight.

Fuck the left, fuck the liberals who have helped unleash this plague on us.

They stop us from really debating anything from politics to religion, they stop us from REALLY talking about ANYTHING at all.

They might as well hold the terrorists’ hands while they’re planning how many innocent lives they can take.

Anybody who retreats in the safety of “love wins”, “pray for —whichever city is being attacked”, changing their Facebook profile picture as “support”…they’re all complicit in the senseless murders.

We ARE at war. Terrorists are waging war on us in the most cowardly manner, and we do nothing but hold candlelight vigils.

I wonder how the families of the victims feel when they see somebody start singing “don’t look back in anger” – mere days after the attack, when the mangled bodies of children are barely cold.

We are sheep waiting for the slaughter, waiting with love and hope in our hearts – how fucking stupid.

It is time to take action – enough is enough! We need to take a hard line on terrorism and what breeds it. We need to start TALKING without fear of being branded “haters” and “racists”.

For every single person who preaches love in the face of cold-blooded murder, there are dozens of others getting angry and ready to act rashly, as in attacking innocent peaceful Muslims.

Do we want that? No, of course not. But we are letting it happen with our pathetic passivity and political correctness.

Every day we pray is another day towards the inevitable: more murders, more blood, more tears and pain, more bodies littering the streets and more devastated families. And more dangerous anger.

Too crude for me

Those men with poor imagination and wild ambitions – they fancy themselves as lions but are really defective copies at best and ugly hyenas at worst.

They big themselves up, inflate their own egos until it’s as sad and bloated as a retired whore.

They don’t do this alone though: the one-eyed man rules over a blind submissive army which coos and strokes and giggles while the rest of us look on and wonder, divided between disgust and laughter.

Writing shitty poetry is not a crime, and neither is being emotionally stunted, but having an innate lack of respect for women despite claiming loud and clear to the contrary is.

Who do you think you are? An enticing mix of dark and art, right?

Oh, how I laugh!

Your dark is small and sad and pitiful.

You are so very weak, dreaming of a queen and picking up debris – which is just what you deserve.

You told me to suck your cock, proud as a peacock you were! Proud to be abusive, justifying the implied threat of rape with the sorriest of excuses –
I had criticised, I had been fierce, so why not shove your cock in my face?

Abuse is never acceptable and despite your sob stories and pathetic excuses, it’s never justifiable.

There is nothing worse than the man who declares his victim responsible for his own appalling behaviour.

If only you could realise your dominating dreams from another age are the worse sort of bait.

You were never worthy of me, and a fool not to perceive I always had the power to crush you under my exquisite heel.

Escape, start again somewhere new – but let me tell you: you can’t escape yourself, no matter how hard you try.

You are nothing. You will never be anything. I held my tongue for so very long out of a kindness you did not merit, but now it can be said: I have never liked Modigliani – as an artist, much too crude for me. And how true that turned out to be.

Is the Midlife Crisis in crisis?

A light-hearted post from the only friend I have who shares both my love of 80’s music (though he hates the term – sorry, Tom) and my devotion to P.G. Wodehouse – this is an entertaining little piece of writing, most welcome after the horrific start to our week here in the UK

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

During a recent radio interview promoting my debut novel (cue: promotion alert klaxon), I was asked about the Life Assistance Agency’s theme of longevity. That, and the advisability of driving to the Antarctic in a family car, which is certainly one way to achieve a never-ending car journey to plant a flag.

It has been a long-burning ambition of humankind to live forever, but humans have also been responsible for Smell-o-Vision, and Clippy, the MS Word Office assistant who offered even less useful assistance than the Life Assistance Agency, and only ever helped by minimising itself, so just because there’s been an idea doesn’t necessarily make it a good one.

I was being interviewed on BBC Radio Drive Time again, and I now question discussing the inadvisability of eternal life, due to it resulting in watching all the people you love age while you don’t. However, I fear they are still winching cars from hedges throughout…

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Shame you were busy
I went to a masquerade
Plied my trade
As a medieval whore
Behind the doors
Of a gloomy castle
Received a rose
From a lovable rascal
Lived, breathed, loved
Not a minute was lost
I only wish your lunchtime
Had been as exciting as mine
You were keeping the books
While I dived straight into one
No need to ask
Which one of us missed out


Sun in the sea

The sun dips into the sea, making it blaze while the waves, amazed, shyly retreat.

I’m the only witness to this explosive orgy of flames as you’re standing behind me with your arms around my waist and your face buried in my tangled hair.

For that one brief moment, as you inhale deeply with your eyes closed and I attempt to fully grasp this extraordinary spectacle, we are one and the same — fierce, invincible, we are the guardians of the Galaxy.



It is folly to assume
A pure heart humming gentle tunes
Cannot embrace darkness
’tis a mistake to confuse
Kindness with weakness
Should my anger be roused
I will strike terror into the very fibers of your being
Feed ravenously on your tears
Making you feel the full measure of my wrath
My hand shall not tremble
My resolve will not crumble
With the stars in my arsenal
The stormy skies at my disposal
I shall smite
The cowards
With Thor’s mighty hammer
And the strength of my ancestors
Guiding my hand
Murderous blows—
Underneath the gaze of statues made of stone—
Set your remains on fire
Watch them burn
Inhale the smoke
Coming off the charred bones
Lips stained scarlet
The taste of blood in my mouth
I’ll spread dread
A plague of despair
Devastation on such a scale
Even vultures will flee
The desolate fields
Visited by my fury
Future generations
Might try
To sow a million seeds
That will die in a ground henceforth sterile
Nothing shall ever grow
Because let it be known
I shall always be victorious
And reign above the ruins of my enemies

La différence

You called me Marie Antoinette
in (pretend) jest
Knowing full well she wasn’t even French
You took aim, sipping Earl Grey
I loaded my pistol with clever quips and intellect
You replied with British wit, threw Maugham in my face
Quoted William Blake
Defied me with Oscar Wilde
I had Voltaire, Molière and Baudelaire
You decried our catholic habits
I riposted with a line on heretics
It got worse – a sick thirst for the absurd
Propelling some kind of makeshift hearse

Nothing is as sordid as a Republic

I am disgusted by your monarchy

’twas a war between two countries
Like most wars, of course unnecessary

This battle with no soldiers and two generals could not end well

On a morning bathed in silvery light, the frost invaded the forest and a passing stag raised its head, aware of the taste of death in the air

You shot one last time, for real at last
I was hit through the heart
I fell draped in my flag
A tragic Marianne
Blood spreading on my chest
Staining my Coco Chanel
Taking on the shape
Of red poisonous flowers – the stuff of Lovecraft Nightmares

The sky suddenly burst open and it rained champagne
Like it should have on Hugo’s barricades
When Gavroche gave his last breath among other Miserables
With a song on his lips and without complaint
Never let it be said
The French are in any way mundane
We even die with a fanfare
And you, executer and witness
You covered me with your Burberry trench – must have been quite a wrench
Your British anguish
On realising how foolish
You’d been
Was nothing less than extraordinary
Unfortunately it was too late
La différence could no longer be embraced

Things people always say to Writers.

Great piece by my brilliant friend Tom

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

It was recently said I look like a writer, which I tried to pretend wasn’t shorthand for appearing socially inept, malnourished and skint. They then asked me what genre my novel is.

It’s a regular question, and in light of people invariably asking the same things upon hearing that you are a writer, it would be a good idea to have well-prepared answers, which makes my lack of them even more inexplicable.

The most common is, ‘Are you published?” like it’s something that inevitable happens to every writer. Of course you want to grab them by the lapels and scream ‘D’you have any fucking idea how hard it is to get published?’ It’s not something you choose as an option at A-level . If I was published I would be (even more) unbearable, and you’d not be able to enter my house due to piles of unsold copies of the novel…

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