Melanie Phillips, the Gay Agenda and her penchant for Cahooning great Whoppers

50 sHaDeS oF iDiOcY: pArT 4

It may have come to your attention that I seem to be thwomping on endlessly about Daily Mail writers at the moment. You probably think they're an easy target for liberal lefties such as myself but you'd be wrong. 

They're even an easy target for barely sentient unicellular organisms such as the amoeba. It's just that these infinitesimal, shapeless protists have yet to muster their collective brains to create a subaquatic, microscopic Water Wide Web where they can vent their anger towards the likes of the Mail's Melanie Phillips and her attitude regarding sexuality. They've yet to achieve this because they don't actually have brains but I know that they're fed up with their binary fission (or cell division) reproduction methods, that don't adhere to heterosexual ideology, being demeaned by the likes of Ms Phillips. They informed me of this through the medium of dreams, the cheeky little tinkers.

Melanie Phillips recently penned an article entitled:

'Yes, gays have often been the victims of prejudice. But they now risk becoming the new McCarthyites.'

Now, if you're like me, you're probably enraged by this 'McCarthyites' reference and over-griddling with disbelief like a sizzling, smoking kielbasa:

Just what the fuck does McCarthyites mean?

It's really irritating to not be clever. It's even worse when the Daily Mail write a headline that you don't understand. I put it down to stupid state school education. Surely the unceasingly hubble-bubble of copious marijuana bongs at the time had nothing to do with my lack of attentiveness in lessons.

Anyway, apparently McCarthyites aren't hippies who regularly indulge in textured vegetable protein Cumberland bangers with sun-dried tomatoes, which, by the way are simply delightful. Especially if you're hungry enough to eat a scabby horse. I doubt Black Beauty would have been anywhere near as delectable.

Essentially McCarthyism is defined as the practice of publicising accusations of disloyalty or subversion with insufficient regard to evidence. It is a term derived from Joseph Raymond "Joe" McCarthy, an American politician who served as a U.S. Senator for the state of Wisconsin from 1947 until his death in 1957. His main drive was to state that there were innumerable dangerous Communists, Soviet spies and sympathisers inside the United States federal government that had managed to overcome the obvious cover-blown ruse of trilby-clad agents sitting on park benches with eye-holes bored through broadsheet newspapers as they tried to glean nuclear secrets from passing squirrels.

But still I'm confused. 

How does this equate with the 'Gay Agenda' that Phillips is rallying against? 

She begins:

"Here’s a question ­shortly coming to an examination ­paper near you. What have mathematics, geography or science to do with homosexuality? Nothing at all, you say? Zero marks for you, then. Schoolchildren are to be bombarded with homosexual references in maths, geography and ­science lessons as part of a Government-backed drive to promote the gay agenda."

I wasn't aware that examination papers were coming near me again, shortly. I thought I was done with all that malarkey when I left uni. I'm not sure which subject's exam paper this question will appear on because it covers Maths, Geography and Science - maybe all of them. I reckon it probably incorporates Humanities, Religious Education, History, Art and Country Dance too.

I'm a bit miffed that Melanie Phillips answers the question for us without at least giving anyone a chance to try and offer some kind of elucidation. So, after deciding that her lack of patience or Quizmastering adeptness should be discounted, I'm going to try and answer the questions, posed mainly by myself. Under exam conditions:

Shush, this is serious and there isn't even anyone sitting next to me that I can copy the answers from. Not like the old days - 

Simon, where are you now? Your muffled 'pssts' and passive, sleight of hand pencil throwing stunts are the only reason I achieved GCSE English grades at all, I'm certain! 

Okay, competition time:

Maths:

1) A gay man decided to purchase three bottles of Amyl Nitrate (or Poppers) on-line because he felt a particular website's offer would work out cheaper than a singular purchase. Plus his sphincter had been tighter than the grip of  a giant squid's tendrils of late. He elected for a 10ml bottle of TNT for $27.00, a 10ml phial of Buzz for $32.00 and a 15ml vial of Jungle Juice Gold LARGE for $42.00 and paid the jam price of $100.00. 

Did he get a bargain..?   

Geography:

2) In which of these destinations would you be most likely to stumble across the most flagrant of vagina-decliner or todger-dodger? 

a) Brighton 

b) Heaven 

c) Haringey

d) 'Bell End' street in Wellingborough

Science:

3) Alan Turing was a British mathematician, logician, cryptanalyst and computer scientist. He formalised the concepts of algorithms and computation with the Turing Machine which could be adapted to simulate the logic of any computer algorithm and explain the functions of a CPU inside a computer. He is widely considered to be the father of computer science and artificial intelligence. During World War II, Turing was head of the Government Code and Cypher School (GC&CS) at Bletchley Park, codebreaking the Nazi's cryptanalysis and mastering, before dismantling their settings for the Enigma machine like a simple and enjoyable bounce through Peggle Nights. Following his unparalleled contribution to defeating the Nazis, Turing was charged with gross indecency under Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act, 1885 because he acknowledged having a homosexual relationship with a man called Arnold Murray. On June 7 1954, Alan Turing committed suicide. The question is:

a) Was Turing an absolute bufty who probably stuck the gun up his own batty as he rolled himself a seven, just for that very last thrill?

b) Should Alan Turing be regarded as one of the most important and revered  figures of the 20th Century? 

c) Does the image on the shroud (Alan's duvet) kept in the Cathedral of St John the baptist in Italy really resemble him? The carbon-dating seems to go back way further that the 1950s?

Humanities:

4) Does Melanie Phillips display any of the traits usually attributed to reasonable human beings?

* All answers appear at the bottom of this article.

According to Melanie:

"In geography, for example, they will be told to consider why homosexuals move from the ­countryside to cities." 

It's a bamboozler for sure. I mean, I know why heterosexuals move from the countryside to cities - they're looking for jobs, a bit of life, a slice of action. Maybe even a partner? But as for homosexuals, what on earth could their motivations be? As we all know, the backwater village has always been a pillar of acceptance for the more diverse members of the human race. 

She goes on to state: "In science, they [children] will be directed to ­animal species such as emperor ­penguins and sea horses, where the male takes a lead role in raising its young." All mocking aside, she has a good point here. It's absolutely outrageous to look at nature and watch millions of years of evolution going about its own business with the father nurturing its offspring. I mean who in their right mind could find that acceptable, let alone beautiful?

But apparently, according to Phillips:  "It is an abuse of childhood. And it’s all part of the ruthless campaign by the gay rights lobby to destroy the very ­concept of normal sexual behaviour."

It seems that the gay lobby are somehow communicating with penguins and sea horses. This wasn't something I was aware of but we should definitely be scared. They're obviously some kind of camp amphibious Dr Doolittles with a mysterious 'agenda'. They move into cities and the suchlike or something(?), apparently? Who knows what tactics are being amassed?

"This is but the latest attempt to brainwash children with propaganda under the ­camouflage of ­education. It is an abuse of childhood." It appears that nurturing children accurately as to how nature works is somehow an incongruously devious plot. She follows up with:

"It’s all part of the ruthless campaign by the gay rights lobby to destroy the very ­concept of normal sexual behaviour." 

The sea horses and penguins she mentioned earlier are also apparently not manifesting 'normal sexual behaviour' according to Ms Phillips's ideals.

Are these animals forming lobbies? What could their agenda be? Where are they meeting and why aren't the intelligence services listening in?

Or is it Melanie Phillips's archaic views about certain behaviours that don't constitute 'normality' in her own antiquated, narrow-minded, 1970s Super 8 world in a 21st century digital realm that has clearly left her befuddled?

And she looks like the rustiest of bikes.

* Competition answers:

1) Melanie Phillips is a dipshit dipstick ditzy dingbat

2) Melanie Phillips is a slack-jawed spleenmeisting sausage slurper

3) Melanie Phillips is a nit-witted numb-nutted nicompoop

4) No

All entries to be sent enclosed in the spongy-tissued pouched wall of an impregnated male seahorse to the usual address - roughly about 1,755 feet beneath the Antarctic Ocean. If you've alreay read the answers given above then you will be disqualified from the competition.

If you correctly scored three or more then you're in line for a prize. Entries will be pulled out of a submerged leather policeman's helmet once we've let the penguins loose on him. [We are not responsible for the competition entries that are stolen by amoebas - they're thieving little blobby motherfuckers.] 

A Swift Spraff with Funk Da Bass.

DJ outfit Funk Da Bass (aka Darren Lee and Dr Frost) are nothing if not turntablist veterans of the Ones and Twos. The Ceux et Deux. The Unos y Dos. The 部分和兩. Look, what I'm trying to say is that they like to rip it up like a scratch card. We met in a discreet darkened dungeon hidden beneath the boating lake in Abington Park. For security reasons.

Why Funk Da Bass?

DL: "The name reflects our passion for all music and we never put ourselves into a category. From one end of the scale we might play a funky house set, at the other end, a D&B set. The concept of Funk Da Bass is to mix all styles of dance music together in one session - to create an exciting blend of music."

Ah, good old D&B. Personally, I guzzle at least two litres of the glorious brown nectar every night (usually of the Happy Shopper variety). What's with the puzzled look? I'm talking about Dandelion & Burdock which I assume they are, of course..? 

So, how long have you been in the industry?

DL: " Twelve years and counting."

And what shenanegizzles were going down ten years ago?

DL: "In total ecstasy, puttin' on my raving shooz. We danced all night."

Okay, sounds nice an' easy, somehow cheesy. Heads on the block time then gents, favourite tune ever?

DF: "Most definitely a tough one... 'Tainted Love' by Soft Cell?"

DL: "Definitely not that one. Too many to choose."

'Tainted Love' sounds like an obvious choice to me, what with its syncopated, 1980s-stylee, tonne-eighty BPM Jungle breakbeats and skanky-filth, low-range frequency bass wobble-fest. Although, having said that, I might be thinking of a different tune.(?) 

Come on then, give us your most delectable record purchase:

DL: "'Some Justice' by Mickey Finn and Aphrodite. For a fiver."

DF: "Every one except the one I've just sold to Darren."

(Now check how I've lured them in before flipping this shit upside its own head with skills.)

Now to the serious business then... Give up your most dismally ill-judged vinyl purchase ever. Come on lads, spill the beanage..:

DF: "'I Think We're Alone Now' by Tiffany, 12". Yeah. It rocks."

DL: "I've just bought a Debbie Gibson tune off Frost for a penny. Cool."

Although I've never met you before, you never seem to age. What's your secret?

DF: "I've always looked old, right from the start."

DL: "Jack Daniels and dancing."

What's been the most memorable gig so far? If you can remember.

DF: "Covering The Rat Pack and Nicky Blackmarket's set at Helter Skelter."

DL: "There was one particular night we played at the Roadmender - I say we, but Frost was having trouble both seeing or hearing for certain reasons. The crowd had fun."

Namecheck some gigs/venues where you've rolled like a Cooper's Hill cheese wheel:

DL: "Fuel, Hysteria, Liquid, Helter Skelter, Club Pluto, Break-Up, B2M, Strictly Drum n Bass, Rage, and er, too many pubs and parties under bridges or in barns to mention."

What about projects for the future, assuming we have one?

DL: "We're concentrating on two main club nights at the minute - VIP House, where we've just got a residency and a big new monthly Drum n Bass night that's soon to be launched in Northampton. Check press for details. Apart from that, we're also working on some new tracks in the studio."

If your TV was jammed on one program forever (which is a technical and logical impossibility) which joyous slab of gogglevision would you be as chuffed as a tank engine with?

DF: "Shameless."

DL: "*NTV's Search For A Star."

*For the benefit of readers in, I dunno, say Hollywood or New York or Paris or Ouagadougou, wherever, NTV is the acronym for Northampton TeleVision, a somewhat maverick channel which by all accounts can never be accused of squandering its budget. 

And finally, if you were both marooned on a desert island with just one item (which technically and logically could happen but in all honesty is incredibly unlikely, especially if it happened to the boys independently and not in the same mishap), what would it be?

DF: "An aeroplane."

DL: "A pilot."

Jamfoolery.

tHe SuRpRiSe

a ShOrT sToRy

1. sAtUrDaY eVeNiNg

First ay all, ma boss is nothing short of a dignitary. Nae doubt about that. Ah've butlered fae this particular chiel for a couple ay years now and he's probably the most honest person ah've ever known. Genuinely. This is a guy who I've never once seen compromise his integrity and never once witnessed go back on his word. A rare breed indeed.

It was ma mam who put me ontae him initially. 

He came endorsement-adorned via a couple ay contacts mam had made by way of sweeping the grime off ay rich cunts' Persian rugs and the suchlike and he turned out to be the genuine article. A real-life knab of the highest order.

If anything, the plaudits didn'ae quite do the chappie justice. There's nae airs or graces or any of that gash with him. He somehow casually contradicts expectations ay folks of his calibre or affluence with a clumsy and charming demeanour. He's eloquent, polite, as natural as snowflakes and sports wealth that's overtly obscene. The only (seemingly) self-conscious, awkwardness he ever displays is the occasional facial flush if he's forced to relay bullshit of an administrative disposition your way. 

There's a real altruistic compassion tae this Sassenach. If possible, he'll utilize the less-privileged characters amongst you that may happen tae stumble into his opulent sphere. He'll undoubtedly give ye a leg-up - well, a hooning great hoist if the truth be known. 

By a strange twist ay fortune, he happened to give a ne'er-do-well such as myself the opportunity to take some steps forward. So, with bitter determination and enterprising nous, ah smashed every challenge he thrust my way and before too long, ah wis striding towards being indispensable tae him, ken?

Very quickly, ma new residence unexpectedly became this colossal Georgian Manor House atop a provocatively homesick braeheid that rose quintessentially from deep within the Hertfordshire countryside. It was far flung from the reeking tenements that ah'd been accustomed tae north of the border and ah couldn't have possibly, in ma wildest dreams, envisaged inhabiting such a dwelling, let alone feeling like ah actually belonged there. 

The mansion was situated remotely, somewhere way out beyond the sticks, encircled by sprawling broadleaf woodland that leant pryingly inwards towards our nucleus of activity from every direction. It felt a trillion miles away from ma birthplace and aw the better for it.

The proprietor rapidly became a firm friend of mine and he goes by the name ay Douglas Tempest-Sixsmith ay aw ridiculously-grandiose handles. Tempest-fuckin'-Sixsmith! 

He's deep doon a family blood-line that've bequeathed their prosperity from generation tae generation before their story landed on his shooders fae further script-development. An' ah says good luck tae him. He's nothing like ah imagined this type of radge to be, despite a backgroond that dripped with wedge. 

Tell ye the truth, there isn'ae a great fuckin' deal that ah widn'ae do for the man. 

Tempest-Sixsmith's seen me safe, right from day uno - be it letting me claim hoosin' benayfit from his employees' digs when ah first began working on the estate (an' poortith was still ma main foe) to promoting me tae Head Valet or whatever-tha-fuck ma title currently is. 

This was aw within six months ay conscientious, yet perfectly reasonable toil. 

An' ye ken what? 

There hasn'ae been too many people ay his calibre in ma life thus far. The kind ay upbringing that ah've always been accustomed tae has been largely contaminated by bad eegs caught in the loop ay thievin', tae skag, tae jail, tae brutality, tae a lick ah the rock; from hoose-breakin', tae savagery, tae bullpen, tae settling finally for extinction. Ye get the picture. It goes oan and oan as ye well know. 

But that was never for me.


Tee-Ess, or Dougie as he prefers tae be called, is more than just a boss okay, he's a brethren. A cohort and a confident. He could so easily've told me tae sling ma fuckin' hook on countless an eve over the past months and ah widn'ae have questioned it but he never did.


He never would. Right from the off. Ah've always loved tae blether with him, a brandy or two to the good. Invariably, he's urged me tae digress aboot the sort ay exploits that've occurred in ma life up til now, before our paths crossed.


And cross they have and I suppose our hand was dealt long ago.


Jesus, ye know ah prayed ye wasn'ae real loads of times over the last decade-and-a-half. In protest mostly, admittedly. Now ah'm not so sure. But if you aren'ae the saviour we were promised, then undoubtedly we're fucked.

Beyond belief.

2. mOrNiNg

Shite began fuckin' up royally first thing this morning. Dougie had been planning and preparing tae host toneet's dinner party fae months now - it was always destined to be a significant one. We had an elite selection ay guests due to turn up fae some scran and let's just say, some ay them are more important than others, ken? 

There's this lovely wee missy called Geraldine on the guesty and the boss man's had his eye oan her fae as long as ah can remember. She's a pretty, petite sort and from an aristocratic lineage which suites Dougie's clan right doon tae the shiny marble flooring. But it isn'ae just about that fae him - he truly loves this lassie. And ah'm pretty sure it's reciprocated. Ah've seen the way she looks at him, aw sparkly-eyed and star-crossed. Or aw cross-eyed and stark - it's one ay the pair, anyhow.


Preparations began with the meat, neeps and tatties searing and steaming life into the kitchen. There was maself, head chef Stewie and a couple ay the cooks who've been workin' fae the boss frae time-immemorial manning the stations. Now, due tae the relaxed business practices around here, unsurprisingly, the veggies hadn'ae been stocked up sufficiently to cater fae all attendees, so ah scanned about fae the big man tae rectify the situation.

He was on the front lawn spraffing away to Jay, the lazy-arsed garden-slouchin' motherfucker as usual, so ah opened a window, menu in hand, and interrupted them:

'Someone needs tae scoot down to the market fae, er fennel, Jerusalem artichokey-type things, um, Kohlrabi (or whatever) and the suchlike..'

Dougie raises a hand and says nae bother, he'll shoot down there himself.

Before long, a V8 Vantage roar followed by a clood ay gravel announced his departure as Douglas Tempest-Sixsmith span doon the driveway towards Bovingdon Open Air Market and into a tornado of trouble. 

3. aFtErNoOn

So we're dancin' aroond the kitchen tae Katy Perry's Teenage Dream, an aam singin' obstreperously intae Heed Chef (and lifelong Reds fan) Stewie's simpering an' ruddily-peeved coupon. Aam changing the lyrics freestyle-like, tae aspertions about Liverpool Fitba Club as they've been laughably troonced by the fuckin' Cobblers frae Nurthampton Toon in the week. Oblivious tae this pish, the houghs ay lamb are roasting away happily in the ovens. 


'Useless bastards,' I willnae let up, aw sing-song like as Dougie comes unexpectedly crashing through the double doors and slumps ontae one of the chopping surfaces lookin' nae too braw and greener than the mortared mint leaves. 


He isn'ae fuckin' aboot.


'What the fuck?' yawps Stewie, dropping his tongs as he scampers over tae the main man. 'You okay boss? What's happened?'


Douglas disn'ae answer. He just stares beyond the kitchen walls, his eyes nae blinking and his hands shaking violently.


'Dougie, chap. Dougie, what the fuck's gone oan laddie?' ah plead. For some reason a sinking feeling starts tae consume me. It's that thoosain-yard stare plastered across his face, coupled with the unholy colour ay his cheeks that are starting tae unsettle me. He's in a bad way and I get the feeling it could mean trouble for us all.


'Dougie, it's me Leighton. Yer auld mucker. What the fuck chap? You're okay now... You're okay now.' I try tae sound assured, rubbing his back and shooders but I've never seen a bodie look this scared or defeated. Never once.

4. tEaTiMe

Eventually, away from the others, Douglas breaks his silence and confides in me the events that occurred while he was busy procuring brussel sproots:

'Leighton, I'm in big trouble.'

We're sat consuming an exquisite (and much needed) Cognac in the enduringly-dusty, antiquated study. He's pleading: 


'You have to listen to me very carefully and I swear that every single word I relay is the gospel truth. Please believe me.'


'Of course ah fuckin' will Doug, Jesus. You've been ay the bunemaist order tae me since I've known ye. Like a brair ma friend and ah'd never doubt yer word oan anything. What's occurred laddie? Aam behauden to ye - you know that. Aam always here for ye, ken?'


Douglas closes his eyes for a juncture that goes oan fae far too long and then he starts talking: 


'When I arrived at the market everything seemed as charmingly agreeable as usual. I strolled past the jewellery rotunda and exchanged the obligatory jolly prattle with Derrick - is it Derrick? Oh you know the chap I mean? Portly fellow who runs the Frogmore Farm Shop stall - him with the auburn sideburns and that radio-mic thingy?'


'Ah, ye mean Barry,' ah laugh. Huge ginger chops oan the side ay his heed!'


'Yes indeed, that's the chap. A good fellow - supplies us with prime cuts of venison when the occasion demands. Well anyway, we exchanged a few pleasantries and he teased me a little about this evening's events and whether Geraldine was attending and then on I pottered to the fruit and vegetable stall.

And that's when things took, well, something of a turn.'


'A turn?' ah offer, puzzled. 


Then he drops this oan me:


'As I turned the corner, between the mobile phone stall and that curious New Age trinket stand, a tall shadowy figure of a man clattered straight into me with the most forceful of intent. I almost crumpled to the cobblestones. I promise you, it was nothing like an accident. This peculiar individual unsettled me of the like I've never experienced before. There was just something wrong about him, very wrong. I couldn't really discern the features as his face was obscured, cloaked beneath this long inky-black capuche. A vague rasping sound oozed from his mouth in my direction and my eyes were momentarily dazzled by the glint of what I was certain was some kind of blade he was carrying that glistened in the sunlight. I was overcome with nausea and momentarily, I found my breathing had ceased. I was in shock Leighton. My whole field of vision became a swimming blur of colours. I guessed that he must be one of these 'hoodies' that one's been reading about, hell-bent on perpetrating their knife-crime, with no intent but to ruin.'


Ah interject, 'Look Dougie, this isn'ae a reason tae freak out. Chap, yee've been workin' far too har-'


'LISTEN TO ME LEIGHTON!' He's bellowing, shocking me intae silence fae the rest of his twisted tale:                        


'Listen to me carefully, please. You must take heed of what I tell you. I'm begging you.'

Ah just nod.

'Immediately I scurried away, veering and skewing before taking a couple of disconcerted wrong turns in an attempt to regain some vague level of composure before hurtling towards where the greens stall stood.


And there he was again.


This sinister, downright fucking malevolent looking hoodie was a mere foot away from where I'd stumbled to a halt. He was facing slightly away from me, in profile against the waxy moon. His stature was incredibly intimidating as he towered above the red and white striped canopy.


Then, very slowly, he rolled back the long hood from the concealed face and finally revealed his identity.


It was Death.


Death himself,' Dougie avows. 'As in the personification of death. It was the Grim Reaper, Leighton.'


Ma eyes widen. Has this cunt actually lost his fuckin' mind? Aul' Grim Reaps? I dinn'ae say shite though 'cos tears are rolling doon his cheeks and he's traversing precariously close tae the threshold of hyperventilation. This gadge clearly believes what he's saying:


'I stopped stone-cold in my tracks. I just couldn't move. Death was over seven feet tall and shrouded in a hooded cloak, scythe leaning against his shoulder, betwixt his upper left arm and ribcage. He was rummaging through a tray of what looked like spoiled peaches with his spindly skeletal fingers.

And then slowly, spine-freezingly, he turned towards me.' 


Dougie pauses briefly and fixes his eyes directly intae mine. Then he leans in at such close proximity that ah can blurrily smell the fear emanating from his very being:


'Death bestowed upon me the most threatening and peril-filled glare that I've ever been met with. I have no doubt that this icy stare will be the most poignant vision I'll ever have on this beautiful spinning sphere. And very very soon Leighton, and I'm certain of this, the last. This is the end. This is my demise and it's so terrifying. Oh God, that look was so devoid of mercy.

So grave. So full of menace.'


With this, ma dear friend begins tae weep ay the like that I've never heard from anyone before, be they man, woman or snared animal.


After a time, he coughs, then sobs: 

'I ran and ran and ran. I didn't think I was going to make it to the car...'


Finally, almost inaudibly, he croaks:


'Please tell Geraldine that I love her. I always have. I don't think I'm going to be afforded the opportunity.'

5. eArLy EvEnIng

Ah have tae concoct a plan. We cannae accept this kind ay fuckin' shite. Oaf ay any cunt. Jesus Fuckin' Chri -


And immediately a scheme is devising itself in ma heed.


Ah try tae shake Douglas intae some sort ay sense that all is far from lost:


'Now, listen tae me,' ah implore to him. 'Ye take ma Corsa and ye drive tae ma mam's hoose up in Edinburgh. An' ye fuckin' joyride it swift-style ye hear, like a methed-up ram raider. Ah ken it isn'ae an Aston Martin but it will fuckin' shift if ye hammer yer foot tae the floor. Ye wear ma clothes, ye drive ma car and ye get as far away from this latent ambush conspiracy as is humanly possible, okay? Ah'll call ahead and forewarn the aul' dear that you're on yer way and tae ready the spare room. Just get oot ay Hertfordshire, get oot ay England and get oot ay this fuckin' grisly, culling Mictlantecuhti anathema's path. If he's still doon at Bovingdon now, ah'll stall the cunt for as long as possible so's ye can skedaddle - 


QUICK TIME. MOVE YE DAFT CUNT!'


Following a brief embrace, the plan is in action.


Now it was just doon tae me to try and stonewall this hoodied Spectre ay Deeth type from sculling his way ower tae the fuckin' sticks oot here. And if possible, avoid getting intae a swedge wi' the bastard.

6. iNtO tHe AbYsS

As ah turn the key in the ignition of the V8, ah must admit, despite the bleakness ay the situation, ah have a wee moment of satisfaction at its moody purr before barrelling it doon the driveway and towards this bony atrophied Angel ay Abolishment amid the aubergines, asparagus and annihilation.

On arrival at the market, ah hotfoot it past Barry's amplified jocular abuse emanating from the butcher's stall with a holler ay 'Ginger cunt!' Then ah skid roond the New Age bullshite stand, tearin' dreamcatchers an' medicine wheels with me in ma wake as ah belt towards the fruit and ve-


CRUNCH!


He wasn'ae sifting through the onions any more. Or the okra. 


Ah smashed reet intae the Demon ay Doom's emaciated frame in front ay the mobile phone stall. In a bedeviled effort, he'd been prodding his oversized distal phalanges unavailingly at the unforgiving keypad of the latest BlackBerry before ah almost upended the bastard.


Beneath an ominously purple crepuscular sky, Deeth glowered at me, rouge-drenched and rusty scythe raised high above his cowled cranium. He hissed:


'Just what in the Hell happens to be your boggle little man?'


Suddenly ah got brave:


'Now you listen tae me Mr Reaper 'cos aam not gonnae take shite oaf ay any cunt, ye got that? And especially not oaf ay gadges that fuck with ma friends, be they human or sentient entities. The perpetrators ah mean, not ma mates, obviously.'


This wicked and Godless Santa Muerte hunched doon towards me, belched a blasé yawn intae ma face an' sneered:


'I'm afraid I don't really follow, Leighton. And frankly, as uninterested as I already am, I happen to be doing my shopping and would prefer not to be disturbed, so if you would just kindly shuffle off this er...' 


Danse Macabre's choreographer didn't bother to finish the sentence as he gestured vaguely towards the direction from which ah'd arrived. He surreptitiously slipped the phone he'd been casting an empty eye socket over into his Sainsbury's Bag for Life before beginning tae glide away.

'FUCK YER SHOPPING!' ah roared belligerently. Ma voice was splinterin'. 'Ma best friend was doon at this here market this afternoon daein' HIS shoppin' and ye took it upon yourself tae ruin his fuckin' life, what with shooting ill-boding and fuckin' menace-filled glares at him. He's terror-stricken now - convinced that his existence must be over.'


A look ay confusion briefly blackened Deeth's barren grimace and then he raised his left supraorbital foramen, stuttered and then scorned:


'Meh..? Menacing..?' He slowly shook his bony dome. 'Cretins. That was nothing like a menacing stare you pair of simple fleshwastes. 

What that was, was simply an expression of surprise.'


'Surprise?' Ah shuddered.


'Yes - shock, amazement, etc. Surprise,' he hollowly breathed back.


Ah was confused: 

'But..? Why..? Why were ye, surprised? I don't get it.' It was about aw ah had left.

Then the revelation:


'I was surprised Master Leighton, because the very last person I was expecting to stumble into whilst shopping in a Hertfordshire marketplace this afternoon was your snivelling friend Mr Tempest-Sixsmith as I have an imperative appointment booked with him for later tonight...

Three hundred miles away in an Edinburgh tenement.'

And with that he was gone.

In the Future when All’s Well

Or

An overly contrived, complex and confusing scrawling pertaining to the mysteries of the universe, time-travel, mathematics, folk legends and why my life is getting shiter by the day.

Nuclear physicists are trying to unlock the origins of the universe and the Big Bang Theory by smashing together proton beams in the monstrous structure known as the Large Hadron Collider in the world’s biggest ever science experiment. Not sure it really needs that pre-fix with its 17 mile tunnel buried 300 feet beneath the surface on the borders of Switzerland and France. The biggest mystery lies in the origin of mass in the universe. Our current best theory includes a mechanism for generating the masses for all the particles in the universe called the Higgs mechanism. The holy-grail of these experiments is the search for the predicted existence of the Higgs Boson particle.

This is where things get weird. Some scientists have gone on record as saying that this enigmatic particle will never be found because it will come back to sabotage the past to keep itself from being discovered – it will literally usher space gremlins into the LHC’s mechanisms for a spanner-throwing bonanza and bring this beast to a grinding, shuddering halt. The machine has already spluttered into inaction once taking 14 months to get it up and running again.

A similar thing has been occurring in my own life. I’m not sure the perfect future that I envisaged from an early age can ever be achieved either. A strange intangible force has been busy sabotaging my own destiny as the Higgs Boson particle could be sabotaging the past for reasons as yet beyond our understanding.

As a young kid (of 9 or 10 years old), when I wasn’t poring over copies of 2000 AD or playing Uridium on my ZX Spectrum I was prophesizing about the future. I could see it all mapped out before me in inexplicable but vivid visions that were accurate to the point of blinking at the flickering shadows of my future actress wife’s form playfully dancing across the plaster of our boudoir’s candle-lit walls…

…She is correcting the slant of an incredibly detailed landscape painting (probably one of mine, although she’s wonderfully talented too) before slipping off her lacey white neglige as she slides between the satin sheets of our four-poster bed. The Rocky XIII soundtrack plays in the background. Posters of Winona Ryder and Yoda are somehow acceptably pinned to the surrounding walls. This is the future, the year 2000 and we are adults. Why would she be anywhere other than here in this beautifully secluded detached house of a movie writer/director who had even put in a few critically acclaimed cameos in his own films that had left the Hollywood establishment puzzling as to why he didn’t play the lead roles too? She is beautiful, blonde…

…for a while. Then her hair became sleek, black and she stopped being an actress and became a singer/songwriter who played guitar.

Although this metamorphosing girl undoubtedly loved me unrequitedly for some reason she never really uttered ‘owt. This didn’t seem to be a problem. She was effortlessly graceful as she flounced about the place.

Bear with me a second, this is getting slightly confusing. I’m now talking in the past tense about a perceived future that was dreamt up long ago but is apparently now a history that never occurred. Sheesh.

Er, anyway, I guess then we made love (or I fumbled under the Star Wars duvet cover with a copy of the Freeman's catalogue and a torch or something).

Of course, the futuristic year 2000 came, went and is now so passé that we can guffaw at its ludicrous video games, plod–rock nonsense, stupid candles and sleek black-haired, guitar-strumming nimbies with the knowledge that this would have been an awful future for all concerned. Albeit, mainly because of the atrocious music.

And this is where my own physics and mathematical equations come into things:

The thing is, there’s a point I believe according to my extensive deductions, where ‘the amazing possibilities for the future become outweighed by the stupid see-saw of time-passed, plus self-preservation instincts, divided by crushingly random unfair disappointment, multiplied by thoughtful wishes about tomorrow, divided by being abjectly realistic finally, that equals the dreamt-of perfect destiny impossible’. 

Or, more clearly:

(S.S.S.O.T.P. + S-P.I /

[C.R.U.D. * T.W.A.T. / B.A.R.F.]

~(P.F.T.F)

= 0.0000%

How awful.

I wonder if this is true for everyone. There’s probably not even a particularly memorable incident that pushes you beyond the point of never achieving your dreams. It might just be as humdrum as an instance where both of the local shops within slipper-venturing distance have run out of Wispas. It doesn’t seem a big deal as you trudge back home (cursing the laughing kids in the playground near to your house) but you’ve just tipped the scales beyond recuperation. Because of this minor disappointment you can’t be bothered to stop and answer that random questionnaire thrust into your face that would have seen you invited onto Gok Wan’s How To Look Good Naked. Subsequently, you’ll never meet that camera operator from the show who thought your bravery was second only to the amount of weight you’d lost in four weeks and proposed marriage live-on-air.

And you’ll never skid on that discarded lottery-winning ticket, breaking your nose in the process - it can’t all be good, c’mon. You can afford to get that shit fixed.

Oh, and you’ll pile those pounds (that you never lost) back on.

I think I might have tipped the scales. I hope not. I just kicked the same drink over for the second time. The signs aren’t good. And I had a dream last night…

...The candles fizz out. The painting on the wall looks like Munch’s The Scream but I’m sure it’s me standing on the bridge. The windows are open and in the moonlight this actress/singer wife girl thingy appears to have started to turn gingery-grey and grow fangs. There are strange pointed knobbles protruding down her exposed spine as she clambers over the fag-burnt bed covers drooling. I’m sure I can see horns in the shadows, and a tail. I think she’s the hag from a myth that we were told as children that stalked Eastfield Park - the Grey Lady who could be summoned from the stone statue in the circle of trees. And she’s waited all these years just for me. Shit...

Higgs Boson? What a rubbish name for a potential god particle with time-travelling abilities and a mischievous sense of the saboteur.

What do you mean this is a ridiculously tenuous analogy?

Here’s to the future when all’s well.

Halloween and why God Ain't all That

“Are we right to encourage our children to gamble with evil?” 

shrieked the headline of a double page article in the Chronicle & Echo on October 31, “even in a light-hearted event?” 

Intriguing fodder for thought from the clergy you might muse? But frankly it isn't. It's just stupid.

Included within this spurious diatribe festered some of the most fascinating yet risible statements, I’ve had both the joy and misfortune of spluttering my way through for, ooh, at least two days, (the astonishing autocratic and misleading untruths peddled by Alan Johnson and Gordon Brown regarding the reasons for sacking Bristol University's head of Psychopharmacology, Professor David Nutt, exemplified a complete knee-jerk contempt for scientific reasoning and the notion of soberly weighing-up evidence). 

Try this for size.

The Chronicle confidently claims that this is the burning question of the week. Said metaphysical quandary has apparently been giving Moulton Parish Church’s Reverend Peter Breckwoldt sleepless nights clutching his crucifix white-knuckled or cuddling a furry hot water bottle glugging away inside with steaming hot holy water right up to its rubbery screw-top, poor fellow.

EVIL

Gamble... Hmm... With evi-

Sorry, did he just say gamble with evil? Regarding Halloween?

I’d never considered this before for some reason. It had never once occurred, even for a fleeting moment, the myriad of demons or wraiths that could be involuntarily summoned because of a humble game of apple bobbing. Can you dare to envisage the armies of warlocks or shape-shifters that might use the simple carving of a pumpkin as some kind of gateway into our world before unleashing their pernicious fury? How about those beasts and behemoths that could manifest their physical being into our reality just because some devil-may-care teenager decides to buy a Dracula cape from Toys ‘R’ Us?

This is terrifying stuff.

Although, having said that, with a nanosecond of consideration, I’m not sure I quite understand where either the gambling or the evil enter into the equation?
 
It appears our plucky Reverend is precisely the kind of jamfool who believes that the tumbler's erratic waddling movement across a Ouija board isn’t down to your hilarious prankster mate Jeremy.

Or me.

SHAMELESS TWADDLE

The church has apparently been busily distributing leaflets to parishioners asking them to consider their responsibilities as parents when it comes to Halloween. Or roughly translated, trying to emotionally play on the vulnerabilities of people who have already been so indoctrinated that they struggle to peer beyond this shameless twaddle. What a waste of precious pamphlet material - they could have been pizza menus.

According to the leaflet: “Concentrating on evil brings fear to the impressionable young minds. For some it is upsetting and causes nightmares. This is often underestimated.”

Er, (snort) kind of (cough), 'scuse me - PTOOEY! - a little like teaching children that if they don’t live a God-fearing, altruistic, guilt-free existence then unfortunately it’s an eternity stretched agonisingly across the lake of fire while a particular horned Prince of Darkness gores excruciatingly at their nether-regions until the end of time. Which incidentally, never, ever, ever, ever ends.

WoAhAhAhAhAhAaHaAhAaHaA - cue flash of lightning...

zIiGgZzZzlAaAsH!

I remember thinking that I was going to burn in infinite torment shortly after discovering the wicked art of whacking-off. And by God, if as an adolescent you started to harbour any uncouth feelings of attraction towards persons of the same sex as yourself then forget the good deeds my son, it’s eternal damnation no matter what. Even if you saved forty-nine piping priests from a burning bazaar and perished rescuing the fiftieth.

This painful drivel continues: “Christians believe that evil is a real but defeated power. Halloween, however, is about evil triumphant, where it is in the ascendant and is given too much importance. For Christians, Halloween is a distortion of reality. It may also give children a false sense of the power of evil.” 

Holy shit. 

BRASS BOLLOCKED BUFFOON

Forgive me for taking the liberty of informing this feckless outmoded dunderhead that evil is not a hairy, fanged, four-legged phantom; neither is it an unmentionable, stench-ridden monstrosity kept shackled in the attic; and it ain't a bloodcurdling, shadowy miscreation that descends upon unsuspecting wretches who indulge in the odd seasonal pumpkin soup-slurping session, engulfing them in a tornado of cannibalistic zombie dust.

And it most certainly is not defeated.

Here’s what evil is:

Evil is the Islamic extremist who screeches, ‘Allahu Akbar' seconds before detonating his/her bomb-vest, indiscriminately slaughtering whichever innocent victims happen to be standing nearby. Evil is the calculating fiend who swipes a young girl off the street at a bus stop and bundles her into the back of his transit van, only for her to surface again years later as a pile of bones next to a motorway. Evil is the priest who abuses the children left in his trust and destroys their innocence and subsequently their lives. Evil is a former Hitler Youth Pope who staunchly opposes poverty-stricken Africans or Brazilians or Filipinos from using condoms in the midst of an apocalyptic AIDS pandemic. 

Evil is a stealthy Shaolin wasp lurking in your trackie b’s.

Ultimately, evil is human. 

It is homo sapien – a man or a woman. It is a bipedal, walking, talking, thinking, conscious and sadistic being with no empathy, no sympathy and no remorse. Evil is a person, or persons.

Kids know full well that witches and vampires and ogres and werewolves don't exist because this is regularly pointed out to them. What confuses things is when a bunch of adults tell them with stony-faced sincerity that there is a place called Hell where the landlord is a cloven-hoofed, horned sadist who doesn’t scrimp on the heating.

If you really want to see what strange forms evil can take then you need look no further than the Reverend Peter Breckwoldt himself and his ridiculous superstitious, hypocritical, baseless, mystical, humourless bunkum. I’d cast a horrible spell on this boneheaded, blithering bumblespanner if only such a thing existed. And he’s got a stupid nefarious name with letters that shouldn’t go together. I say don your cape and witches hat and cast this aberration asunder.

Praise the fucking lord for Satan.

666

666.