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New script done. Finally.

Britains most sinister entertainer is back with his new album; ‘These Are My Favourites’, Track by Track review…

The ground-breaking, genre defying album marks Bruce’s return to his first love, music. But gone is the crooning and the music hall stylings of his youth in favour of far darker fare which not only surprises but innovates and disturbs. Across this albums twelve haunting tracks Bruce employees cutting edge and experimental production techniques and the vision of a master composer to create a discordant and psychedelic, swirling soundscape designed, he says, to confuse and disorientate the listener. And It really has to be experienced to be believed…
“I want the listeners to feel things they wouldn’t normally associate with music, I want them to feel submissive, violated, used, afraid.” says Bruce who assembled a hand-picked cast of the worlds greatest experimental and forward thinking musicians to mould the albums fearless, challenging and controversial sound. And there is no easy saccharine way in to this new sound…

1. “Look Into My Beady Little Eyes”

The album opener begins with a full minute of a lone, jarring, piano note stabbed repeatedly, before detuned synths and rumbling bass invade providing a multi-layered and uncomfortable backdrop over which Bruce hypnotically whispers his vile demands. He wants you to look into his ‘Beady Little Eyes’ and join him in a voyage into the depths of his mind. The last minute of the song is a coda of sinister carnival music which speeds up and slows down as if you, the listener are on a bad LSD trip on an out of control waltzer at a forbidden fair. When the ride stops, you can’t help but take his chivalric hand and enter his world as he repeatedly wails ‘Take my hand / Enter my eyes’ in a heavily autotuned cry which sounds like an offer of charity from a heartbroken robot.

2. “These Fingers Were Made For Removing Putty”

The dark opener bleeds seamlessly into track two, an even darker piece featuring a crying electric guitar over a stripped down, insistant kick drum and occasional industrial steam whistles as Bruce implores you to take his powers of breaking and entry seriously. Lyrically Bruce accomplishes an impossible feat in making threats appear charming with the sinister charisma of a successful murderer. If it sounds like it was recorded in an abandoned factory, it’s because it was, Bruce bought and closed down a foundry in the industrial hinterland of Middlesbrough purely to capture, as he puts it “the bleak poetry of misery and loss which were scratched into its corrugated metal walls by the nails of the disenfranchised.”
Again this stellar, mind-blowing track melts into the next, track three….

3. “Under Your Bed, Waiting For You”

An explosion of jazz fusion maelstrom and noise featuring amongst other instruments, frantic conga drum, stark oboe, bleeting saxophone and what sound like duelling power drills all punctuated by the metronomical tap of an index finger against wood providing the only rhythm amidst the madness, over which Bruce croons: “I could touch your ankles if I wanted/But I won’t/I’ll wait Till Your Asleep.”

4. “My Smile Hurts”

Track four signals a brief (and welcome) respite in intensity as ambient white noise and a gentle and melodic sitar loop taken from a rare 60’s Indonesian soul record provide a moving backdrop over which Bruce sensually laments the stresses of showbiz : “You pay me to smile / But my smile it hurts.” Forsyth then goes on to flirt with suicide in poignant lyrics which betray his trademark chirpy character seen on hit TV Shows such as ‘Dance….I said DANCE!”
“I see my smile / In a mirror surrounded by lights / Someone free my soul / And throw me to the hungry night”
The track builds with rising strings to a crescendo before the unease returns as what sounds like a jagged wood-file is dragged angrily across a violin. You may have seen the video for this clip which shows a masked Bruce in a darkened showbiz dressing room crying and playing with a shard of glass, the track is every bit as effecting without the disturbing visuals

5. “The Good Game ”

Track five is a tour into the dark heart of Bruces mysterious sexuality, a lullaby whispered gently against fairytale wind-chimes, melodic harp and tinkling bells. The music is simply beautiful. “This is the track where after creating a crisis in the mind with the previous tracks I aim to put the listener into a highly suggestive and needy state. Beneath the beauty though lies a beast, which is represented by barely audible fractured reversed samples of slowed down child-song.

6. “Allow My Chin To Cure Your Ills”

In track six ‘Brucie’ as he’s known in the tabloids, examines the nefarious employment of his trademark chin as a tool for pleasure. Over a preset Salsa rhythm from an early drum machine, distorted flute, and epic, thundering, Timpani drums, Bruce croons : “Lean back my dear / And Have no fear / Put down the pills / Allow My Chin To Cure Your Ills”

7. “Lust Secretion (Reggae Remix)”

Track seven marks the end of what Bruce calls “The albums four part relief suite” from the darkness which bookends it, with a upbeat remix of the viral single and fan favourite ‘Lust Secretion’ in which the originals synth laden, dark, post-industrial dubstep vibe is replaced with vibrant and joyous reggae music, drenched in sunshine and with danceable skank. In the context of the album it shouldn’t work but it does. Bruce explains its inclusion…
“In real life captor/captive situations there is always a moment, albeit fleeting where the prisoner thinks he might escape, a brief glint of light from an open window, a loosening of the binds which hold his wrists to the chair - I wanted to give listeners that same brief hope by using the impossibly joyous reggae version of Lust Secretion with its happy sing-a-long chorus and 16 piece steel band coda…before the captor returns and the door is slammed shut.”
And slammed shut it is…

8. “The Dark Side Of The Bruce”

A Low Frequency sub bass hum lays a foundation which is topped with layer after layer of discordant, fractured and jarring electric instrumentation and sound effects. A driping pipe. Hideous yelps of guitar feedback. Footsteps. Reverese Accordion. The effect is to create and atmosphere of deep uncomfort. Astounding mixing makes Bruce appear out of nowhere from the noise and confusion to be stalking you in the dark as his voice his heard in the front of the headphones then whispering into your right ear, then shouting maniacally behind you. It is a spoken word piece in which Bruce’s deepest desires and temptations are given the chance to reveal themselves. Most of it is unprintable but the effect is profound - it has to be experienced to be believed. After twelve minutes the demons retreat and each layer of sound disappears into the ether from where it materialised leaving the bass hum to fade out. It’s an epic masterpiece and sure to spark controversy. It’s the turning point and highlight of the album though its effect is to render the listener deeply moved and disturbed.

9. “Sit On My Knee, Please…”

The sinister comma in the tile of track nine ‘Sit On My Knee, Please’ is an example of how a simple punctuation mark can wield awesome power and is manifested in the song masterfully as a slight pause which makes the listener realise Bruce’s seemingly polite request is in fact an order and that the word Please is less out of politeness than threatening insistence. Muscially this track is one of the best on the album with clunky thick church organs over a 4/5 time signature rimshot laden drumbeat and looped vinyl crackle with occasional snippets of samples from thirties cabaret shows sped up and bursts of canned laughter. Bruce explains “This track is about a ventriloquist in love with his dummy, who longs for it to be real but realises that if it were he would be breaking the law in many ways. The music we created hopefully reflects the idea of forbidden puppet love lived out in the dark recesses beneath the stages of music halls and theatres. The lyrics reveal the yearning of a man who’s heart is branded with deep longing yet has to be ignored for the age old mantra ‘the show must go on. It’s a very personal track to me. Good Game.”

10. “Your Nubile Thighs, They Lubricate This Old Soul”

Track ten is a love song unashamedly aimed to his startlingly young wife. It is at heart a traditional country style ballad but with the music slowed down to such a pace that is given a post-portishead trip-hop feel that fits with the rest of the album. Bruce’s heavily echoed lyrics, which tell the autobiographical story of an elderly man who feels revitalised by the love of a young woman, are delivered authentically and with real passion and in a further addition to the list of unique emotions this album invokes in the listener you can now add deep empathy for the artists brave acceptance of his nearing expiry. The music fades out leaving a lone twangly country guitar to play a melancholic solo, the last note of which is slowed down to the tone of a flatline and left to run jarringly for ten long uneasy seconds before ending in abrupt silence.

12. “Nice To See You ?”

In the album closer Bruce turns his beloved catch phrase into a question posed by a man who despite all his fame is bleakly lonely.
“I say nice to see you / But is it? / Is it? / My mechanical opening refrain / Belies my inner pain / I think I want to be alone / My final curtain call”
This track is as close as the album comes to a ballad. Its beautifully haunting though far from upbeat yet it does serve Bruces intended reason for its inclusion “I wanted to give the listener a sonic version of leaving a dark cinema after a horror film into broad daylight and fresh air. A pallet cleanser.”

In conclusion ‘These Are My Favourites” is a dark, complex and challenging masterpiece of experimental music which pushes the boundaries of what we know as the listening experience. Bruce Forsyth has crafted his masterwork.

9.5 / 10

“I’m just saying honey, if you don’t catch anything we don’t eat. And lately, there hasn’t been much for me to prepare baby. The kids are crying hungry back there El.”

She took a puff on her Lucky Strike, to steel herself for what needed saying…

"Maybe you should think about getting a regular job, we gotta eat somehow. Plus we got bills to-”

He errupted from the sofa in a feral rage.

“Shutcha god damn mouth!” he shouted, “…I’ll slap that sass right outcha face you dumb broad,”

And he brought his strong calloused hand down from the heavens in a crashing arc across her face.

In the shock of quiet that followed a ribbon of red slipped silently from the corner of her mouth and for a second she looked afraid, a tangled heap of limbs cowering against the coffee table, but it wasn’t the first time…

He staggered to the kitchen worktop and picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels, drank off the remaining quarter of the bottle and wobbled on the the balls of his feet in the flickering electric strip light of their trailer home.

“My daddy always said it’s a no good man lays his hands on his woman and can’t provide for his family,” she said, an apologetic whimper.

“I don’t give two fine shits whatcha’ damn daddy say girl,” he shouted, his voice gurgled and churned in his throat like death itself was bubbling up inside him. “And if that ole peckerdick was alive, I’d fuck him up good too! Whatchu know about providing? Sheeeiit.”

“Take those words out your mouth Elmer. Don’t speak ill of the dead now. You can’t unsay things like that.”

“I don’t want to unsay shit woman.”

He grabbed a fistful of her ponytail, twisted her neck with a jolt and cocked his fist. It hovered there in the air, quivering with malevolent energy. Then he thought better of it and released her, she fell to the floor and began sobbing.

"Daddy?"

He looked up to see his son Chet stood in the hallway, his legs trembling with cold or fear. Either or both.

"Aint I told you to go to bed? Get yo’ ass back in bed!" he shouted and his son turned and ran back to his room.

He grabbed his hunting coat and threw it on, struggling to maintain his balance, the drink hitting him now.

“Where you goin’ Elmer?” she said through heavy sobs, “Dontchu walk out on us like this.”

“I do just what I want bitch. No woman tell me what to damn do. I’m going to shoot me a rabbit, then I’m gonna skin it and you are going to eat it raw and then we’ll see about ‘providing.’ I aint finished with you by a long stretch you better believe it.”

Elmer Fudd pulled his Woolrich hunting hat over his bald dome, grabbed his shotgun from the gun cupboard, left his trailer with a slam of the door and staggered off into the night, cursing at the moon.

 

 

Dave sat back and assessed his wife as she mopped up the last of her bean juice with a square of fried bread, lifted a bumcheek and farted with an accompanying curl of her lip. She began constructing a roll up and he watched her stained fingers work.

She’d tried to throw that wedding ring at him a couple of weeks back.

"You’d need an angle grinder to get that off, you fat cunt," he’d said. So she threw her plate at him instead and he just sat there, shocked, with chops and gravy dripping off him and he knew right then that whatever it was they’d had was now gone for good and there was no point in looking for it so this had been another mistake. One of many.

They came to the seaside every year on their anniversary. Same old B&B. Ate in the same cafe where they’d eaten the morning after they’d met. Same dour owner. Same badly tuned wireless on the back shelf coughing up old love songs.
There had been a time when they would share a bath and she’d take the tap end and he’d think, ‘that’s love.’ Now if they’d tried to share a bath the water would have gotten out. They’d grown old and fat together through a life sentence of blazing rows and stubborn silences that sometimes lasted weeks.

"What you looking at?" she said through a plume of smoke.
“Nowt,” he said.

Instead, he looked out the window at the horizontal rain. A newspaper ran down the promenade. He took out his wallet and placed a tenner on the table.

"What’s the rush?" she said, "I’ve not finished me fag."
“I’m going for a paper.”
“Ooh get me twenty benson duck, these fuckers are giving me cancer.”

He crossed the deserted road and was soaked through before he reached the other side. He entered the North Pier and walked through the all but empty amusement arcade, heard some laughter, a couple on one of them grabber machines; he was manning the claw trying to win her a teddy, she had her arms wrapped round his waist.

Dave pushed through a fire door and went out onto the pier, leant on the railing and for a long time he watched the churning grey of the Irish sea. The violent wind blew waves in all directions between the piers old legs beneath him.

He took a breath, gripped the bar, and with great effort, threw his right leg up onto the handrail. He felt his jeans tighten around his crotch and watched his trainer spinning silently into the churning sea below like a dying seagull. He tried to heft his weight up and over but his vast gut stopped him, the cold metal of the bars pressed into his belly through his saturated shirt. He reached over and grabbed a bar from the other side and tried to pull himself over. He grunted and gasped, felt his arse slip out the top of his jeans and gave up. He flopped onto the old wooden boards and he cried, tears lost amongst the cold rain.

After a long time just sat there the tears stopped. He pulled himself up and limped back through the arcade. In his wake, his sopping wet sock left a soggy puddle on the burgundy carpet marking each step. The laughing couple were gone and he wondered whether he’d won her the teddy or whether it had taken all his money and they’d left disappointed but still holding hands.

She was halfway through another roll up when he threw the twenty Benson on the table in front of her, sat down, and tried not to look at her looking at him. He took the soggy rolled up Sun from his coat pocket and slapped it down on the empty chair next to him.

She blew out a plume of smoke.

"Where the fucks your shoe?" she said.

He took his tenner back off the table and swapped it for one without writing on it.

…is back in the works after a long period off on other projects I’m back on it and comitted to finally getting it finished…not too much to do now and hope to have it ready and out on Kindle in time for Christmas. Hope it’s worth the wait!

More excerpts and guerilla marketing to come very soon…

He sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup, just another meaningless ritual. It was his second of a still young morning. Truth be told, he didn’t even like the taste of the cheap shit but fetching one from the vending machine got him away from his desk for a while and he needed the caffeine that coursed through him. It made him twitchy and irritable, more than usual, but he needed it to help sharpen the bluntness caused by another sleepless night of anxiety. Insomnia’s deep scars were carved into his face like an ancient mask.

This morning, like every other, the relentless cacophony off tapping keyboards and the monotonous drone of a thousand overheard phone conversations was corroding his very soul. The paranoid suspicion that he was being slowly phased out of his job by an expensive new computer system fueled the feeling of worthlessness that had slowly raped him of the ambition he’d shown in the interview which had got him the job four and a half long years ago. The faceless suits in the interview, long-ago promoted, had promised ‘opportunity’, ‘excitement’ and an environment in which they ‘let the individual prosper’. If he had known that had actually meant sitting in one of 646 equally sized booths telling the same laminated lies on the phone and battering away at a computer then he would never had said yes when they asked him to start immediately. Whatever it was that had made him a good, friendly and popular person when he left college had ebbed away over these wasted years. The office had taken all that he was in return for $40K per annum and health insurance.

The undated resignation letter he had penned 3 months ago burned a hole in the pocket of his suit. A daunting mortgage in negative equity had kept it there in it’s envelope those months but today was different. The letter was no longer just a private symbolic gesture of hope.

It was time.

His phone rang, it felt like the office itself was conspiring to stop him, to test the strength of his rebellious thoughts, to quell them. The induction pack he’d received on his first day had instructed him how a phone must be answered inside three rings. It was the law and all obeyed. He fought the involuntary reflexive urge to pick it up and he just let it ring. Four, five, six times before it rang off. A massive step. It felt amazing, a rush.

It was time.

He took a deep breath and stood up out of his chair. He looked around at the endless grid of booths, desks, computers punctuated by the odd bubbling water cooler which served to oil the cogs of the machine, the workers. Some of his colleagues, the ones with cells adjacent to his looked up at him now, their faces slack in astonishment as if he had committed some unspeakable sin by just standing up above the booth during work time and not in an scheduled break. Their obedient conformity disgusted him.

Resignation was not a decision he took lightly. He had a young family to support, financial worries like the next man and no other employment in the pipeline but he’d had enough, something in him had filled to the brim this morning.

It was time.

He took the letter from his pocket and unfolded it, placed it down on the desk to read through one more time. He picked up a ball point pen, signed and dated it. He popped it back in the envelope and left his booth.

He heard an ethereal roar in his head as he strode towards his line managers door. He couldn’t believe he was doing it, it was surreal, living out a scene he’d played in his mind a thousand times. His legs began to shake. He felt scared and relieved all at once, the chemistry was intoxicating and a dazed grin dared to spread across his face. As he walked he saw the skyline of the vast city through a window. A million and one possibilities waiting out there for him. He thought of the fresh air he would soon be breathing, devouring greedily, how it would taste better today than it ever had.

He felt like he was about to be born into the world. This was his moment.

He arrived at the managers door, took a deep breath, knocked…

And then a fucking great big plane smashed through the window.

**WARNING** : This is vile. I disgust myself. Definiteley not for children or Nana’s! P.S. I haven’t read Fifty Shades Of Grey but I imagine this is exactly what it’s like…

Fifty Shades Of Ray

We met for the first time in the Vic Club on Whit Moor.

I had seen him many times before; leaving Ladbrokes with a winner’s glint in his eye; taking up all five spaces outside Watson & Browns with his HGV; hungrily mopping up bean juice with a slice of fried bread through the steamed-up window of Phyll’s Grill. He knew my Terry well, used to work on Club Taxi’s with him, sometimes drank together in the Lion. But we’d never been introduced. He had something of a reputation and wasn’t the kind of man you introduced your wife too…

But at the Vic Club, the night of Mick Shawcross’s wake, I met Ray Kimber for the first time…

I was sat with my best friend Barb, bored and sipping half heartedly on a Lambrini Spritzer when through the crowded dance floor and the refracted lights from the spinning disco ball I saw him filling a paper plate with food from a buffet laden pool table. A mad impulse invaded my head. I knocked back my drink.

"Where you going?" Barbara asked. I pretended not to hear her.

I stood opposite him and watched as he piled food onto his overflowing plate. Chipolata’s, scotch eggs, a handful of nuts and a chicken leg. It was then he noticed me.

"Eyup duck," he said.

"Hiya gorgeous," I replied.

What was I doing? I felt my wedding ring burning my finger like a cattle brand but I ignored it. I’d had four pints of Strongbow before the Spritzer and had a right wabble on.

I picked up a samosa and sucked the end seductively. His eyes lit up slowly like a shit light bulb as he realised my unspoken prerogative. A dirty grin spread across his face like cheap butter across a hot pikelet. He drained the remains of his pint of mild and wiped the froth from his thick ‘tache with the oily forearm of his lumberjack shirt.

As the music changed to Jive Bunny’s ‘Swing The Mood’ people rushed to the dance floor leaving us alone and unnoticed. He walked round the pool table and rested his still full plate on the cushion.

"What shift is your Terry on?" he asked.

"Nights,” I said.

He smiled and threw a dry roasted nut high into the air. It danced and span through the clouds from the DJ’s smoke machine, reached it’s peak near the artexed tobacco stained roof and descended. I gasped as he opened his mouth wide to catch it and his fillings sparkled like diamonds in a forgotten cave. The nut bounced off his bottom lip and flew off into the night, but it was close enough for me. I felt a dampness deep in my muff.

"I’ll see you outside,” he said, “soon as the meat raffle’s drawn."

I was wet as a bathmat and wanted him like Barbara’s eldest wants crack.

When it was time I finished my drink and picked up my handbag. Barbara grabbed my arm.

"Where you off to?" she said.

I had to think fast.

"Got terrible squirts love…I reckon that coronation chicken is on’ turn."

I said goodbye to the grieving widow Tina Shawcross who was sat on the dance floor doing ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ with her mates and I slipped out the front door into the cold November night.

He was sat in the cab of his HGV, waiting. There was a novelty number plate in the front window with the word ‘Tiger’ on it. I checked to see no-one was looking (they don’t miss fuck all round here) and jumped up into the massive lorry. He could see I was impressed by its size.

"Scania R580. Six by Four. Artic. 40 tonnes max weight with this low loading trailer I’ve got on now. Listen to this…"

He turned the ignition and the lorry exploded into life with a menacing, prehistoric growl.

"Fucking beautiful," he said, "Can you just go in my glove box duck, chuck us me rolling tin."

"I’d like to have your hand in my glove box," I said and we both did our muskiest laughs.

I opened the glove box and a satnav fell out.

"Ha! No need for a satnav duck, I know exactly where we’re going…" he said and I was reduced to a giggling schoolgirl. "Is it second right after Jawbone’s Hill?"

"Yes. Then second right again." I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Electric excitement buzzed through me. He made a roll up, his tattooed fingers working deftly and with an experts speed.

He checked his mirrors and the incessant yelp of his reversing beep shocked through the quiet night. I began to tingle all over at the sheer power of the thrumming vehicle beneath us as we pulled out ontoSheff Road.

We didn’t talk much. Ours was a feral connection. I knew what he offered and I wanted it, bad. He watched the road with the cool concentration of a man who knows what he is doing, opening his mouth only to tell me Tan Wong Kitchen was a ‘good chinky that. Ribs are bang on.’

Parking on the main road just off my street I jumped down from the cab and he came round the other side clutching a faded Reebok holdall.

"What’s in the bag?" I asked.

"My tackle," he said and he grinned that grin. A grin that could buckle a bra clasp at ten paces. 

My fanny was wringing wet.

As I put my key in the Yale of the back door he slapped my right arsecheek with a strong hand and I yelped in shock. His glistening sovereign ring came right keen came but I liked it, the pain was exquisite. He grumbled a low moan of pleasure as he assessed me from behind.

“Ooh I’d let you shit in my mash duck.”

No sooner than we were in and I’d switched the immersion on we were bumping off walls, tonguing each other deeply, knocking pictures skew whiff and tearing each others clothes off. We left a wake of devastation that would need clearing up before morning but I didn’t care, I just wanted to get him in my bedroom. I felt no guilt about rushing another man to my marital bed. My husband was a right fat idle cunt and hadn’t achieved an erection worth getting moist about since Torremolinos in 1994. There had been days, long ago, when we were highly sexual but the last time we’d tried to do something exciting like share a bath, the water got out.

As soon as we reached the bedroom Ray took charge and I submitted to him wholly. It was no secret in the pubs, clubs and chip shop queues of our town that Ray was a sexual maverick; bondage, his speciality. I didn’t care if he had a woman in every spa town. I wanted him and I wanted a taste of his dark art. And that is what I was here for; Bondage.

It sounded exotic, thrilling. Of course, our Terry had given me some Whit Moor eye shadow over the years for acting up but never sexually and that appealed to me. The closest thing to bondage I’d had with Terry was him drunkenly scuttling me against a bottle bank onRacecourse Roadand I’d fell in some nettles.

I watched as Ray reached into his bag of tackle and took out a spare fan belt. He ripped it from its Halford’s cardboard sleeve, bound my wrists with it like he was stringing up a rabbit and he pushed me face first onto the bed. He stood back and ordered me to bend forward with my knees on the mattress, arching my back.

"Fuck sake you’ve got an arse like a police hoss." he said as he rolled down my jeggings.

“Let me freshen up first duck,” I said. I’d gone to the wake straight from Zumba so I knew I was a bit ripe down there.

“No.” he barked. “I like my kebab with lemon juice on.”

I didn’t know what he meant but I didn’t care and submitted to his will.

He peeled off my period pants (I wasn’t on, my butchers had shut long ago. I’d piled some clem on the past year and they were the only ones that fit.)

“Tha’s gorra a fanny like Terry Waite’s allotment love, don’t you have razors in this house?”

I knew it was a bit unkempt but I’d seen no need to give it a trim, my poor clitoris had been lying forgotten for years like a powerball in a thick hedgerow.

My arse end exposed he stood back and commanded me to wink my bumhole for him and I did. I would do anything he said. I was completely under his spell like he was some kind of sexual Paul McKenna.

"Has tha’ ever done bondage duck?" he asked.

"No," I whimpered, scared and excited in equal measure.

Then as if to introduce me to his dark world, he slapped me across the arse with a A-Z ofPrestonwhich took my breath clean away. I screamed at the delicious flash of hurt and for good measure thumped me in the thigh and gave me a deadleg.

As I doggy paddled through the glorious sapping pain I craned my neck to see him drop his wranglers and peel off his long blue flight socks. I’d head of long haul drivers using them to combat deep vein thrombosis but I knew he had them in mind for some deep vein action of a different kind.

 He moved quickly, wrapped a flight sock round my head and tied it tight, too tight, blindfolding me and I was imprisoned in darkness. With sight now completely shut off I had to rely on my other senses for clues. I could hear him rifling through his bag of ‘tackle’ and I braced myself for what instrument of pleasure he would pull from it. I heard a rustle then felt the mattress sag under his weight at the foot of the bed and I heard his clicky jaw crunching hard and, my senses heightened, smelt the savoury twang of a meat based snack. He was unmistakably eating pork scratchings. When he finished he shoved two dirty fingers in my mouth and forced me to lick the savoury pig dust from them.

“Suck them clean you cow,” he said.

I was in a place one floor up from heaven and I sucked his digits clean as a whistle. I pleaded for a full pork scratching, I was peckish, but he shoved my balled up undercrackers in my mouth muffling my cries of desire.

The next thing I knew he was licking me everywhere from behind. His nose was jabbing against my ringpiece and he went at my dangling labia like our Kizzie at a pigs tab. He bit and licked and pulled and nibbled and it was amazing. I’d never been rimmed before and here he was eating out my shitter like a steak bake. I’d never felt anything like it. His tongue was up my arse like washing instructions. He didn’t even seem to mind when he had to stop momentarily to remove a troublesome clegnut I’d felt tugging at my bumhairs. He bit it off and I felt hairs rip from my skin. Again, I cried out at the exquisite pain.

He came round to my front end and removed the blindfold and for the first time I saw the legendary phallus bobbing before my eyes. He was hung like a rolled up Racing Post. He pulled my knickers from my mouth and replaced them with his vast cock, stabbing my mouth with his swollen Chorizo. I gagged and burped and the burp smelt of the Tune Melt I’d had for dinner. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and bonked my head, his pendulous ballbag slapped against my chin like a carrier bag of offal. He withdrew and I dry wretched and gasped for air.

He went to his tackle bag again and I turned onto my back wondering what fate befell me next. He pulled out a bundle of tacho graphs and removed the industrial sized bulldog clip holding them, they spilt everywhere but he didn’t care and that turned me on more. He clamped the bulldog clip on my left nipple and raw, uncut agony ripped through my tit. My nipple flushed red and swelled up like an alcoholic’s nose.

He gave me a good backhander across the chops disorientating me and before I knew what was happening he was at the business end again slipping a dry index finger inside me, followed quickly by a second, a third, a fourth then finally his thick thumb. He fisted me right up to his calculator watch. He was wearing me, controlling me, like Matthew Corbett does Sooty and I writhed like a just caught trout.

“Jesus,” he said. “I could do a sudoku up this fucker.”

By now I was longing to have that Pringle tin sized dick up me but he bypassed my gasping minge completely.

He didn’t ask, he told me he was going to fuck my bumhole “ragged.”

I’d never intentionally had anything up there before. I once sat on the bed after a hot bath and two thirds of a Vicks inhaler had a look round but that was about it. Our Terry dismissed exploring it completely. I’d suggested it once after six too many woodpeckers and he’d said “You’re fucking joking! I’ve smelt what comes out on it.”

But Ray Kimber didn’t care. He lit a roll up and took a deep drag.

“You see that headboard?” he said. “You’re going through that fucker like a Bosch masonry bit.”

Suddenly he threw me back over onto my knees and with the uncanny aim of Jockey Wilson he hocked up some spittle, gobbed and hit the bull’s-eye from all of two yards. Then I felt his fat helmet barge into me with all the intimacy of a police drugs raid. I felt his knob plunge deep inside me and I cried with chaotic mixture of pleasure and pain. As he worked it deeper until it felt like it was nudging my organs I felt some fag ash drop off his rolly and tumble down the valley of my arse-crack singing my bum-hairs, but it added to the helpless ecstasy I was in. He bummed me hard and fast and built up a drummers rhythm. We sounded like trainers thumping about in a washer.

I reached back and grabbed a handful of Ray’s bumcheek and dug my nails in.

“Get off you daft cunt!” he shouted, “I’ve got 20 tonne o’ scaffold on there got to be in Penrith by8 a.m., I can’t drive all that way with a wounded arsecheek!”

He gave it to me faster and harder as punishment. He shoved my head into the pillow to dampen my screams; to a passer by it would have sounded like some poor sod was getting murdered up here. He spanked my arse with his calloused hand and rode me into the night like a frenzied bull escaped from Ashover show. The mattress cried with metallic shrieks.

Suddenly he withdrew the powering locomotive from my tunnel, clambered up the bed, stood over me and wanked himself off, his face intense with the focused concentration of a lathe operator. His tattoos and massive landing gear made him look like a graffiti’d McDonalds sign leering over me.

“Ya Bastard!” he roared, and he went off like a firework and shot his cock-muck all over me, the headboard, the lampshade, the bedspread; I was caked in it like a dropped Muller-rice. I struggled to get my breath as his spunk settled around me. A thick gloop slowly trickled down mine and Terry’s wedding photo on the bedside table and I wiped it up with my finger and put it in my mouth. His honk tasted better than a cold Ben Shaw’s in a heatwave.

“Jesus Christ.” I gasped. Ray jumped down off the bed, gave me a Chinese burn, wiped his nodding cock on a t-shirt, farted loudly and went for a piss, leaving me twitching on the bed like a pig on an abattoir floor.

I must have passed out because the next thing I was aware of was the sound of the Scania kicking in on the main road followed by those intoxicating reversing beeps.

Ray Kimber was gone.

I lit a fag and wondered whether he would go M60, M61 and the A66 at Junction 40, or if he would take the M1, A1, A66, perhaps with a stop at Wetherby services…

All I knew was that I was on the long road to sexual rediscovery.

 

 

 

 

I was nine years old the first time I saw my Grandad’s massive scrotum.

I was holding the ladder to the loft steady as he climbed up to put his sundials away.

He wore shorts, and it spilt out of his left shorts leg like a pink waterfall, stopping inches above my face. It dangled and slapped against the ladder. My Grandad, must have felt it fall.

"No! Look away son!" he yelled, but it was too late.

He looked down and saw my shocked face.

He took me through to the front room and slowly peeled down his shorts. There before my eyes was his huge scrotum, like a massive pink cloak, hanging from his body. 

“Can I touch it?” I asked.

“Of course you can lad.”

I took my Grandads massive scrotum in my hands and felt it to make sure it was real. It was.

And it was beautiful.

My Grandad poured himself a shot of Rum from his flask and told me how it had happened :

“It was 1945, not long after VE day because there was still bunting blowing around the streets in the breeze. It was a nice day and I was out in the garden, pulling up weeds and watching sparrows in the birdbath. I had the wireless on, Bunk Chuckle was on doing some of his music hall favourites. Your Nana, god bless her soul, was in the kitchen making a kind of pie. We had ripped up our ration cards see with the war over. We had sold the courrugated roof off our Anderson shelter to a man called Mick and with the money we had bought the first bit of meat we had seen since 1940, a cows windpipe. Well there I was in the garden, having a rest, whistling and smelling the pie cooking when I saw old Ron Swift, the draft cheat, come limping round the corner. I stood up to have a chat with him, tell him there was no need to keep putting on the limp with old Hitler gone! Well there we were nattering on and out the corner of my eye I saw the bobby, PC Tomkin coming round the corner on his bike. Well he was a good sort was Tomkin so I waves hello, and he waved back. Cheerful bloke he was. And then it happened. I heard a terrible crunching sound and old Tomkin flew over the handlebars of his bike, his Bobby’s helmet skittering off down the street….My scrotum had somehow become caught and in the spokes of his bike.”

My grandad looked down and saw that I was crying.

“What’s wrong lad? Oh, son, has my massive scrotum scared you? I should have been more careful!”

“No Grandad!” I strained through the tears, “Look!”

I dropped my own shorts and unfurled my own massive scrotum and lay it carefully across the table like a massive pink map.

“Oh son!” he said. “How did it happen? Damn you Darwin!…Damn you!” He slammed his fist on the mantelpiece making a statue of a tramp wobble.

I fought back my tears and told him my own story.

“I was on the escalator in the new precinct in town when I dropped my choc ice. It was a fine choc ice, top three in fact, so I bent down to salvage what I could of it and before I knew what had happened my scrotum had somehow become ensnared in the gears and cogs beneath the metal steps and the escalator ground to a hault, men and women fell forward, spilling around my ears…”

Now my Grandad was crying too.

Me and my grandad held each other and cried for twenty plus minutes. Our massive scrotums hanging between our legs like big pink sleeping bags.

We were no longer alone.

In the summer of 1986 I threw a crab apple at a spastic.

I was out of my mind on fizzy pop and sunshine. I was manic and bare chested, my sunburnt skin covered in the sticky graves of burst blowing bubbles. Earlier that day my cousin and I had scrumped a carrier bag full of crab apples from the orchard of a vicarage and our stolen fruit now bobbled about our feet on the balcony of my nana’s second floor flat as we laughed and arsed about. Our plan was to hide beneath the front wall of the balcony and throw the apples at passing citizens. So far we had scored no hits, though my cousin had narrowly missed hitting Dougie The Druggie as he rode past on his racer and I had whistled one past the pendulous earlobe of June from downstairs. My Grandad would have loved it if  that one had hit as June always returned his previously complete jigsaws with a piece missing. The oppressive sun and the pop and the bubble blowing had somehow conspired to make us insane with the ambition of being the first to score a direct hit. I wanted so hard for it to be me, mainly to impress my older cousin (who was a fully trained key stage 8 ninja and owned a samurai sword) with my stunning accuracy and power skills. 

Andy was what we then knew as a spastic. He was bald but for a horses tail of straggly brown hair from behind one ear. He dribbled a lot and looked about seventy two but he was in the top year at my school so was clearly a child despite his face. He had an impressive motorized wheelchair we all secretly envied which he controlled via a joystick in one of it’s arms. He lived with his family and (also retarded) younger brother opposite my nana’s flat.

When we saw him leave the house and begin travelling down the garden path towards our turret my cousin and I ducked behind the wall and looked at each other and with grinning Tizer stained chops an unspoken question was asked and answered.

"You dare?"

"I dare."

I selected the fattest crab apple at my disposal, jumped up from my concealed position, took aim and launched my projectile.

As soon as it left my hand I felt my insides blacken with guilt. I wished with all my heart that it would miss and that Andy would trundle on his way, never witnessing the extraordinary cruelty of children, the apple exploding in private on the pavement in his wake.

Of course, it hit him.

With malicious power the crab apple sliced through the hazy afternoon and exploded right in his disabled boys face like a cider firework. Pulpy shrapnel flew in every direction. Andy emitted a feral yelp of shock and pain.

My cousin fell to the floor, pissing himself, his face red and swollen with barely restrained laughter. I froze and watched the browning chunks of apple slide down the poor spastics face. He looked around for his attacker and began to sob. He didn’t see me. With a deft swizzle of his joystick he turned 180 degrees and sped home.

With all my heart I wanted to die. I knew I was in deep trouble but I was also aware, even aged seven, that I had done something which would follow me forever, whispering in my ear and tainting any moments of joy to come in my life. I understood then what my teacher meant when she spoke of our conscience.

I never saw Andy again.

Whatever happened to him I hope what I did that summers day doesn’t haunt him as it does me.

It was one hell of a shot though.

Exorcism : 1. the ceremony that seeks to expel an evil spirit from a person or place.

Writing this book is proving hard.

With the script I’m also working on taking up increasing amounts of my dwindling supply of spare time and my head being filled with an exponentially increasing amount of shit I have decided to try and rid myself of some of the rubbish that sits upstairs in unmarked boxes. 

Exorcism will be a regular writing exercise where I’m going to expel a half remembered thought, a glimpsed life, an image or an event I’ve witnessed or seen which has found reason to haunt me.

All will be short, raw and unplanned. Fresh and written straight into the blog. 

Do tell me if you like them/think they are shit.

Freddie George Pirie. Right, now he’s out I can get back to writing.

The front cover!

Book ready soon!

Great article about the best writer ever…

His hangover is raw. His mouth tastes of cider, roll-ups, doner meat and sweaty tuppence. A tuppence which unbeknownst to him spent three hours jiggling about to eighties synth-pop and rubbing up against the wranglers of old divorcees, strangled to death by a sodden g-string in a crowded town centre night spot before having an ex-miners still coal grubby index finger jabbed up it behind a bottle bank. They met in Pisces arguing over the last fishcake and with his morals and eye-sight blurred by six too many cheap tequila’s and the preceding eleven pints of lager, within fourty minutes they’d gotten a club taxi back to hers and he was going at it like a jack russell at a dried pigs tab. And now, ball coming in from the games first corner, he tastes it vividly in his mouth and he throws up in the peg bucket by the side of the nets, leaving his man unmarked.

As more folk arrive Owen is distracted by something. He keeps talking but is looking over shoulders, watching the road. He’s looking for the ref. An old Nissan hatchback on an old M plate crawls to a stop on the road. It has to be him with a car old as that. Owen is off.

The door swings open and the suspected ref gets out, before Owen can get to him he’s already clutched his own sides and shivered and has began inspecting the frosted grass nearest to the path, prodding at it with a toe-end of his trainers. Its definitely him.

The man is fifty, a grey moustache covers his mouth entirely like a yardbrush, and his eyes droop miserably like a bassett hound that’s recently had its testicles removed. He has flamboyant and loose dangling jowels and chins-a-plenty. He looks like a just-fucked fanny. He has a bald head bordered by a phalanx of grey which drops to his shoulders like dusty curtains. He wears a brandless tracksuit, zipped tight against a rotund beer belly, the bottoms are tucked into telltale black socks with white trim just below the knee. He’s wearing thinsulate gloves, clapping them together with a dull thump, something he does to express bitter cold. Owen slows his jog-walk as he gets to the bottom of the hill, doesn’t want to seem too desperate.

 

“You the ‘ref?”

 

“I am that. Don’t think we’ll be playing this one cocker, it looks frozen solid.”

 

Owen’s stomach flips, the impending disappointment he’s been ignoring as long as possible all morning has announced itself. All his efforts to get the game on are hanging on a thread and the thread is whether this silly old c*nt would rather earn 18 english pounds for ninety minutes of abuse, running around in the cold freezing his knackers off or whether he’d prefer to listen to the taters bobbing around in the pan whilst he watches Goals On Sundays with his slippered feet up on the pouffe and the papers in his lap.


Owen’s only hope is that this mans wife is a right bag…


That if his match is called off he will not be afforded a cosy morning with Brian Woolnough and Chris Kamara but will suffer the same sort of fate as he will. Be made to ‘fix that gate’ or ‘plane that door’ or ‘take me to Lidl’. He hopes the refs fridge door is full of flapping post it notes containing biro scrawled demands. He hopes the ref too shares his hatred of garden centres.

 

“Its not bad up there Ref, I’ve been at it all morning and it’s thawing nice,”

 

Owen calls him ref. Even though he’s just a silly old sod until he’s wearing his black and the whistle is in his mouth. It’s respect see. Psychology. The kind of thing these types like. By calling him ref Owen’s already in his good books. If the game is played little things like that might make the difference between a booking and just a ticking off.

Owen has a theory. These types, refs, are all the same. Obviously to be a referee you have to have been sh*t at football. Otherwise you’d be playing. So referees are made up of men who love the game but were the last one to be picked when the sides were being sorted. Perennial subs, the type who were bullied at school or who’s dads took their belt to them for little or no reason. Or fat kids who weren’t fit enough and now get revenge by brandishing yellow cards. Or failing that considered psychological profile they are just plain sociopaths. No sane or undamaged individual in their right mind would ever choose to referee a Sunday league match, not for eighteen quid not even for eighteen hundred quid.

Owen turns his back and begins to walk up the hill.

 

“Come on, at least have a look ref…”

 

The ref, Keith Parsons, doesn’t fancy it one bit but what other options has he got?

Sit and look at her f*cking face? No thanks.

No pubs open this early.

Visit the daughter and have the grandkids shooting nerf bullets at him, spilling his tea and sitting in that madhouse listening to children scream and watch them run around like mental dwarves. Always got that bloody Simpsons sh*t on and their contrast is wrong on their telly so all the yellow gives him a blinding headache. Nah, F*ck that.

Tesco?

Not a chance.

No good cafes open Sunday, the Little Chef breakfast isn’t bad but you need to ebay a kidney to afford the f*cker. £9 for bacon egg and sausage, he’d rather starve.

If only he could get past her into his shed he could stick three bars on the heater, put his Led Zep four cassette in and work on his airfix fokkewolf but that was an impossibility unless he went over the back fence like some sort of fat cat burglar and she’d still f*cking see him, eyes like a c*nting kestrel. Since she got the wheelchair it’s like all her other senses have sharpened. Then she’d be at the back door, shouting;

 

“Oh it’s called off is it? Good…you can get these hinges oiled/radiators bled/pictures hung/shelves put up” etc.

 

His only other option is to drive round aimlessly.

He could take the dog for a walk up the tops but it’s hayf dead, you have to drag the poor sod after hundred yards.

Jesus.

What a life.

He would drive up Curbar Edge and throw himself off the f*cker but the car is colder than it is outside since the heater packed up in ‘06 and he’d probably die at the wheel of exposure before he got past Barlow.

He decides to follow this manager over to the pitch, have a look at it.

Might as well.