CONFESSIONS...

Sometimes it's cathartic to get those little things off of your chests, and where better to do it than on the entirely anonymous internet, where people may read it and smile in recognition when they have done something which is the same as the thing that you have written.

Here goes!

I once hammered a cork into a chocolate fountain because I was jealous of the children who were enjoying it. The resulting build up of pressure and explosion killed 5.

I sniggered behind my hand at the way a pig walked.

I once bought a Robbie Williams cassette single and done a shit on it, not because I didnt like it, but because I really needed a shit. I wiped my dot on a Miles Davis 7", and washed my hands with an Anthrax 'best of' compilation.

I murdered a crow because it looked askance at my hampton.



I once voted for a tramp.

I grafittied the West Wing of the White House - in white paint!

I stamped on a fish.

I have been known to turn the air blue when I dont get what I want!

I wiped sperm on a Matador's favourite hat. It wasnt my sperm, and it wasnt his hat!



I fell over in a shop and didnt pay for it. When the shop person came to help me up, I got up really quickly, gave them the fingers and ran off.

I wrote in to the producers of my favourite program and demanded that they cancel it, just because my mate Roy liked it too, and we had just had an argument about David Bowie.

I paid someone to shoot Roy.

I pissed in Roy's open grave.



I framed Roy's mother for the murder, and she got injected with something that made her die. When she was buried I pissed in her open grave too. Twice.

Before she was buried, I cut off one of her fingers, and when I got home I stuck it up my bum and had a wank over Business Lunch.

I swore a lot more when I was unemployed.

When I was unemployed, I used to go to the job centre and write my name down and they gave me money! I never corrected them on this, and to this day I haven't paid them back.

I got my favourite rugby team to gang-rape a priest.

I dug up Roy and his Mum and put them in a position where they looked like they were having a sex over a headstone, and then I called all of their relatives and told them that someone had vandalised their headstones. When they all got there I took photographs of their reactions, and once developed I drew moustaches on their faces.

I buggered them both before they were put back.

I often take a sweet or two from the pick-and-mix at Sainsbury's and eat them whilst shopping.

I did a shit in my friend's bath and blamed it on his older sister.

I havent used anywhere near enough apostrophes in this post, because I FUCKING HATE THEM.



I ruined my own mother's chances of a better life. According to her.

The Gentleman's Field Guide - Excerpt 2

'The Weaker Sex and their Handling'

The female of the species is a bizarre and oft misunderstood creature. Herein lies a guide to assist the wary gentleman through the pitfalls and social faux-pas that could result in their mis-treatment.




Situation:

Female attempting to alight from carriage.

Possible problematic occurrence:

Embarrassing display of flesh - possibly blinding the lower classes, giggling, 'Gadding about', a painful tumble due to skirts entanglement, arousal of gentlemanly urges necessitating quick marriage.

Preventative measure:

Do not allow her to leave her abode, sir!

Result:

The contentment of all.


Situation:

Female desirous of 'The Vote'

Possible problematic occurrence:

The dissolution of this Great Empire.

Preventative measure:

Thrashing.

Result:

Quiescence.


Situation:

After supper, sat next to female in Drawing-Room during parlour games, Gentlemanly passions exerted.

Possible problematic occurrence:

Over-exertion, unwarranted enthusiasm, heightened sense of competitiveness with other Gentlemen, engorgement of a variety of genital members.

Preventative measure:

Seperation of the sexes to opposite sides of the room - this should encourage Gentlemen to side with each other against the ladies.

Result:

Engorgement of members and arousal of passions restricted to menfolk due to victory over weaker sex, which can be alleviated over brandy and cigars in polite male company once females have retired-abed.


Situation:

Securing the services of a 'lady' of negotiable affections.

Possible problematic occurrence:

Securing these services in the first place can be a problem; there have oft been times when queues of red-faced gentlemen could be seen shuffling about near taverns of ill-repute, nervously attempting to avoid each other's gaze and explaining that they are only there to pick up and beat their wayward, drunken manservants.

Preventative measure:

Throw a penny in the nearest poor-pit, and whomsoever emerges victorious from the resulting scrum may act as your go-between and hire her for you. In most cases, the person hired shall be a relative of theirs.

Result:

Satisfaction of masculine passions via 'e-jaculation'. Swift, bloody murder and dissection on a London backstreet will ensure that natural female 'chattering' will not occur; thus your reputation shall remain intact.



Situation:

Death of Wife from fashionable ague (Tuberculosis tends to be the current vogue)

Possible problematic occurrence:

Bachelorhood leading to depravity.

Preventative measure:

Marry mistress.


Result:

Wedded bliss.


I refer you to the first excerpt from 'The Gentleman's Field Guide, which can be found located in the excellent periodical Close But No Cigar for further reading.

The Maltese Kraken - Part 1

I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on the battered desk. Pulling my lighter from my breast pocket, I lit up a coffin nail and tried to remember the last time I was offered a case that would let me bring home enough money to buy food.
After a while, the heat had turned the coffin nail red hot and I spat it into an ashtray, the smell of near-molten iron permeating the thick, thick fug of despair, lost love and shattered dreams in the room.
I decided to throw myself into what little work I could do. Rifling through my files, I noticed that there were way too many bills and money demands tucked into various cases, mostly the unfulfilled expense claims and gambling debts I was prone to rack up whilst working on a case. No doubt I had put them there when I was drunk in order to avoid the truth about the amount of debt I was in.
My desk phone rang out in the silence and I span round, cat-like, ready to pounce if it meant the chance of getting a case. I dashed to the desk and picked it up, putting on my best gravel voice.
"Timmerton Spuncy, Private Investigations. Hold Please"
I put whoever it was on hold because I felt it added an air of professionalism; if I was putting people on hold then I was busy, and if I was busy I was good, and if I was good then they would hire me, and if they hired me I could maybe pay off some debts. Possibly do some gambling and drinking and that. Get all pissed up.
"Timmerton Spuncy, Private Investigations. Thank you for holding, how may I help?"
"SPUNCY!"
Great. It was the Chief. The last thing I needed right now was my ex-boss calling me and hollering down the phone like an enraged starling. Murtaugh was the roughest, toughest, meanest son of a bitch in showbusiness. He was even worse in the police force.
"Hello Murtaugh... How's the crime business?"
"SPUN..."
The phone went dead. This could be bad. Real bad. The last time Murtaugh called me he managed to let slip that there was a rat in the department working for one of the big families, and that his life could be in danger. Quite why he would call me if a bad situation arose was at that moment beyond me. He was my ex-boss because when I was a cop I used to get so drunk that I would habitually piss through his letter box and flash my genitals at his kids. I once put a dogshit in a box and wrapped it up in wrapping paper, sent it to his house by courier. Probably shouldn't have signed my name on it.
The phone rang again.
"Timmerton Spuncy, Private Investigations"
"Sorry about that Spuncy, I managed to cut myself off by hitting the disconnect button with my cheekbone"
"Thats OK Murtaugh. Is everything alright?"
"Of course it is, why wouldnt it be?
"I was thinking that the rat had got to you, one of the families was maybe after your blood"
Murtaugh grunted.
"Rat? Families? Spuncy, this is Herefordshire not Washington D.C.! We dont have crime families, or rats for that matter! Although, we did have a sparrow that flew in and got caught in the net curtains at home, and a dog got into the playground at my kid's school and everyone stopped doing their work and was looking out of the classroom windows at it. That ever happen to you?"
"I think it did once Murtaugh, it was a Border Collie, and it done a shit in the field and bit Duncan Wright"
My head started to thump with the rythm of my beating heart; dark spots flashed in front of my eyes. My past was something I didnt want to let anyone know about - even myself, and I had already let too much slip.
"I... I'm sorry Spuncy... I know what talking about your past does to you..."
"It's OK chief... So why did you call? What happened to the rat? The last time you called you told me your life was in danger"
"Thats the whole point Spuncy. It wasn't me. Someone is calling people all over this crazy town and pretending to be me. I was calling because at first I thought it was you, but then I realised that you were probably too goddamn shit-thick or pissed to do something like that. Plus, your voice is all like, gravelly, and mine is all like, squeaky and that"
He had a point. A good point.
"Get to the point Murtaugh"
"The point Spuncy, is that this is too sensitive to be handled internally - I can't have this investigated by any of the guys in here. This thing goes all the way to the top, and even the Mayor is starting to sweat. I need you to look into it"
"You saying you want to hire me Murtaugh?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying Spuncy. Get over to my office and we'll work out the details [click]"
He hung up on me without even saying goodbye. See what I mean when I tell you how mean and rough and tough and that he was? All he said was [click].
So. A case. It was about time. Sure it was dirty, and definitely dangerous, the pay would stink and I could end up dead, but a case was a case, and I was harder up than a diamond on a clifftop.
I realised that now would be a good time to clean and oil my weapon - the last thing you need in a tough situation is a weapon so clogged up and dirty that it backfires on you - so I got up, went to the basin and scrubbed it with a wire brush. I then laid it on an old rag and polished it with gun oil. When it was clean I tucked it into my belt and went back into my office to sort out my old files. My penis had never felt so clean.
Little did I know then but it was about to get dirty. Real dirty.


TUNE IN SOON FOR THE NEXT THRILLING INSTALLMENT OF "THE MALTESE KRAKEN".