Wednesday, 8 July 2009

The Secret Breakfast

In my dressing room I drink peppermint tea and wonder about him touching my knee again. Like yesterday. Just a light tickle, or brush, as he stretched across for The Telegraph. I looked dead on camera one and flushed. The tap of his wedding band rodgered around my bone marrow. Fanny pulsed, live on breakfast television. It really did.

Tuesday, 23 June 2009


All the boys called me ‘spunky biscuit’ after that party. This soon got truncated to just ‘biscuit’ and then became ‘cookie’. My mother, unaware of the name’s salty origin, took to calling me ‘cookie’ after Jez and Randolph joined us on a camping trip in the New Forest.
‘Cookie!’ she’d shout up the stairs when dinner was ready.
‘Come and get it!’
Downstairs, I would protest,
‘Mum, can’t you just call me David?’
‘Oh Cookie, you are silly.’

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

Top Shelf

I sat in the corner as they cupped the barmaid who filled a tankard with shots of green and blue, but mostly amber. Had to down it. Down in one. Down it, down it, down it.
When I came to, a man stood over me brandishing his Johnson, a smile as deep as a scuzz starlet's wounds. Our eyes met and it dawned on me that I, to that point, had never felt true love. And I never would.

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

Bullet Points

The assembled men and women threw their cocks around the glass room. A projected monochrome pie chart screen showed, without equivocation, that the workforce was twelve percent less happy than this time last year. The technical director stood up and spoke, ‘The reason why people are unhappy is because they are not living out their dreams. We are not doing enough here to help them live out their dreams. Or, moreover, we are failing to make them understand that this dream is their dream. Dare to dream our dream, people.' He shook his head. 'Don’t they know that they’re nothing on their own.’

Tuesday, 17 February 2009

John Held Me

I'd finished my shift at Swing Palais and grabbed a fist of salt to throw over the car's frozen windscreen. Outside, the midgets stood juggling beer bottles and puking into a lady's purse. Twenty short, I walked up the hill to the spot and waited for that mister's car. On the back seat the salt slipped out of my hand.

Friday, 13 February 2009

Return of the Pointy Dog's Cock

In the back room of Roget's Aquarium, round the back of Marple Ash, I sat wolfing down scratchings from the Black Country. One of them popped against the roof of my mouth and wet fat salted my tongue on its route out and down my chin. A passerby tipped his hat and said, 'My, that's quite some face on yours.' All in all, it was a moment to be savoured in this johnny-come-lately existence.