A Fool’s Errand

A document of an adventure I recently found in Holland, with a good friend.

Lëmoshë

A revelation, death-defying miracles and the joys of the Jobseeker’s Centre.

Raven

A lone raven delivered a surprising message to me this week.

Chicken Enthusiast

In memory of Carter F. Wray. Born human, died chicken.

Lewis

I saw Lewis driving a bus today. In Shropshire. Lewis the detective: not cuddly, man-next-door-watering-his-lawn, slightly bewildered Lewis of Oxford, the down-trodden sidekick of Inspector Morse; the Lewis who manned-up and got a promotion and his own TV series after Morse sprang his mortal coil; the Lewis who now has his own sidekick, a more wooden version of Boris Karloff. Not that Lewis.

I’m talking about the Lewis from a much tougher place than leafy Oxford. A much tougher time than the pampered Occidental turn-of-the-millenium. I’m talking about Lewis from the future, from Detroit/Delta City. I’m talking about the cuddly, girl-next-door-hanging-her-smalls-on-the-line, slightly embattled sidekick to Robocop, the mechanised policeman from Paul Verhoeven’s classic dystopian future nightmare, circa 1987.

The Annual Village Car Crash

Written in 2007.

About once a year there is a car crash outside our cottage. The A-road sweeps through our otherwise sleepy village at a deceptive speed, and though it is a pretty straight line entering the village, wide enough for two cars and some careful parking, and reasonably well lit at night, nevertheless someone will manage to get it wrong.

The Aristocrats

Inspired by the film of the same name.

Agent says to the nightclub manager: I’ve got this amazing family act:

The dad comes out in a yellow jump suit followed by his wife and young kids similarly attired save they all got these rubber masks on of famous politicians and such. It’s like an orgy at the Spitting Image studio. Eventually they bring on the dog in a Churchill get-up and the grandma. Only she doesn’t wear a mask because she’s the image of Margaret Thatcher. Well there’s fucking and shitting and what not, and the kids are split nine ways, they’re all slipping in blood and cum and dog vomit, the audience are invited to join in, then the dad rams a huge grapefruit in his mouth so he can barely breathe and he’s smashed a few teeth in the process, and the wife in the Tony Blair mask hauls him up by a noose till he chokes to death while slinging his last shot of seed into the cheap seats.

Oh yeah? Says the club owner. What the hell kind of act is that? The agent says with a flourish: they call themselves…

…The Liberal Democrats.