Saturday, September 17, 2005

In some ways, I think we’re all being stalked by tuberculosis victims.

it's not phlegm, it's a lifestyle

i am also being stalked by tuberculosis victims

I am being stalked by tuberculosis victims. They keep leaving great hacked up balls of phlegm on my doorstep, like kitten offerings of dead birds. I can hear them loitering behind me in the lift at work, gurgling lung diseases subtly into their hankerchiefs. I keep turning up at meeting with bloody tissues impaled on my high heels.

I am being stalked by lepers too. I have pieces of dead skin in my handbag. Yesterday, when I opened my lunchbox to munch upon my wheat-free rye bread sandwiches, I found a decaying ear tucked in among the lettuce. And a note with rotting finger cells smeared all over it;
This is your last chance! give me a call!

I never call the tb victims or the lepers. I hide my phone when it blares out their messages and I lock my door at night in fear of the scratching on the letterbox when they try to get in. I have disabled my cat flap after finding half a zombie leper corpse stuck in it after coming back from a weekend in the pentlands. He had been trying to squeeze his way in to suckle on my underwear drawer. I never clean things from my front pavement, but rather let nature take its course and allow them to rot away alone into the garden. I have a squeamish disposition when it comes to corpses. The milkman hasn’t come by in three weeks and the letterbox has been worryingly free of junkmail. The only thing to grace my doorstep now is the ubiquitous lidl’s discount of the week leaflet.

Reliability. A great trait of the Germans. And cheap cheese and yoghurt desserts.

Once when I was shopping in Lidl I was making my way down the port aisle when I heard a dull thud. The leper stalker looked at me terrified, one arm dropped clean off and oozing yellow pusses among the discount wines.

I'm being stalked by tuberculosis victims!

i used to get kisses and romantic from my last boyfriend, but since i switched to tb guys, all we exchange is blobs of phlegm.

at first i resisted. as you would. if there was herd of tb victims crouched outside YOUR front door. but it is futile to resist them. you know they're there. you can hear them coughing in the bushes ALL NITE.

oh juliet, if romeo had been cursed with tb, would you have loved him so? would you have left him wheezing and sputtering beneath your balcony and drawn a hot bath instead?

all nite they cough, and to try and make the coughing romantic, they try to cough the lyrics to stevie wonder songs, and strangled compliments.
it goes a little something like this: ughghhghkoffoffkoffff-beautiffoffkoffkoff. and so on, with other drowned phrases like 'silky hair, shiny skin, smell nice, and healthy lungs.' at least that is what i think they're saying.

eventually i could keep my distance no longer. i invited the sickest, louis, in for tea. i let him blow his nose and warm his chest on my couch.

that was both the end and the beginning. now we do everything together. sometimes i wonder how i ever lived without them? because i am never without them. our lungs rattle together in the pub, we double over in the cheese aisle in tesco together, gasping desperately for breath. i had to stop the weekly bike to commute to work, because first they insisted on following me on foot. i had to phone two ambulances to pull them all out of the canal after they fainted two blocks in.
now i'm not strong enough to cycle myself. in fact, i cant remember the last time me and the tb mob left my bedroom.

instead we sit, swathed in wool scarfs with menthol rub on our chests, making phlegm sculptures, daring each other to take a deep breath and laughing about the good old days when the bushes were leafy and the nights outside my window were long.

peasant pheasants

Devil bird! Horned fowl beast!
Curse the peasants no more.
Pack up your feathers and fly home to hell.

There you live with your trident and flames, plotting endless destruction to those who live near excrement spattered waterway pavements. There you gather together a terrifying army, a million minions of pheasanting destruction. You administer them with broken pheasant guns and shiny pheasant badges proclaiming their hatred for all that is not fowl and screeching.

You have been spreading your foul wings of destruction. You have been moving to Bosnia and agitating the Irish. You divebomb from the skies with a squawk of terror and pluck the bratiswurst from their fingers. Poor peasant potato farmers. They have nothing left to eat. They have to take up the melodica and play on street corners, just to scrape togther pennies to stay alive.

After a while, you drive the peasants insane. The screaming of disconcerted killer birds in their ears, they pack up thei melodica for a world tour. They sit in the dark corners of cafes with harmonicas and whisper to terrified customers
>>>>>>>>>>>>>“would you like to look inside my magic box?”
They will make music and move on, take a top floor flat and leith and start trying tracks about hedgehogs and poodles.
>>>but they will never forget the killer birds.

Screeching terror noises will ease their way into the improv midi tracks. Keyboard solos dispersed with wide throated synth clucks and sqwauks.

Eventually, the peasants will take to dressing like birds, gathering dirty feathers and rags from street kerbs and tying them to their clothes with dental floss, stiching them to their hats and shoes. They will fail to shave for weeks, and develop spiky birdlike faces with agitated ginger teeth. They will whine their melodia boxes in and out in and out in and out. Like arthritic accordions, wheezing out crippled folk songs of Croatian wildernesses.

They will begin to miss the birds.
They will start spilling tippex in each others hair for that freshly pooed on effect.
They will lie in bed at night pecking at each other with unbeaklike lips.
Sometimes, they will cry out bird noises in their sleep and wake up embarrassed, ashamed to admit to the other peasants their secret horned fowl love.

it is not cruel, it is art

People tell us it is cruel but we cry NO! it is art. They pick the wax from our kittens eyebrows and chastise us for our reticent behaviours. They do not understand the fine details that goes into kitten topiary. But that is fine. Every great artist is misunderstood in their own time. We will refuse to skulk with our sculptured kittens. We will not hide away in draughty apartments crouched over typewriters, bemoaning the lack of recognition.

Oh no!

We shall take our kittens on leads on the tubes. They will wink great hairy eyebrows at the commuters who will shudder in their briefcases at this lewd intrusion into their daily routine. No one wants to be perved upon by a sculptured kitten. But Great Art makes people uncomfortable! we cry. No wonder you people don't understand!

We will have the sculpted kittens front our gigs and offer them microphones and casiotones with which to amuse their sticky paws. They will leave griity litterbox prints all over the keys but that, my friend, is the price you pay for fame.

The kittens will DJ friday nights on boombox record players. As they do so, we will transform our space into a veritable salon, snipping away throughout their set with power tools and safety glasses. We will use the circular saw carefully, tiny tufts of kitten fringe flying through the air.

People wil tell us this is cruel. We will cry NO! it is genius.

We will stick kittens on the pages of our books and the walls of our toilets for bored would-be graffiti artists to concentrate on as they ease their constipation with endless burritos. We will stack them under the books in our library, frame them in our galleries.

Framed kittens! The ideal accoutrement for any home. We will sell them at five pounds ninety nine a piece. We will sign them with flourishing signatures and sneak into the world’s great art galleries to hang them on the walls, subtly, between Picasso and Matisse. They will not remain unnoticed for long. There will be a plaintive purring through the quiet white washed church atmosphere. Security guards will flock to the room to see a great wall of kitten frames yelping for freedom.

They will try to arrest us. Animal welfare people will denounce us in newspapers all across the country. That is fine. We too must suffer for our genius.

You must understand
it is art.

Rule 9. People tell us it is cruel, but NO! it is art.

There they stand, in the window, with their placards. Carefully arranged letters baiting the public, bidding them to join the ranks of protest against us.

People tell us it is cruel, but NO!
it is art.

in the name of art we organised trips to the dump and scuffled through rot-ravaged wood to harvest. the newborn splinters to serve as a delicate backdrop to our exhibition.

now here he sits. painted in honey and licked by fire ants. (well, licked is what i call it, but from the growing tomato tinge in rolf's face, i rather suspect the ants are angry. and who wouldn't be, after having fiery sticks poked into their nest to rouse them and capture their entire fleet.)

but still. rolf sits. in the name of art. biting idly on a piece of rotten wood to dull the cries of pain.

just yesterday we found him, in the job centre, mumbling about a degree in post-modern painting and performance. and we knew. we had the right man for the job. there was only one thing to do.

we took him to tim's flat and filled up the bathtub. jane raced off to buy razors. now we knew we couldn't afford the fancy razors with two blades and pleasing colours in the plastic handles. we couldn't even afford shaving foam. but we figured, he was hairy, he was an artist, simple soap would be enough.

jane returned. grinning triumphantly. proud to have only spent 70p and procured 7 razors! there would be surplus. perfect for the turks.

hints of our next exhibition danced in our nimble minds.

rolf lay in the tub expectantly. we let him keep his pants on. not for modesty, only because none of us had eaten breakfast, and we wanted to avoid any flaccid sights on an empty stomach.

things got tense when tim turned the tap and only a few drips of hot water came out. further enquiry turned up tips from flatmates about rusty pipes, absentee landlords, and showers at the hostel down the block.

not to be daunted, we were artists. we had spent six hours trawling dumps and job centres to make our art happen. there would be a way.

mat's eyebrows raised jauntily as he stared out the window at rain, lost in thought. off he dashed without a word.

only to return, minutes later. with four plastic bottles filled to the brim. puddles! of course.

rolf lay quietly. looking nervous.

and so we started. tim took an ankle, jane took a wrist. matt and i started on the ears. everything must go. we had twenty minutes to make rolf follicle free.

we worked quickly, alternately rubbing discount soap across rolf's fur and swiping boldly with our Niestzermauer's finest single-blade specials.

the skin squeaked as we worked. perhaps it was rolf, in semi-silent protest to the sea of razor nicks blooming across his chest. but rolf, true to his word and true to his anticipation of the four pounds we promised to pay, never screamed once.

matt finished off our handiwork with an explosing of all the remaining rainwater. muddy road water washed rolfs hair along the tub to stuff the rusty drain.

while rolf towel dried, tim stomped off to procure the fire ants. jane gathered pots of honey, matt nipped off to pick up some pile cream, and i stuffed the remaining razors into her purse--lest rolf get goosebumps on the way to the gallery and grow stubble.

no stubble!

i suppose news leaked to the protesters from the ant people. maybe the tiller in lidl talked. maybe it was the ant farmer. or perhaps one of tim's german flatmates.

we didn't know yet, were so busy getting ready.

to give you the short version:
it was cold. rolf did indeed get goosebumps and accrued stubble in some sensitive regions. jane raked the stubble away as we walked, alternately prying the bleeding flannel from rolf's chin to scrape away the clots and get at the hair beneath.


there are still cobbles in the grassmarket to this day, and inevitably it produces more of a wobbly step in foot traffic. commuters trip on curbs, teens choke on their cell phones, and jane, misses rolf's chin and shaves off a piece of his ear.

rolf, being a love, merely emitted a sharp inhaled cry. our proud compatriot nibbled his lip so as not to betray the pain to the shocked shoppers in the window of the cashmere shop.

but they still stared. everyone stared. at the hairless man covered in blood. his shirt being tugged open by a small beared man whilst a tall hippie girl in a woolen hat with bunny ears flashes cheap german razors across his bare bloody flesh.

when we finally arrived at the gallery, there were at least twenty people following silently behind us. kebab shop owners. two traffic cops. several surly and underfed pregnant teens, two grassmarket tatoo artists, and the entire staff and waiting room from the colonic irrigation clinic on the corner. one of the patients was still absentmindedly clutching his souvenir hose, besmirched with last nite's psyllium husk stew....

rolf. rolf perhaps enjoyed these moments of fame? we will never know. for when we sat him in the gallery and let loose the ants, honey and pins, that was when it all went black.

the black panther protest party had gone wrong.

Friday, September 09, 2005

friday night conversation

If you’re going to buy one bottle of wine, you might as well buy three. It’s a nice surprise to come home to. They have a nice selection at the bottom of the road.

How do I get there? It’s a secret location. You have to take trams and prams. At least ten of them. It’s a happening in the outskirts of Prague. It’s a nice guy running it. He was the bad guy in some play of mine. He was the witch. He’s a nurse who was thinking of starting selling drugs to supplement his income. It goes as far as Somalia. Intense. Talking to him is interesting though. But all a bit French. You have to skip a few pages and then it’s still more of the same. Skip a hundred pages and you still can’t escape the gory details.

Your plants are the living dead.
No they’re not. I stuck my fingers in and they were all still moist. I’ve been giving orders to the pathetic ones. They all smell of cayenne, but it stops the soil-on-floor problems. But it is going to kill them. First time I water them they’re dead. It’s sublime cruelty. Burn the roots!

I never knew they separated. Very intricate. It’s a high desk. Like the decks are going to be. Like the postals. Like the folktronica. Where’s the harmonica player hiding? He can’t have that many friends we don’t know about. These folktronica circles are small. Maybe he’s tempting girls with a samba not sex drum beat. I will forever remember him as the Great Failed Celibate. Still, you can’t be clever all the time. That’s just boring. It’s endless fun though. First you eat them and then you play with the wrappers for hours.

Red and yellow make green!
Green and yellow make blue!

The broken sock puppet slunk his broken self over the arm of the sofa.
How does one break a sock puppet?, you ask.
You drop it from a high waterfall in Chiapas.

Monday, September 05, 2005

the headless bow armed baby mannequin

the headless bow armed baby mannequin stared at me from the other side of the bed. he always slept on the left, i made sure of it. especially when i had to get up early for work.

didn't want to wake him.

as i got ready for work i sat him at the breakfast table in front of some marmite toast---suitably nutrition is paramount, even for a non-growing boy. Who KNEW what garbage they were feeding them at school!

Last thing, before I left the house, i would dress him gently in his grey school slacks, shirt and tie. Taking care not to loosen his torso or get lipstick on his plastic chin.

After taking out the trash, I would carry him out to the car and buckle him safely in the back seat with his school bag. In my state, it is now illegal for children under the age of 12 to ride in the front seat.

We cruise slowly past the school, stop at the cross-walk and wave to some of the other mothers. I pull over right in front of the front door. There are a lot of wierdos out there and I can't risk seeing my headless bow armed baby mannequin on a missing poster. I take no chances.

Then, after I've given him enough time to collect all his belongings and kiss me goodbye, I unbuckle him and lay him in the boot, covered with his favourite tartan blanket.

He will stay there for the day while I am at work. He will stay there until it is time to pick him up from after school sports.


20 years later, and my headless bow armed baby mannequin is no longer a baby. It’s getting to the time I would like to see him take a wife, leave the home, start collecting some plastic offspring of his own. I try to talk to him about this sometimes, but his expression remains blank and uncommunicative. I have never been able to fathom my headless bow armed mannequin son.

Sometimes I wonder about him. Why he doesn’t seem to want to go out and drink and socialise and meet girls. Once I introduced him to the daughter of a friend of mine. A pretty girl, though she worked in a tanning studio and glowed an altogether plastic golden bronze. Well, if my headless bow armed mannequin son didn’t just sit there and stare as we introduced the too, and met each of her questions and gestures with a limp wrist and soggy posture.

Sometimes I despair of my headless bow armed mannequin son.

Then sometimes I feel bad about despairing. It hasn’t been easy for him. Mind you, it hasn’t been so easy for me either, and I cope fine. But him, with his headlessness and his bow arms, it’s no wonder they would have picked on him at school. If I hadn’t kept him safe away from them. Under his favourite tartan blanket in his favourite bed boot. But now it’s not so easy to hide from the taunts. For the headless, they are everywhere.

from the shampoo adverts on billboards
to head counts at assemblies
to hat stands
and brain surgeons
and eyeshadows
thick rimmed electronica glasses Trevor style

the headless have a hardtime of it

mind you, don’t even get me started on the armless. Where are the pocketwatches? And the armless who have no pockets, well, they suffer. They have no concept of time with continuity, only the spasms of random clocks they meet in churches, in village squares, on video recorders, through sundials.
There are the legless, mocked by the shoemaker.
The blind and non-tactile sensitive mocked by the candlestick maker.
The wheat intolerants and gluten frees mocked by the baker
The vegans mocked by the butcher.
Oh yes.
Bring on the automatic cheese.

The Society For Missing Cordless Phones

The society for missing cordless phones is a noisy and loveless place.

At first, it was started for charitable reasons, principally by a group of individuals who each had their own bereft and tragic tale of cordless phone loss to speak of. They wished to help other who felt the same recurring vomit in their throats as the phoneless stand rang and rang, an eternally shrill mockery of the phones they could not find, the alarm clock dream invader which they could never wake from. The founding society member had met in anger management classes and early society meetings used to take the form of an aa reunion, each member desperate to tell their own tale of cordless hell, offering half screamed tales like dead birds on porches, morbid bile ridden desperation. At this time, they were all still bereft of cordless phones. Then the phones started to arrive.

At first they were packaged. Thick brown paper bundles all duct taped to an inch of their papery existence. Shoved rudely through the letterboxes by pimply postmen, ripping through layers of side paper and bashing the poor phones. Then, stranger things. The scratching of phone wielding badgers in the night. The sly redial button, tucked inside accordions to ring out shrill in the third chorus of secrets in the moss. The knitted phones, unfurling incredibly in the middle of grandmother’s scarf.


Fones fones fones. she pressed a fone against her face for so long that it stuck there. Was a Fone that collected furballs in its sticky unwashed handset. A Fone that began to stink, until one day, she went to the doctor to have it surgically removed.

began to stink

it left a big red mark and skin full of blackheads lurking beneath.

what a sweet feeling that night when she curled up to sleep and had no worries of pillow/antennae pain, or waking up to the shrill cry of REDIAL. or the relationship she once thought was special with the recorded redirect operator. a relationship gone sour once the fone failed to fall off her face at the end of the night.

fall off her face.

you call this fone hell? this is only the beginning of our story. i will tell you of compulsive one-shoulder hunchers that ended up needing hair cuts to counter weigh their tired bushy head. i will tell you tales of armenian stock brokers who were found frozen stiff, wrapped in fox fur, and clutching their finnish swine nokia--swearing on their dying day, loyalty to the cruel nordic mobile communications conspiracy.

compulsive hunchers

i will tell you stories of pirates, never texted back by love louse sirens. mer-women with no reception to their swindling signal.

i will tell you stories of fones drowning in baths
and toilets
and pints of ale.

do not call mountain rescue. it is time to let the gsm join atlantis at the bottom of the bubble bath. climb in, dip your toes, let the vibrating ringtone power your jets.

but what ever you do,
don't answer it.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

dirty laundry

the lives and collective adventure of stink, sand, sex and sandwiches caked upon clothes lying the laundry basket

there is a campaign of hate in the laundry basket. the semen encrusted panties are being shunned by the Christian tendencies of the scone-crumbed tweed. they have been festering next to one another all weekend as the washing machine sits silently in the kitchen, zenlike and pondering.

this machine is deeply content with its position in life. it feels like a priest, taking the corrupt and stained souls of the laundry pile, cleansing, absolving, leaving them pure and saintly. white. the grime shimmied out of them like broken locks and hidden away. like the strange euphoric high after an hour vomiting, the washing machine delves deep into the laundratic souls and releases them from their owner’s sins.

tucks them back into the drawer.

but this weekend the washing machine is silent. perhaps there is a powercut in the building, perhaps more powder is needed from the cornershop, perhaps there are simply more exciting things to be done today than laundry. the owner of the laundry seems unconcerned at any rate. but then, she does not need to dwell inside the laundry basket and simmer among the tension and stains. she does not have her sticky knee pushed deep inside the sandy lace trim of her 36D brassiere, thickly scented with an intense musky woodsmoke and tingles of seawater.

there are secret eroticisms in the basket.
things are entwined.
and things are moist.

talk of the laundry basket is not always appropriate. these are the dirty secrets tucked away. these garments have spent hours (even days) rubbing against skin, exploring crevices of bodies and seeing

they are there in the quiet moments. the closed curtain moments. they are watching as the hands stray. we assume they are inanimate, we never stop to think that they are judging. watching our every movement with barely concealed gasps. the thong we take to be so suggestive is actually eternally revelling in a private world of disgust. the thong is horrified. it has seen things no thong should have to see.


lost laundratic souls of a mistress who forgot the power of clean.
paying penance for once-spilled bowls.
sock soul mates separated by sex.
jammed into different sudsy loads.

the poor girl only had one foot.

in the corner
where she kept her laundry to clean,
rocks in pockets and jam-kissed jeans.

smoky dress from the party
and a filthy thong that made him keen
as the mustard he smeared
her skirts and stockings.

but they're not talking.

the basket fills.
the smells grow restless.
the cat stops sniffing round for chippie scented cloth.
smoke overpowers the clothing tower and the flies buzz round.

the dirty misshapen garments can no longer be separated or made to fit her sticky form, so she leaves them in a mangy pile. hides them behind the curtains
and begins to go slowly go nude.

the clothing pile languishes in its forgotten glory. generations of moths are spawned in its cotton folds. no one larger than a cockroach visits until one day...

there is a great thundering on the pavement at the one-legged girls house. is it her now ex-lover looking for more mustard-smeared love? sadly, no. he lost interest once she began runing around with the creepy nudists.

in fact, the shadow outsider the girl's door is a strange fat shaman on a quest for the corner of infinite pain. when he stumbles upon an alarming stench coming from the pile of crusty clothes, he thinks, this MUST be it, as the smell tuggs his goatee to a halt.

through her front door he crashes, hot on a crusade for pain. upon finding the clothes, he is overjoyed, for all of us have our own personal requirements for a corner of pain. he throws himself prostrate on the floor and heaps the rotting fibres upon his heaving bosom.

slowly the smells of the dapper spring day disappear and he finds himself suffocated in the fish-smoky world of moth mating.

and there he lies to this very day. just waiting for his princess to come home and heap more soiled knickers on his face.

the corner of infinite pain

come visit me where i live. in the corner of infinite pain. bring bee stings, bring tweezers, bring ancient neighbours that howl and tear their hair in the night.

together we shall crouch until our knees go numb.

when we're hungry, we will pine for the light of the open fridge door and cold noodles--but we won't dare rise to scout for snacks. instead we will steep in the pain of empty stomachs and growling hunger and thirst.

in the corner of infinite pain it is cold for me. for my wife it is damp and feverish. i long for a warm wool sweater to cuddle my purple chafed elbows---but it is not to be. mary-jo needles me as i whine, chiding me for weakness in the face of simple low temps.

this is our cry. sometimes we yell it aloud and set off the howling mutts. sometimes we mumble it as we chew on our shirtsleeves, dreaming of pigeon pie. chewing on shirtsleeves leaves them damp and disagreeable.
generally adding to the pain.

once there were pigeons in the corner of infinite pain. they scratched about, scrabbling for crumbs and pooping on every available surface. when mary tried to spear them with her knitting scissors they flew away. now only feathers and crusty shit remain as pigeon legacy. strangely, i find this makes my craving for pigeon pie even stronger.

INFINITE PAIN. i do not remember how long have we been in this corner, or what i did before the world of bee stings, rats and creeping sewage was created. nor can i say how long we'll stay. the pain changes every day.
we grow thinner.
a raft of sores grows on mary-jo's chin. to enhance the pain, i poke her sores with a broken pencil.
she responds by crushing my swollen testicles with her cancerous cane. it is love that moves her to chide me. love for the contract. the contract of the corner, the corner of infinite pain has consumed us. the corner has become our diner. our church. our bed. our garden.
our bath
our work place
our recreational paradise.
we are patriots of pain.
if there is one thing we know, it is the sensations that make us hurt, turn our skin to a bloodied mess and flood our sensory organs with fear!

think of us when you have goosebumps by the fire. when your child burns his tongue on hot lasagne. in our corner these moments would be infinite.

that's why they call it the CORNER OF INFINITE PAIN.


one day a shaman came to the corner of infinite pain.
he was drawn by the yelping.
harpie noises.
he thought perhaps he could find nirvana.
they could bury him to his neck
in the sand
(the sand is scorching on the surface.
your feet will blister.
underneath it is damp and wormy
and things squirm against
the infinite flesh
of the shaman’s crotch)

the shaman didn’t find enlightenment in the corner of infinite pain. but he did discover many creatures crawling through the sand. they looked like the hybrid love children of fleas and prawns, so he called them flawns. (although he would have liked to consider that some of the prettier female flawns might in fact be pleas).
the flawns liked to crawl into moist areas
they buried their flawny faces into his sweating crotch
then nibbled and suckled through the weeping skin of his retinas.
the shaman had flawn eyes
they were very painful
in the corner
of infinite

things like to multiply in the corner of infinite pain
there used to be a thick metal tube running across the ceiling
it was high enough that you forgot it was there until it hit your skull with its cold metal WHACK.
the contents of the tube were then jimmied around as it bounced loosely: the putrid stench of pigeon carcass seeped out from its tubey pores. filling up the corner like an errant smokemachine.

one day, the tube exploded. seemingly, the pigeon carcasses had been multiplying like hyperactive smelly amoebas. now the tube is a metal carcass itself. an infinite waterfall of pigeon carcasses rain down from its jagged edges. I sit beneath the waterfall, bathing in a perennial shower of festering pigeon guts. they scatter on the ground and mary-jo stabs at them arthritically with her needles.
they take no notice.
they are all dead.

ode to the telemarketer

you persistent sales fool. fingering your telephone with consumer pleasures.

I hope you will call back.
I have some things I would like to say.

I would like to begin with you sitting comfortably. I certainly am. I hope there is nothing in your call centre which chafes your buttocks. as a child I had an acute fear of buttock chafing. I wondered whether if you chafed skin long enough, eventually it would wear through like cheap cotton pants
(page 43 of the catalogue, reference number EH598 K2, £2.99 per tenpack)
and you would be left with nothing. nothing but inverted buttocks. it would be cool at first, you could keep things in the inverted buttock hole. you could store Frisbees and dinner plates and cats. but it wouldn’t stop there. you might have to keep sitting. you might wake up in the morning and think “there is sitting to be done today, and I must do it, regardless of my chafed buttocks and Frisbee hole”. and then what would happen? the walls of the chafe-hole would begin to crumble too, like that small boy grasping desperately at the well walls. and we all know what happens next. earth scrapes away under the eager fingernails. clods of mud fall down on the head. a slow and persistent waterfall of earth pillocks down on top of his tiny screaming form.
the boy is quiet.
and the buttocks, they are chafed.


the life of the telemarketer is strange. she enters homes through telephone cables, a disembodied voice seeping into lives all over the country. penetrating living rooms with her eternal patter. people are doing things in their worlds when the telemarketer enters. people are shaving their legs in the bath and thinking of telephone calls from lovers. people are boiling eggs and waiting on hospital reports. people are engrossed in trisha. they are the grumpy ones. they mutter curse and swear voodoo magick on the telemarketer’s children.

the telemarketer doesn’t have children. this is because she sits all day in the call centre with chocolate digestives and numb buttocks. no one wants to date someone with numb buttocks. when fingers roam into the endless expanse of a telemarketer’s ass, they want it to be appreciated. but chafed numb buttocks will not respond to illicit tickles. they will remain immobile and unconcerned, thinking their buttocky thoughts and not really bothering about much.

this is the great crisis of the telemarketer. unconcerned buttocks.

we all have our great crises. the Trisha viewer’s is that she has run out of sweet’n’low and has to put sugar in her tea. this makes her worried. she is concerned that this is the first in a slippery slope to obesity, that she will slither flabbily down the slope in to the realms of the great unloved. she questions her laziness, why she does not make the mission now to the corner shop, but Darren has just told Trisha that he has been unable to get an erection in six months and she is questioning if it perhaps his sporadic marijuana addiction that can explain why. she is also questioning her forgetfulness on the last tesco mission. perhaps she is feeling the first clutches of senility fingering her once nimble mind. none of these things concern the telemarketer however. except possibly the sweet’n’low vs sugar debate.

the telemarketer dwells in the abyss of the inane.
the telemarketer is going slowly insane.

sometimes the telemarketer considers masturbation to kill the long hours on the phone. if the telemarketer had had a sexy voice, she would have been a porn line operator. however, a childhood spent in leeds and the failure to adopt any heavy smoking or whisky habit means the telemarketer lacks the suitable fingered caresses in her voicebox. last year the telemarketer thought about taking up smoking to prep her voice, but she knows in truth it is too late for that. besides, the pornographic imagination of the teenager is beaten into submission by long hours of bored daily questioning. the telemarketer would have to conjure up worlds of erotic image for those spasming jerking customers, need to paint pictures of worlds with crotchless red satin panties and busy fingers, bent double secretaries with their nipples chafing on scattered files and keyboards. by the end of the day, the telemarketer finds it difficult to think of much beyond her chafed buttocks. numb arse. numb mind. busy busy busy.


It is not your tired, your hungry or your weak we want. Give the shite lot to the others.

It is not your brainless existence of pub crawls in pink polyester, scuffing around in cheap pointed shoes, shuffling our sagging flesh to brainless bopping tunes.

No sir. For us, this will not do.

WE WANT to tingle. we want to hear what you are thinking. we want to see the dark centre of your eyes widen across the smoky room. we want you to let us in to the age of desire pirated by sound and painful thoughts.

WE WONT BITE YOU too hard. we will nibble just below the nape in your most pleasurable spot. we want to turn you on so that all is revealed. even the bile that the others hide beneath a flattering floral pattern.

we love you for your bile. we love you for your mistakes and your embarassment. because that is where all the delicious thick nectar lives. a nectar we are training to harvest like beeeees from the unwilling human flower.

you will learn to love us. to trust that even though we make your head hurt and your cheeks sore from sucking, it will all be worth it in the end. you will arise from the pavement wiser, surprisingly happy as you brush the mud from your knees, pick the hedge sticks from your hair, shower, and return for a few hours to mingling in normal society.

your time in normal society circles is limited now. you are not the same.

there is bile and it is dribbling.
and it is beautiful.

dripping like nectar and candy, joyful to wallow in like a sickly sticky pool of clinging pleasures.
we love you for your bile.
we will take the bile you shower upon us, scrape up from the pavements the small piles of it that you leave festering in sunlight.
we will refuse to scent it with roses and marjoram, but dribble it over fields of rapeseed and set you loose in them to frolic. there you will get neckfulls of bile.
all the way up.
and it will tickle the bottom of your nose in a scent, half erotic seduction, half the encrustations clinging just beneath the toilet ring.
and you will love it.

this is the story of the bile. it is not always a happy tale, it is not clouds and fluffiness to spring from. it is not the first scents of spring or daisies or muffins, not shiny sparkly candy wrappers tied to your hair.

this is the bile and it is rank.
and it is beautiful.

the bile exists to plunge your hand deep inside and pull out a fistful of gooey gooey goodness. minds like to wallow around in the goodness. there are no sharp edges in the bile, no definites, just a mushy seeping world of goo that oozes and squelches into corners, big fat luscious droplets spreading slowly across the planes of non-bile. a sticky fuzzy coating, like old microwaves with honey spilt across the bottom left to rot in storage, like the top shelf in the kitchen where nothing is stored but a film of tackiness and dust. sticky dust.


Do you recognise them? the small piles festering and turning brown and smoldering under the hot sun?

Embrace them. Plunge your hand in deep because they belong to you. They are your bile.

For years they have been following you down the street on a string and stinking. they are your mistakes and embarrassment.

For years you have tried to mask that stench as it dribbles from your most pleasurable spots. Coating them with a film that cannot be scrubbed away.

the time has come for us to reveal.
We love bile
we love you.

we are attracted by a delicious thick nectar lives in the unwilling human flower.we are training. to harvest it like beeeees.

You must pirate irate desire and think painful thoughts.
YOU MUST hear the dark centre.
YOU MUST widen.
You must set it free in fields of rapeseed

in your nose is a scent of excrement, erection, erotic encrustations, and so we know you will love it. You are one of us.

you will learn to trust that even though your head hurts and your cheeks are sore, but you must keep sucking.

We command you to rise from the pavement. brush the mud from your knees and the hedge from your hair. return to normal society.

your time is limited, you are not the same.


It’s time to stop pretending that certain things aren’t there.
We’re all aware of the small piles festering, turning brown
and smoldering under the heat of the summer sun.

For years they have been following you down the street on a string and stinking.
They are your mistakes and embarrassment.

You felt the heat on your heels as you stumbled through pubs and ascendant shops. For years you flinched each time the piles skidded to a halt outside a church and left a sweaty stain. You tried to mask that stench as it dribbled from your most pleasurable spots at dinner parties. Why, what's that hiding under your napkin? Whatever is that coating the plates and forks with a film that the chipper hostess could not scrub away.
Who me?
Stain the sidewalk?
Do not blame the humble hounds. Do not play the proud citizen, the mayor or the virgin mother…
You convince no one by hiding your guilty eyes behind the gossip column.
You are too old.
The charming young lie has died
for your stinking sins.

We recommend you embrace them. Plunge your hand in deep and confess the piles are your own bile.

Its time to befriend fear and embarassment. Bring the bile round to OURS for dinner. We shall crank up the phonograph, don our lobster bibs and slice it thick upon the guests plates.
Mashed it neatly with a fork,
Let us sup upon sin and self-loathing!

Do you like the taste? Do you like our company?
Among us you will not find carpools and cardigans.
We love you and the strings of spinach between your teeth.
The time has come for us to reveal...
WE love bile
we love you.

To us, bile is a thick delicious nectar that the unwilling human flower secretes.
It is this nectar that attracts us to you.
We are training.
To harvest it like beeeees.

Sucking is the secret.
You mustn't be afraid of a little dirt or hair
or put off by the funky odour of human condition.
You must pirate irate desire and think painful thoughts.
YOU MUST hear the dark inky centre.
YOU MUST widen as you suck.
You must set it free in fields of raped seed

As you home in, your nose is filled with a scent of excrement,
A memory of erection,
A host of erotic encrustations.

Your time is limited,
you are not the same.

You will learn to trust us and obey when we command you to rise from the pavement.
Brush the mud from your knees and the hedge from your hair.
Do not attempt to return to normal society.
You are one of us now.

Even though your head hurts
and your cheeks are sore,
you must keep sucking.


we would like to encourage your bile. tickle you under the chin with biley fingers until you open your mouth and let the big wet fish of a thought spew out and onto the table with a flolopping shudder, slipslapping its tail in the canapés. we love the scent of your bile. for we are the bile nectar harvesters.

we would like to suckle the bile from your skin. slide our tongues down your neck an inhale bitter mouthfuls of biley goodness. we would leave big biley hickeys. people would look at you in the street with disdain. no longer locked up inside, the bile would be tattooed all over your skin in an erotic display of bile-bruised joy.

your foundation couldn’t cover the bile hickey.
your sister suggests toothpaste but all that it does
is make you smell of peppermint
and dentists

the bile that you have locked away for years would like to be set free. a big bile kite trailing through the sky behind you as you trot down the street. it would tangle in the clouds and stain them with big rusty blotches, an alcoholic’s ruddy skin. it would dip and splatch upon the pavement, big piles of gloopy bile that smell like warm skin and septic tanks. you take pleasure in your bile, however hard you try not to. it is the comforting smell of your own farts beneath the duvet. it is the flecks of scab encrusting under your nail when you scratch an insect bite. it is underwear that has been left on the carpet for a week, but it is your underwear and the stains are justified.

we say: revel in the bile.
we say: send us your bile.

bile does not package well. it is too moist. trying to tie up a bile package and cram it through a letterbox is like trying to decide whether toothpaste is solid or liquid. it is oozy. there are holes that the bile seeps through. soon all you have left is biley hands and a soggy envelope. a puddle round your feet that schoolchildren would point at and giggle. but there are no schoolchildren in your house, where you package your bile. the young and the innocent are terrified of bile. they are fools. you understand the bile, and eventually you shall come to love it. then you will know the love of god.

people say that god is in the details. these people are idiots. god is in the bile.
and in the fishes on our shoulders,
whispering fishy bile words in our ears.

there are people somewhere sometime who work as professional bile packers. they could teach you a lot. if you wanted to learn.

you could take on a fine bile art of your own. you could become a bile gardener. cultivate great flowerbeds of bile. it is a persistent crop, unharmed by neglect or frost. the bile grows strong, crawling up housesides and penetrating through cracks like the voice of a telemarketer when you’re in the bath. at first you are angry.
then you begin a conversation with the bile.
you wonder if it is wearing crotchless underwear.
you wake up in the morning and the bile is gone, leaving only a damp sheet stain in its wake. a feeling of nausea and loneliness in your gut.
bileless breakfast for one.
toothpaste rubbed on your neck.

the bile may be rank,
but the bile is company.

sham shamans

I wish I had seen you. Buried to the neck in shamanic insanities with the tubby head plonked upon the ground like a croquet ball waiting for three bags of mushrooms and a fat WHACK. That would be pleasing. The little head rolls of the shamanic friends bouncing forward backwards, skittering across the floor and coming to rest in the remains of the ashes and grubbiness after the fire has petered away. You would get little flecks of ash in your eyes, and they would blink stobelighting effects, trying to expel the smoky pains. You would think, goddamn, I wish I could wipe my eyes right now. You would try to move your arms up and smear those chubby sausage fingers across the creases and folds of skin. And then you would think:


My arms are buried. Up to the shoulders. Muddy little wrists and earthy elbows and a kingdom of worms festering all around this gimp suit of earth. You would be stuck and you would blink again and again until your eyes were dribbling with sooty overspill. And then you would wonder why, and create some reasons immersed deep in Buddhist mythology and monkish pleasures. The reasons would be silly. They would include references to souls and suffering. They would include justifications that you would not utter aloud while bouncing on a mattress and listening to some power tool dj.

Because, in truth, muddy arms do not save your soul.
Because, baldness is hereditary.
Because, sushi causes impotence.

Didn’t you know?

Ways to save your soul part three:
Call people “lovely”
Admire architect’s plans.
Fuck off

you worry often about your sole.

you bite back the truth of its fishy head when it rises behind your eyes and

pokes the truth with its floppy lips.

the fish is miming,

the fish is mocking.





the fish is forbidden to speak.

instead you speak. mumbling the very opposite of what your inner fish would scream at the stinking hippy.

your quivering gut soffocates the fish with weak simpering statments.

lies that belie no trace of wisdom, buddhism, or genu-wine love of

the 'beautiful spring day'. the 'healing mud'. the 'amazing talent' that is all happening around you. it means nothing to you. it does not even warm your fishy skin.

one day they will figure it out.
they will bury you and leave you for dead.
step on your muddy head.

the fish knows this,
the fish wants to tell you,
but you'll never let him get the words into your throat.


we all have a fish on our shoulder. whispering fishywords. seeking fishywives.

people wonder why it is a fish that tells us these things. people do not like to consider that their inner lives and eternal mental dialogues are merely the ramblings of some drunken seaform. they long for enlightenment, but they long for it to come from nirvana or Buddha or sufferings in mud, penance and retribution, endless salvation, some world of clouds and golden gates and men-bird winged hybrids. not a fish. that seems too backward, too simple, too far regressed on the Darwinian trail.

of course, it makes no difference one way or the other to the fish that people are looking for something more than him. he will go on regardless, being fishy and being wise, thinking the thoughts in our head that we are never allowed to say aloud. in truth, it would be better for everyone if the fishy thoughts were vocalised, but convention stops us from screaming the truth. convention does not like people to open their mouths wide and vomit up crazed finned phrases, force them out spasming and flopping, gills akimbo. convention says: keep the fish away from me.
we do not spill blood and guts on this deck.

of course, all this talk of fishy wisdom demands the question, who is sitting on the fishy shoulder, whispering words of wisdom in the fishy ears?
this is a silly question.
there are no fishy shoulders,
no fishy ears.

there are just fish.
and wisdom.
and the eternal search
for fishywives.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

BGB on Easter Mission

Thursday, March 31, 2005

love in liddle

love in liddl
stoned with marie
i almost went to his till.

i bet he has a big tiddle
i thought that on the day
that i almost found
love in lidl.


i dont want to come
to the toilet
with you camille.

she said that on the day
i piddled on myself.

not on lidl
not on yer waddle
not on the morning shuttle.
tee hee
have you ever met paul buttle
he never shuts up either
there is no liddl
in the lake district
you have to drive
to penrith.
tee ee hee.




you smell like pigeon excrement

you smell like the crusty like the crack of a pigeon's arse. your pockets are as tight as the grumpy birds twitching anal muscles and they creak with misery when you force a smile down your butt cheeks. you cannot palate a smile as it is against your smug constitution.

some admire you. but they are not aware how you hiss misery at withered old ladies in the library. sneaking around the shelves to poke them in the fragile liver until they TIP over their canes and lie fractured. helpless. on their backs like blue-rinsed cockroaches. to you, we are all cockroaches. scrambling around in plastic imitation of your glory. our shiny exoskeletons weak in comparison with your iron breast.

carrying in your pigeon breast pride for your lonesome life, you squint at the world in daylight, wondering how it feels to be inferior. how it feels to cook horrid sludgy meals that pale in comparison with the congratulatory stew you sup on nightly. concocting proud dinners that you spear on golden forks, eating purposefully on benches to hear the winos cry out in pain! the stew! the golden stew that you slobber over your livery lips JUST TO MAKE THEM JEALOUS. letting noodles of brown gravy trail onto the bench. shuddering in horror as they crawl over to lick the cooling gravy from the rotten bench.

you will not feed them. you would not feed them if your stomach was BURSTING with bread. because they can bloody well get their own. and they could if they weren't so stupid and lazy. if they had half of your brains and got up early enough in the morning. they would be well able to strut down the street with their head held high. perhaps not fit to walk in your wake, but then again who is?

tutting around. the pigeons crack we know as your mouth wobbles. proudly you wag your way through the masses. leaving behind the scent of an old dirty bird.


your eyebrows are intruding
they curl like teabag mould
septic algae in my room
waggling like the bottoms
of damsels from the black and white movies

i wish you would comb them
or try a trim.

your eyebrows like to talk
about things that are nimble
they make allusions to minds
and mean something else

your eyebrows want to rub me
this will not happen
sometimes i think that i would rather wallow in
the mud and faeces
of farmer's stalls
and chat to the pigs
about straw-
and the weather,
than let your eyebrows relax on my stomach
stretch their fuzzy legs across my skin
and conjure images
of greasy nuns
and fingered accordians
or furrier pianos

i cannot look your eyebrows in the eye.
when i do, they twitch
they think salaciously of lewd comments
which they hide, like schoolbooks over crotches
and giggle
at me.


Kitchhiking is the new darling of the avant guarde children in northern Dalry. Times have changed, and it is a sport for the demented and fashion crazed youth seeking out kicks above and beyond the usual car smashing, theiving, nutting, smoking escapades. The seemingly innoculous title has allowed the sport to flourish rapidly as an underground movement, with only the cut few in the know realising the true nature of this deadly trend.

Kitchhikers travel in packs. There are only so many streets one can attend to alone when guised in plastic sunglasses and sunflower print handbags. The kitchhikers job must be undertaken swiftly under a distraction created by a further member of the group. Then in the dazed silences which inevitably follow, they flee into the night like 50 neon strip clubs reverberating in the suburban quiet.

The first task of the kitchhiker is to flag down a car. In this day and age car flagging is no longer the simple arm waving tactic it once was, and kitchhikers must daily invent imaginative new forms of carstopping. Exploading manholes are a favourite in Edinburgh, where packs of glitter are lashed to dynamite in a colourful and fatal combination. Sparkles forever implanted behind the retina with the white afterglow is a common driver complaint. But it is difficult to catch a kitchhiker. PVC is slippery.

avante garde children supping on exploding spaghetti.
wanting to taste LIFE.
seeking joyous explosions
in their genitals.
slipping down mucky manholes in pursuit of rock and roll,
all the forbidden sewage of society.

rot your teeth,
ruin your ears,
cut wisdom teeth,
drink frothing beer.

dirty nails and fashion's car-smashing.
past the boundaries.


smashed on fashion
plastic sewage tacked to the slip-slip-
slippery surfaces
of today's designer dream.

jackknifing into satin
the riptop slipped off panties
on the bedroom

of the fashionista avant guarde
coke queen
who chops her lines like hems
blunt and quick
slice through the consciousness
like white thighs
under flashbulbs

it's a long way
if you want to rock

unbruised model eyes just don't cut it
and the heroin chic massive digs those
kitty slash arms

you blink in the daylight.
and excel in the exploading diamond roman candle flashes
burning retina afterimage delight
captured on camera film
like a fish gasping through tightening netting
like epileptic strobes pulsating through the brain
burrough into the eyes
flick switches
twiddle frequencies
teeth grinning white gnashing foaming rapid mouths which spack words like absolutions
you smile

the hair

we're needing a man to live in our hair,
live in our hair,
live in our hair.

he'll sing us songs when we're lying under the stars.
he'll know the capital of Rhodesia when we're at the pub quiz
he'll know just what to say to boys when they break our heart
and make us feel small.

a big need for hair collaboration.

lots of room in the curls for catching sun, smoke, flies and rumours.

some mornings i think i'd even ask the man to help me comb it. like americans rake the fall leaves from their lawns, the man would help rake yesterday's disappointment from my greasy locks. he'd catch witty comments that were about to go over my head.

there is always the danger that the hair will get too hungry. too independent. and start to really rule or lives.

one day i'll shower and try to force a brush through its tangled glory, only to find the hair has left me! crept across my pillow and slipped under the door to freedom.

if hair was free it would float. often single strands manage to escape, but perhaps they need the collective consciousness of a massive hairBALL to really be free. i see single stranded curls clinging to the carpet, my jumper, my cat, my boyfriend's chin (but that's another story).

often they mistake the plughole for the way out. can't see much joy to be had in sewage. my guess is the hair would like to cuddle in the grass. or blow down the sidewalk. or hitch a ride to the woods where it can plant itself in the muck and try to grow a hair tree.

what will become of the man who is renting the room in my hair when the hair leaves town? will he slip away with the hair and lead it to victory? or will he merely leave this brunette outpost for the next hot blow job...

before he had been the hair man it had been a fairly uneventful life. certainly nothing akin to squatting in folic bliss. but that was how these things worked out sometimes. sometimes caught up in breezes of engineering deadlines and the first daffodil flush of summer, you find yourself tangled somewhere quite unexpected.

the first haired encounter had begun rather innoculously. sitting all daisy contended in the park, the man was eating baba ganoush with his fingers. they were sticky with the yoghurty goodness. he licked them, and was glad that he was not hairy. it would not be pleasant, he considered, to have to munch upon your own fur everytime you wanted to clean your fingers.

or your arse.

there were other creatures in the park that daythat did not share his misgivings though. there were ducks who pecked mercilessly into their own fuzzy feathers and flesh, dogs that tongue -massaged their hairy bollocks with all the rigmarole and procession of carrying the olympic flame, even flies rubbing vile mouths over spiky haired black legs. he did not understand the glory of a furry tongue though, and eyed these creatures with a mild contempt. contempt is never a good emotion to aim at mother nature. she is big.

the man's attention was not captured by the licking creatures for long though. it was springtime, and the time of year when the first skirts begin their arduous journey north of the knee. skinny legs giggled round scuffed pavements and bottoms flirted and teased at desperate, panting hems. the man was not thinking about animal hair licks for long. sort of.

the park centred around a large pond. infact, many would argue that it was almost a lake, but that is irrelevant to the here and the now of the story of the man who ended up living in my hair. so; there was a pond, half hidden by algae and the floor dribbling with seaweeds and dodgy fish shapes. but it was still a pond, and the girls who came to the park liked to feel the cool slime of the water flicking against their calves as they splashed each other through inane chatter of boyfriends and essay deadlines. the man who ended up living in my hair liked the bench which faced the pond. it had nostalgic graffhiti scratched into its wooden planks and it afforded a suitable patch to block himself behind the crossword and watch. he learned a great gift with crosswords over the months he spent drooling by the pondside, much of which helped me later when he murmered quiz question answers. but in the long run, these things are irrelevant anyway, and the man was never much taken by the cheap word games of crosswords. crypticism, after a while, stops being the clever and devious concoction and faded into babbling as inane as any the girls came up with. and not nearly so attractive.


Once upon a time, hair floated free.
single strands curled around the collective consciousness
one man tamed the tangles
and held them captive in his tower.

he sung to the hair
about lying under the Rhodesian stars.
he growled at the pub boys
who broke its hairy heart.

He charmed it.
he made us feel small
sequestered in his room of curls,
to catch the sun,
the smoke,
the flies.

One morning as he raked yesterday’s locks.
his brush got tangled in its greasy glory,
he was in over his head.
in danger.
the hair wanted to rule his life.
To creep across his pillow to freedom.
he had hairBALLs striving to be free.
clinging to the carpet lifeboat,
to jumpers,
to cat chins,
hoping for a free ride
to the woods.
where hair might finally take root
to grow a firry tree.

They Stole the Holes

Things go on in golf courses late at night. This rests as undisputed fact. Of course, in the scientific sense, things go in everywhere everytime in a variety of more or less interesting ways, and it would be churlish to single out golf courses for special mention if it were simply the things that happen that were happening. But there was more than that. Terrible deeds going on. Mystery and intrigue after dusk. The humble golf course; transformed, defiled, brought down to the level of a mere lawn. Shameful things this does to the self image of the grass, it loses interest in life, starts wilting in depression and offering itself up in great divots for suicidal golf club flights. It is no longer the fine trimmed special of grand master tournaments, no longer rearranges its blades for easy ball trajectories. They do things to the course at night that makes it no better, no worse, than the urinated undertree shrub grass. They steal the holes.

It had been suspected for many years that they stole the holes. However, inebriation and shoddy weather conditions had always placed the matter as hazy hypothesis at best. In perky summer days the holes were there, bright eyed and gaping for all to enter. They were respected by all for their unending servitude to the grass, willing to open themselves to every soggy whacked ball, so that the lawn may aspire to Masters territory. But at night it was more difficult. Observers of the course could never find the holes. But then, observers of the course could never find much. Balls proved as elusive as upright standing as the sherry flowed through the mis-swung clubs of the golfing classes. Skin and 9-iron made contact to no avail, fingers slippery with spilt gin. Stumbles through the fog guaranteed no certainty in these hole-hunting missions. A decent investigation would have to be initiated, a planned and executed enquiry into the elusive holes. The crack squad were called. Mission commence, for the Bunnygirl Beats.

The Bunnygirl Beats had been on such missions before. Their crimefighting powers were legendary in all fields which involved any daffodil frolicking. They were particularly well equipped for nighttime missions. All those carrots. Good for the dark. However, for a challenge of this magnitude it would be incredibly foolish to attempt it alone. Anyone who would stoop so low as to steal a hole, there is no telling what they could unleash into the pestilent fog, what measures they would take to ensure future holes remained swiped at dusk instead of tucked prettily into their centre-green beds. But the Bunnygirl Beats were not incredibly foolish. They were reasonably foolish, but this was more due to the overabundance of devastating ideas which reverberated in their heads. It is difficult to find room for genius when one’s head is filled with day to day sensibilities. The Bunnygirls had made vital sacrifices, and judged common sense unimportant in the grander schemes. But rest assured they still retained the gumption to arm themselves with a hit team to take to the golf course.

Like squirrels on speed, the Bunnygirl Beats stocked pouches of prep for the trip. Accompanying them would be Captain Timbo, the most reviled pirate in every ocean from the mountains to the shore, who would frolic fearsomely through daffodils, his blonde curls billowing in the wind. Although he did not know it yet, this mission would sully Timbo’s reputation forever. Pirates do not belong in fields of flowers. Six months from now, photographs of his buttocks perkily surveying the teeing off range would find their way into the monthly periodical “Pirates’ Wives” and he would find himself laughed off all seven of the seas. But this was not a present concern. Also, bringing up the rear, The Stupids. The Stupids were not incredibly helpful on missions such as this. They had a penchant for distraction tactics, swiping the balls away from beneath the club swing and inducing some form of hyperactive laughter spasms at the most inopportune times. But all the same, they were necessary for the trip and for the sanities of the Bunnygirls…