Not everyone’s a winner baby

Oh shit, muttered Clive to himself, as lightening illuminated the fact that they were not anywhere near safety. They had run in entirely the opposite direction and now momentarily hesitated on the muddy track in front of Georgie Delaware’s cottage. Will heroically tried to pull H Butt, blubbing, towards the cover of a muddy Land Rover, wrenched at the door but it wouldn’t open. Betty froze caught between fight or flight. Clive ran. Rain stabbing at skin and jabbing at his eyes, ankles threatening to twist and snap on gnarled tree roots – he ran hard, in the direction of the quay, like he hadn’t run since the age of twelve when, as the anchor of his school relay team he’d been delivered an ultimatum by Michael Peacock – to win, or lick Sweaty Wilson’s notoriously hairy balls. He’d lost back then but he wasn’t going to lose this time.

A crack of gun shot sent Betty darting back into forest cover as H Butt wailed through a large gaping hole in his throat and fell, like a large Pine, onto Will pinning him to the ground.

Will struggled under H Butt’s now dead weight, threatening to push the air from his lungs and he mused that this was not how he was supposed to die. He’d imagined since childhood (one obsessed with westerns) that he’d die in a mighty shoot out, a fallen hero but a hero none the less.

Feet in muddy boots approached ominously, one sturdy step after another as Will looked up the last thing he saw was Georgie Delaware looking down the barrel of his rifle. His final random thought was – well I suppose this is more like it? Before it was blown from his impossibly perfect head.

As Georgie crouched down to check that both lads were dead he considered the situation: It wasn’t that murder didn’t bother him, of course it did, he wasn’t a bad man after all. He was just a troubled man who’d spent too many years babysitting entitled, ungrateful and endlessly demanding holiday makers. All that unblocking of toilets and whining bullshit he’d endured – for more than thirty years, since he’d won the island off Rory McIntyre during an impromptu shooting competition – had clearly caused him to snap. He decided that he must be having a breakdown, and therefore could not be held responsible for his actions.

Feeling better about everything, he made a third decision – from now on he was just going to bloody enjoy it.

To be continued…

I’m thinking about punk. That’s Mac with the shaving foam, Dan Damage in the middle. Me, on the right aged 15. Someone called Steve took the picture, he was a New Romantic, his best friend was Russell and they loved Depeche Mode. At the bar behind I can see a skinhead lad whose name is missing, from a memory of him drying bannna skins on Dan’s gas fire, to smoke – because someone told him it’d get him stoned. I snogged him but I didn’t smoke his dried banana skin.

A little swerve from the usual; here’s a guest post from me, on Indiewire, about a group of female directors in the UK.


Yes, it’s true.

Storms raged and buildings, torn from foundations, hurtled through the air. There was much ducking and running for cover. We sang, we told stories, we ate toenails when we ran out of tins of beans – but we survived, intact.

Stories and such will resume shortly. Honest.


The weakest link.

The storm tore relentlessly at the trees and dispatched pin sharp rain into a pitch-black night cracked only by lightning flashes. Wide-eyed and gripped by buttock clenching fear, Clive pushed ahead, leading, what he thought was the way to the quay. Will stumbled five metres behind him, H Butt behind Will and Betty staggered, tripped and waddled a hundred metres behind H, hobbled by his fashionably low slung jeans, the waistband caught mid way across his Calvin Klein clad rump.

Betty, Will and H were too scared to think. Clive – desperate to gain momentary respite from the knowledge they were running from a psychopath – distracted himself by trying to recall whether he had paid the insurance company, who covered Goliath’s lives, in case of death.  If he had posted the cheque, then, with two band members already down, he was quids in; lose another and his financial woes could be over. He glanced back – if he had to jettison a third, who would it be? Who was (after Fingers) the biggest bastard of them all?

It had to be Betty.

Clive allowed himself a moment to enjoy this optimism in the face of total fucking disaster and then he slipped, falling face first into the mud.

The howling storm tormented Georgie Delaware but not as much as the incessant squeals from the bathroom above. He paced his cluttered and darkened kitchen, pressed frozen peas to the crown of his throbbing head. Twice he sat down and sobbed but a restless moment later he got up again. The third time he rose and walked to the table, littered with detritus, snagged with thick black wiry thread attached to a bloodied needle, next to which the shotgun rested.

Fingers squealed continuously from the moment he felt his tail wiggle; until, hyperventilating, he dropped to the floor; here he was overcome by an intense desire to push his new snout into the dusty corners behind the toilet – he gave in to it.

Georgie picked up the gun and slowly climbed the stairs. He crept quietly along the upper hall and finally, with a trembling hand, he unlocked the bathroom door and stepped in.

‘Oink,’ Fingers said cheerily, blinking at him with clearly shrunken eyes, and waggling his tail, “Oink, snort snort, snuffle?” he said gleefully before returning to whatever pleasure he had discovered beneath the pink towelling toilet rug.

Georgie stepped two steps backwards and quickly closed the door; was it him or was the lad now more pig than man? He sat heavily down at the top of the stairs, listening to the snuffling noises and a sob caught in his throat – staring down at his gun laid across his thighs he could see only one way out this nightmare. He balanced the butt of his gun on a step below and pushed the end of the barrel into his mouth. Georgie jumped and nearly choked when the phone rang downstairs but he recovered. Ignoring the call, he found the trigger with his thumb,and was about to apply a little pressure just as his ancient answer machine kicked in and a mechanical voice asked who ever it was to please leave a message.

“Dad!?” said a young, cheery female Scottish voice accented with an Australian questioning lilt.

Georgie lifted his head.

“It’s me, Matty Dad!?”

He left the gun on the landing and raced down the stairs. He skidded on letters piled up unopened, righted himself and dashed into the kitchen.

I’m back!?”  Matty said.

Georgie located the phone beneath old country music magazines, on the shelf below the kitchen window and snatched up the receiver.

He sobbed at the news that she was so close, just across the water waiting for the storm to abate. He laughed with relief and then joy when she said enthusiastically:

“I’ve learned some awesome boomerang skills Dad.”

That’s my Matty Georgie thought. He wiped his eyes and glanced briefly through his darkened window as the space beyond was suddenly illuminated by an unfortunately lingering gash of lightning at the precise moment that Clive, H Butt and Will, emerged utterly spent, and somewhat confused from the tree line. This was certainly not the fucking quay.

“Matty,” said Georgie wincing, taking a step backwards into the darkness of his kitchen, “Ah’ve a wee bit of a mess t’sort here lassie then Ah’ll be over t’pick ye up.’

To be continued…


Outside the storm raged and thunder rocked across the tattered roof of the old lairds house so forcefully it shook the lad’s internal organs. For twenty minutes H Butt, Betty, Will and Clive bickered in strained and terrified voices, as to who should undertake a reconnaissance mission, to the drawing room, to check on Goliath’s now horribly silent bassist. Everyone, except Clive, agreed that he should go – after all he was the manager. He found himself corralled and then shoved, with more force than he thought necessary, up the spooky hallway.

He felt his way along the wall; it was dark apart from flashes of lightning – each one felt like a jolt to his heart and made everything clenchable clench. Nearing the end of the hall he paused, until receiving a sharp hiss of encouragement from H Butt he reluctantly peered around the corner. His mouth dried and his bowel made tentative arrangements to void as a giant flash of lightning gashed across the room, illuminating a bloody smear, as wide as a body; it stretched from behind the sofa, across the dusty wooden floor to the large French windows that suddenly burst open and in roared a swirl of wind and leaves. Clive nearly passed out with fear but after he steadied himself it became clear the smear continued across the threshold and out into the furious night.

Betty took hold of Will’s hand, who squeezed it reassuringly, and H Butt hissed, “Brenda, what the fook is what?”

When Clive found his voice he hissed back that Fingers had ‘gone’. The lads crept forward, pushed Clive ahead into the room but waited to see if anything bad happened before nervously following. All jumped at the next crack of lightning, Betty knocked into H Butt who took an unsteady step to his right and skidded in what was left of Cyclon’s brain, pooled on the floor.

“Oh fook man what we goona do?” Whimpered H  scraping the jelly like substance off his enormous Air Force One ‘Anaconda skin’ Nike trainer. Clive knew there was only one sensible action to take – get the fuck off the island; everyone nodded, except for Will.

‘That there smear leads to our band mate,’ Will said softly, ‘We gotta find him, we gotta try…’aven’t we?”

‘Nah…sod that,‘ said Betty and H at once, each taking a fearful step backwards. Will looked at Clive for support, because he thought somewhere, trapped deep inside, surely there lived a better man? Clive crossed his arms and said, “You can fuck right off.”

‘Fair enough,’ sighed Will, guessing from the amount of visible blood that Fingers, the poor bastard, like Cyclon, was dead.

Fingers remembered being dragged over floorboards, across hard uneven ground but then he must’ve passed out from the pain in his shoulder. He woke gasping for breath, cold and naked. Curled on his side in an empty bath, in a small but clean, seventies era bathroom with the type of pink fitted floor rug, snugged around the toilet plinth, that is now deeply unfashionable with the germ conscious.

Outside the wind howled and nearby branches tapped ominously on the frosted glass of the small window.  His shoulder throbbed and his nose was blocked and swollen to the size of…a haggis perhaps or a vast pate sausage. Looking down, it was wide and black, with a blotch of pink and…carpeted in tough hairs? He gurgled in panic, dragged himself out of the bath, staggered the two steps to the mirror above the salmon pink sink, where for a moment any physical pain agreed a cease-fire. The face reflected back at him was not the one he’d admired the morning before. No, his face was now married (by blood scabbed, black wiry stitches) to Ruby’s snout.

Fingers squealed. Yes, it startled him too – so much so that his new piggy tail wiggled. The shock of which caused him to squeal again, exactly like a pig.

To be continued…

The last supper.

For Clive, time slowed and was devoid of sound: he saw Will allow the saucepan to fall from his delicate hands. He noted H Butt’s mouth gape open in a horror-film-scream and Betty drop like a rag doll to his knees. He sensed Georgie Delaware struggle, dazed, to his feet and then slam unsteadily against the wall as he screamed, spittle flecking from his lips – something about them all being dead men.

Clive believed he had been shot; this was why everyone looked mortified, why his face felt wet, why he felt distant. Maybe this is how it feels to be on your way out? Whilst inhabiting this no-mans-land he was surprised to turn to recent regrets: He wished he hadn’t had sex with those five Japanese groupies, two years ago, one of whom gave him the clap, which he passed to his wife Mindy. He regretted, after the tears and recriminations (all deserved), agreeing to her terms, five men of her choice – an eye for an eye as it were. Number one was Fingers – afterwards, over dinner, she exhibited a previously untapped, almost cinematic descriptive talent, verbally reliving the event, from the sensation delivered by the girth of his pierced cock, to her abundant and multiple orgasms. The remaining four lovers were carefully picked from members of their local pub’s football team, each of whom she photographed during coitus and shared a lively montage with Clive, in the form of their seventh wedding anniversary card.

He swallowed hard and ‘something’ soft went down.

Also, with the gift of hindsight, he regretted investing the entire advance for the new album in that ‘no brainer’ Korean property deal. Mostly though his biggest regret was having hired this fucking house, on this fucking island, where he was about to fucking die.

He held this thought as he watched Will scuttle across the room and crouch, next to Cyclon who appeared to be missing a large part of his vast forehead. It then slowly struck Clive that the gloop dripping down his own face, the soft curd like lump he had swallowed and the crunchy bits on his lips were scraps from Cyclon’s skull and frontal lobe. This was when Clive bent to throw up, and throwing up was the thing that saved his life.

For Fingers time shifted up a gear and moments before Clive vomited he realised he only had one chance. With seconds left to live, as Georgie steadied himself, reached down to retrieve his gun and retrain it on the man who fucked his daughter’s pig, Fingers leapt off the sofa, putting Clive between himself and the gun barrel just as Georgie pulls the trigger. KLICCCCCKKK WHOOOOOOWWWW KABOOOOM. Fingers couldn’t, of course, have anticipated, that Clive would bend to hurl.

He is thrown against the far wall, a ragged bloody hole blown through his left shoulder. Georgie ready to finish him off, steps forward but falters and stops, lowering his gun, because Cyclon sits up, rather abruptly, as if woken from a night punctuated with Sambuca shots. In a sleepy childlike manner he wipes goo and blood from his eyes, teeters to his feet, staggers to his drums, sits down and sets to them – for five genius and utterly out of character Clyde Stubblefield-esque minutes. This is followed by an awe filled silence – after which Cyclon drops his sticks, the left then the right, and falls sideways off his stool. Dead. Betty screams and screams and screams until H slaps him, hard.

It is only then that Clive clocks Georgie Delaware has gone, as has the gun – then Fingers, a disembodied voice from behind the sofa, sobs:

“Loves, ah’ve been murdered, the bastard shot me, Oh fook, Oh fook. Ah don’t wanna die loves…Ah don’t wanna die…”

Clive Brendon is not a terribly brave man and so what he does now is entirely in character. He runs. He does so without engaging his brain. He dashes down the hall and drags open the main door to be confronted by driving stinging rain and a KAAABOOM CRAAACCCK as a bullet bounces off the stone work to his right.

“Oh god,” he whimpers as he fights, to close the door, against the elements and potential death. He wins, turns, utterly spent to find Will, H Butt, and a tearful, red-slapped-cheeked Betty, glaring breathlessly at him. Before anyone has a chance to use the phrase ‘you-mother-fucking-coward’ a hideous, agonising scream emanates from the drawing room – it continues for three minutes and then stops, dead.

“Fuck…” whispers everyone in unison, “Wer tha’ Fingers?”

To be continued…

Great, pig, trouble.

Fingers stands in a clearing, looking down, as the howling wind rips at his hair and rain smashes into the right side of his face. His trousers are around his ankles, his buttocks are clenched, his knees caked with mud and twigs. At his feet is Ruby, the large saddle back pig, last seen at the quay when Goliath first arrived. She has keeled over, onto her side, panting and snorting breathlessly – then suddenly, she spasms and squeals out in pain.

The last born of a large litter, Ruby was plucked from certain death by Georgie Delaware’s daughter Matty (Matilda); raised by her loving hand from runt to great hulking house pig – albeit with a slight heart defect. Four years ago Matty left the Scottish island on a gap year trip to stay with her maternal grandmother and since then he’d heard nothing and reckoned the old witch had turned his only daughter against him – like she turned Matty’s Mum. Ruby is Georgie’s last connection with his only daughter; when he sees Ruby he always thinks of Matty – sad, weird but true.

Georgie hears Ruby cry. He races through the woods battered by the elements and hollers desperately into the storm, “RUBY? RUBY? RUBY?” His voice flies ahead of him reaching Fingers and rousing him from his horrified stupor. He grabs the waistband of his trousers to pull them up but too late – Georgie stumbles into the clearing. RUBY! He wails, rushing forward, pushing Fingers out of the way and sending him flying backwards, hard, onto his arse, legs in the air. Ruby grunts almost imperceptibly, little piggy eyes blink sadly up at Georgie as if she says:

“Goodbye dear friend, goodbye.”

Georgie hears Fingers scrabble to his feet, hoick up his jeans, and stutter that it doesn’t look like what it looks like, which is precisely when Georgie reflects on what the scene, actually, does look like: A rock star + muddy knees + a visible penis + female pig with a ravaged pudenda. Ruby, as if sensing the truth is out, sure now her honour will be avenged, shudders, squeals (like a pig) and abruptly dies.

Georgie roars in anguish. Fingers takes a few tentative steps backwards but George is on his feet and moving towards Fingers who suffers a nauseating feeling of impending doom and tries to lighten the situation.

“Oh no, c’mon love, she came on ter me, honest…’ but clearly humour is not going to work. So he bargains; “look mate, Ah’ll buy yer a new one, Ah’ll buy yer a whole friggin’ flock…Pigs up t’yer nipples.” Georgie launches himself at Fingers, who runs; skidding on mud, stung by nettles, face clawed by angry branches. His lungs threaten to burst and his legs have all but given way but he can hear Georgie crashing after him. Finally, whimpering, he pushes through the door of the old house only to be confronted by the powdery white, red eyed, ghost of Clive Brendon wielding an axe; it is too much for his frayed nerves – Fingers screams shrilly and faints before he can say ‘lock the door’.

There is a reason why guests are corralled into a specific area of the house; the reason is dilapidation. The empty room above the one where Clive slept, clutching the axe, has a large hole in the ceiling with direct views to the sky beyond. Through this hole, for many years, wind whipped, snow drifted and rain poured, soaking the floor below, rotting the rafters to the texture of liver pate. Twenty minutes ago the rafters gave up; the ceiling dropped onto Clive covering him in soft rotted wood, plaster pieces and icing him with a layer of grey-white dust. He woke spluttering and gasping as if risen from the dead. He stumbled out, clutching the axe, half blinded, wishing he’d removed his contact lenses last night. He lurched along the corridor and struggled stiffly down the stairs. He heard the front door fly open and saw someone stagger in and the person screamed, like a girl.

At least that’s what Betty said, after they’d dragged Fingers to the sofa in the drawing room. Will pointed out that using that phrase was demeaning to girls and Betty giggles; he says:

‘Did yer sister tell yer she gave me a gifted tit wank after Blackpool?”

Will sighs, she didn’t just tell him, she posted pictures on Fuckbook and tried to sell the story to the sun, thinking it would help her get on Big Brother. It didn’t. He frowns, searches around the room for a caustic yet poignant response when he notices Cyclon; skin quivering as if an alien fights its way out, sweat cascading off him as he crawls until he makes contact with a wall, where, oblivious to all but his own pain, he bangs his head repeatedly against the faded, ‘Strawberry Thief’, William Morris wallpaper. Will dashes off to scrape cocaine dregs from the kitchen table in a futile attempt to relieve Cyclon of what could be a fatal period of withdrawal from years of drug abuse.

Fingers shows signs of life, muttering as if in a nightmare, calling out for ‘Mindy? Mindy?!’ (This is the name of Clive’s wife). Clive grabs a vase, full of half dead flowers in fetid water and chucks the lot on him – an act that he enjoys immensely until, out of the corner of his eye Clive becomes aware of a figure, looming at the drawing room door. It’s Georgie, tears streaked down his ruddy cheeks; shot gun raised and primed.

He suddenly shouts, “Move ah’way from tha’ murdering rapist bastard!”

Everyone jumps, looks at each other and then at Fingers who has returned to consciousness and the sight of a shotgun – aimed at him. Betty backs away hands stuck vertically in the air, H Butt drops to the floor, behind the sofa – he’s had a gun pointed at him before, during the robbery of his Suffolk mansion, now sold at auction to a pair of Euro lottery winners. Clive thinks very quickly: he considers the band minus their famously vile, but fan-base heavy bassist and concludes that Will could provide both a keyboard bass line and with a bit of work become the fan focus. i.e Fingers is dispensable. This thought makes Clive smile, momentarily, however he is moved by the look of pure terror on Fingers’ face, to consider the option of disarming Georgie, using charm (unlikely to work), or heroics (would look good in the papers) but Will beats him to it. Moments ago he crept silently, from the kitchen, slid soundlessly up the corridor and right now, whacks Georgie Delaware on the side of his head with a medium sized copper bottomed pan. Georgie drops the gun; it hits the floor; it fires – KABOOM – and – in horrible slow motion a splurge of bone, blood and grey matter splatter Clive – a portion of which enters his open mouth and is, in the ensuing panic, swallowed.

To be continued…

There’s a storm coming.

A Cyclonic roar reverberates through the house as wood splits then metal crashes and glass smashes; out of sight Fingers screams – proceeded by a nasty silence.

Betty, H Butt and Will, peer nervously down the hall then creep forward and stop in a pile of hush a few feet from Fingers; he stares at an axe wedged into the wood panelling a few inches from his head, where it landed, narrowly missing his cheek, when Cyclon rushed blindly forward into the larder with murderous intent and skidded on a Granny Smith apple. Cyclon now prostrate on the flag stone floor, groans, surrounded by more apples, candles, cleaning products and broken jars once filled with jams and pickles. Clive Brendon’s feet and his right arm protrude lifelessly from beneath a metal shelf unit he had placed against the larder door for protection.

“Shit,” Fingers whispers and then volunteers, as an avid fan of medical dramas, to take Clive’s pulse; he can’t find it.

“Fook,” blurts H Butt suddenly, “Fook. Fook. Fook.” Cyclon glances down at his plum jam splattered t-shirt and wild strawberry compote flecked hands and suddenly wails. Fingers crouches down; he grasps the drummers muscular shoulders and shakes him until the hideously feral noise abates.

“It were the shelf that done it Cy! The shelf!” Fingers cradles Cy’s over sized head to his own almost concave chest, emitting soothing noises and adds, “Anyways luv, he used to steal your Haribos…the bastard.”

Cyclon, overcome by sudden ennui, succumbs, and goes limp in Fingers arms.

“Haribo’s,” murmurs Will thoughtfully and a previously unseen light flickers behind his eyes. He backs off, down the hall and out of sight; Fingers watches him go.

“Can it be?” He murmurs to himself, abruptly dropping Cy’s head and announcing, “Ah vote we deal wi’ this t’morra lads.”

Clive comes round when the larder door slams but he lies motionless for some moments more aware he has lost the feeling in his right hand, and both his feet (fortunately it is only blood circulation cut off by the shelf unit on top of him).  As quietly as he can, in pain as he certainly is, he shifts the shelf unit, picks up the axe, and limps, quietly sobbing, up the vast stairs, past the paintings of ruthless looking Scottish gentry. However, hearing Cyclon smash the hell out of his drums lifts Clive’s mood; his plan just might be working and he becomes more determined to get that fucking record written even if it kills him (ignoring the fact it very nearly did). He finds a small room, away from the designated guest area, in what must’ve been the servant’s quarters. He pushes the few pieces of furniture against the locked door, lies down, still sticky with jam and encrusted with pickle, on the bare stained mattress, gripping the axe handle.

Fingers herded the lads back to the vast drawing room where Will scribbled frantically into a grey dog-eared notebook (of the variety you might’ve used at school). “Is that a song luv?” Asked Fingers, hardly daring to hope.

“Well,” whispered Will, smiling his angelic yet crooked smile. “Reckon it is.’

Betty felt bad Clive had to get the chop to rid Will of his writing block but even his relief was palpable as kit came out of boxes and H was sent off to fire up the generator. Spiffs were rolled and lit, coke was snorted and Cy, notoriously off his head since 2004, announced his decision to stop taking drugs – tomorrow – then shoved an E, bestowed on him by Betty, up his arse (for rapid release).

Once his bass was tuned Fingers allowed himself to drift into a sexual fantasy involving Clive’s wife and her two sisters and then her Mum – who has thick blonde hair – seguing neatly to his neighbour Laurie (also blonde) who will be sixteen on Thursday and ends up at his Aunty Ginny, rolling back time to his eleventh birthday, watching her masturbate, afternoon sun spilling in from the bedroom window, her abundant pubic hair back lit – leading him directly to Will (also back lit): at which juncture Fingers experiences a volcanic surge of desire. Will, feeling Fingers’ eyes on him, hisses to Betty, “Fuck. He’s got that rape stare on at me again.”

Betty snorts, “Fingers mate, sex clinic worked out well then did it lover?”

Fingers blushes red raw, “Bugger off, it were working – the bastard took me out a bit soon tis all.” He briefly pictures Clive’s body, in the larder, and frowns, the bastard always could bring a good mood down and he snaps to Betty, “Oi, give us another pill yer wanker, this one ain’t doing owt.”

Betty has an idea, it causes him to smirk: he tosses Fingers a white tablet. It spins in slow motion through the air, round and round, pauses mid air clearly revealing the brand name VIAGRA. Fingers steps forward mouth open revealing three gold teeth and a longer than average tongue, as the pill drops and Fingers swallows and then takes a triumphant bow.

Then it is sublime – the lads together again, jamming, Will singing to the memory of the late (but actually now snoring) Clive Brendon and his childhood penchant for a certain variety of sweets:

Give me your Haribos / You putrid bunch of weirdos / Give me all you sweets /

Give me some / BUT MAINLY / I’D LIKE TO HAVE THE LOT / Of your Haribos /

Don’t kid me you’ve got none / Do I take you for a Nun / I see in your eyes you’re dark / Your thoughts are clearly very stark /

Give me your Haribos / You putrid bunch of weirdo’s!

The supply of drugs run out at 7am and Goliath drag a sorrier version of themselves and H (by his armpits), up the creaking stairs – a wheezing, coughing four-headed monster with a rotten tail.  It is icy on the first floor and the lads bunk together for warmth.

At 9am Will wakes, partly because of the Siberian wind careering through the building, slamming doors and rattling ill fitting windows and partly because he feels a firmness nudging at the small of his back. Fingers hisses, “Mate, I’ve been trying t’bang one out fer hours but tha ‘Love Rod’ needs a hole – take one for the team eh luv?” Will took a bread knife to bed anticipating this scenario and swiftly brandishes it with quiet menace.

“Alrite, alrite, calm yer pants,’ growls Fingers, aggrieved but shifting, shivering, into the room and pulling on his clothes, attempting to push his supersized and ominously turgid penis, into his skinny jeans, muttering as if conversing with a much loved pet, “What am ah ‘sposed to do wi’ yer then luv?”

To be continued…


It was never going to be pleasant.

As the boat grumbled to a stop a ruddy faced, middle-aged man appeared and threw a wet rope at Clive – he dropped it. After that Georgie Delaware was not what you might call friendly. When Clive offers his hand, Georgie ignores it and responds with a gruff nod before he grunts that their gear ‘issnae gonna load itself.’

It takes Clive a few moments to realise what he means, then half an hour to persuade the lads to help, during which he suffers verbal abuse revolving around the size of his penis and the fact that Fingers slept with his wife. On the journey over to the island Clive is grateful for the roar of the engine. When they land Georgie lends a hand to unload and reload onto a trailer because he ‘cannae stomach anymore of tha’ bullshit’, but it takes longer than it should due to the presence of a fucking huge and overly curious saddle back pig.

‘Tis only Ruby, says Georgie by way of explanation slapping her playfully on her flank.

It is dark by the time Clive climbs clumsily into the trailer with the gear and the lads to be hauled by tractor to the big house, which is large and no longer grand. The lads, despondent at the state of the place, slouch into the huge drawing room, skin up and snap ring pulls off the ‘settling in’ cans of bitter that Clive is thankful he packed. Georgie shows him the generator and he’s given the briefest instructions as to how to operate it. There are the gas lamps for light, the bedrooms are cold and musty, the woodpile is stacked for one night. When Clive asks how much Georgie charges to replenish it Georgie says he doesn’t charge and adds that he doesn’t replenish it either, pointing out an axe next to the door, for the guests use in the abundant woods beyond. There is no phone, intermittent mobile reception, no internet, no island shop, no boozer; no one else in residence. There is a dinghy for guests to utilize once they sign a waiver and a small shop twenty-five minutes across the water.

“Check the forecast,” Georgie adds because the crossing is unpredictable, he’s lost guests to it more than once.

“Great,” Clive mutters, “really great Georgie mate.” But the dour man mutters great or not it’s no bother to him. “Right-O,” laughs Clive nervously, his perky smile fading into something more desperate.

It is freezing. Clive makes a fire in the vast fireplace while the lads huddle on dilapidated sofa’s, passing joints and exchanging glances which turn into giggles.

“Were tha’ pig a bird pig?” Betty sniggers then adds, “there yer go Fingers mate, sumt t’poke if yer get restless.”

“Fookin’ hell,” snorts H Butt, “yer wouldn’t take a dip in that would yer luv?”

Betty smirks, “that there’s a legend, known for screwing a semi-frozen chicken, KFC with extra sauce.” Fingers kicks Betty.

“Fuck off Betty luv, Cy fucking wagered me to do it yer bastard…” And then nods over at Cyclon. “He’s doin’ the math,” Fingers says. “Alrite Cy? What’s Brenda gone and took us to this house’a’horror Scottish shite hole for eh luv? He needs his head kicking in.”

Clive glances warily up from his task and seeing the look on Cyclon’s face he stands slowly affecting nonchalance.

“You lying cunt this ain’t Indonesia!” Roars Cyclon launching himself at Clive who races across the space, down the dark hall, into the larder off the ill equipped kitchen. He locks the door just in time to hear Fingers say with faux innocence –

“Look Cy mate, ‘appens there’s an axe…”


To be continued…