Getting to know…

…John Virgo

a16c41b4-d5a4-4037-a452-1b57fd7f7f9a-211-000000049d221d5cBorn in Kingston, Jamaica in 1954 to Segway and Eunice Beaufort – the Caribbean’s most celebrated husband-and-wife clown act – John Chatwin Virgo rose to fame as a giant handed snooker tyrant in the shit-brown 1970s. He lives in rural Hertfordshire with his eleven children and civil law partner General Sir Michael Jackson.

What makes you happy?
Sipping a pint of lemon juice whilst watching my gerbils, Anthony and Pony Girl, fight over a peanut.

What’s your greatest extravagance?
Hats. I’ve got three hats. TWO! Sorry, I’ve got two hats. One’s Mike’s.

Describe your perfect weekend
Early morning Saturday stretching right through to late Sunday, with no weekday bits at all. I’m at my most powerful at the weekends. I am an electromagnetised warrior-titan of vengeful fuck-ass at the weekend.

Where were you happiest?
Bromsgrove, February 1973. I’d just chalked up my first 147 and discovered masturbation later that same day. I still remember shouting “sexy Spiderman!” as that maiden ribbon of baby butter shot towards the mirror.

What’s your biggest regret?
That I didn’t check for a pulse before throwing her to the pigs.

Tell us a secret?
Jim Davidson has a tattoo of Chubby Brown fucking Manning on his perineum.

How would you like to be remembered?
A formdable titan on the snooker table, a fearless and generous bonobo in the bedroom, and generally the personification of the generative powers of nature in all other aspects. And as the cohost of Big Break.

Advertisements

Haikus 5

56EF37D9-113F-435F-829D-18671EA8D81F-242-00000029F3A1A366Bowels of Hell
He lost respect for
Steve. That stench in the work loo.
Yes, Steve’s shoes alright.

Sofa cushion lucky dip
Eating, she dropped a
bit. Retrieved without looking.
In mouth. Eurgh. Different.

Canine Waste Executive
His job was to put
little warning flags in dog
shit. Three A levels…

Existential Skittles
By the twelfth leisure
centre vending machine lunch,
he just felt nothing.

80D33872-146A-4283-A5CF-EDA8004B293B-242-00000028AF3844AEPrick Dundee
“Call that a penis?”
said the Urologist, in
a shit Oz accent.

 

Wanted: Amanuensis

I have a terrible memory.

Very little seems to lodge there. Like the time a tramp slept in my car. I’d forgotten about that until reminded recently. My friend and I went to pick it up from town only to find the boot ajar, back seats down and the whole thing reeking of cigarette smoke.

fc59ca32-6601-4d3d-a55e-51467e9d0c10-233-0000001f5fa45448_tmpActually, it’s not quite true that I have a terrible memory. I have great implicit memory. We all do. It’s why you can cook your favourite meal without a recipe, or tie your shoe laces. Implicit memory is used in building motor skills, what you might call muscle memory. The repetition of a task, the practicing of an instrument, over and over, on an ever-refining path towards mastery. I’m a drummer, I got pretty good. No, nothing wrong with the implicit side of things.

I reckon my explicit memory is pretty titting plumb as well. Well, an aspect of it is, my semantic memory. You don’t get to be a The Chase™ champion without an aptitude for the conscious storage and recall of data, the conjuring of isolated facts independent of context. My insatiable competitive drive and dependency on shots of quick-win external validation see to that.

img_0281But it’s the other side of explicit memory – the episodic side – where my blindspot becomes blindingly easy to spot. I just don’t tend to lock in spatial or temporal data – sensations, emotions, personal associations of a particular time or place. Events pass through uncaptured, instances of hijinx, chance encounters with oddballs, none of them leave their echo. I have a terrible autobiographical memory. I could never be a raconteur. Or a spy.

img_0294Which is why folks keep journals, take photos, ceaselessly tell their stories to others, I suppose. We must curate ourselves, bring the patchwork of the past to bear on the present, to forge meaning, make sense. A mind alive only in the perpetual moment is either the heaven of the enlightened Yogi or the hell of the dementia-addled aged. Funny that.

My name is…wait…this is ridiculous, my name…anyway, my name is my name and I have a terrible autobiographical memory.

Wet Lace

Her shiny shins gleamed in the lascivious flicker of the candle. Pam had waxed all traces of hair from every bit of her yearning feminine body in preparation for Jim’s visit. Including, whilst absent-mindedly agonising over when exactly blue cheese is unfit for consumption, her eyebrows.

“I like a naked flame” cooed Jim, but not like a dove, like a man paving the way for genital coupling.

c42841c0-378b-41d0-9d0e-d2af760b503c-280-0000004b6a3f1855_tmp“I adore candle light” Pam trilled, but not like a budgie, like a woman inviting a man to persist in paving the way for genital coupling. “There’s just something so…” she searched for the right word, performing an inadvertant little royal wave with her hand as she did so. “…thrilling about striking a match. Grasping the shaft and making it’s little pink head explode with a quick flick of my fingers”.

“Matches” Jim returned, confusingly, too distracted by an overwhelming surge through his groin. A sex storm which shorted his mental processes, like a sort of erotic stroke. A dribbling dog with biscuit balanced on his nose, Jim trembled with a beautiful agony awaiting the command. And Pam ALWAYS issued a command.

“That smell” Jim said through knitted brow, as he tried to place the exotic scent that hung, like like an invisible odour, or an atmospheric flavour, or a mysterious nasal language, in the air.

“You like it? That’s the candle, bought it today. Prosecco and oysters. David Hasselhoff’s new Hoffrodesiac range at Matalan”.

dcf56f88-e240-4f22-86f4-021a6811b632-280-0000004857517143_tmp“Yes, I was wondering why I’d been thinking about the harbour at Whitstable. I like it. They do some fantastic ranges there. Tom Kerridge’s Stinking Bishop Bath Moose is divine. Extremely relaxing and goes great with a glass of red, if you’re an ablution boozer that is!”.

Pam poured Jim a disaronno and Sprite, and sashayed over to the bed to hand it to him. Without warning, she felt an urgent pressure in her colon. With only a split second to settle on a gambit to mask the loud fart that this substantial bubble of feculent tummy gas would inevitably produce, Pam slammed Jim’s drink at the wall, inches from his head. On the plus side the impact and the smashing glass more than covered her bassy bum beefbelch.

“PAM! You’re god damn crazy, woman. Come here you unhinged mare”. Jim pulled Pam onto the bed, and kissed her fulsomely, like a starving man trying to eat an orange through a letterbox. Pam swung her leg over Jim and, in one smooth movement, subsumed his cock into her knicker-mouth.

27101955-2b80-4945-963b-06ec91d1b4cd-280-00000049a7136a35_tmp“Ride me like a rodeo bull, you sexy little cowgirl”.

“Sink your pink in my pocket, you filthy little snookerboy”.

Pam and Jim committed coitus for 7 hours and twenty three minutes, pausing only three times; for the pizza delivery, severe cramp and because Jim thought he could hear a ghost.

Haikus 4

Public piss palava
Fleeting panic, the
wee won’t come. Feeling five, and
judged a cottager.

Well?
Why can’t gentle, meek
civic-minded, kindly old
dears rule the world?

Services to Greengrocery
When the Palace phoned
re. the honour, he had a
carrot up his bum.

Fucking yeah
Waking from a dream
in which he was a black Sting,
he felt nirvana.

Nervous twat
The fifth time he asked
‘was it tea?’ he knew office
life would be quite tough.

Cow
Eighty-nine hours
of practice, and she finds his
dance routine ‘quite strange’.

Queen is handy
Few know that Quentin
Crisp pioneered the sport
of UCF. Yes.

Ideas Mart

ff679e2b-9733-4217-85a1-ce4f37761833-255-00000006795e6fdb_tmpHere are some business ideas for which I have no use. They are good ideas, don’t get me wrong. They’re just not good ideas for me. Each idea retails at £6.95 although I’m running a time limited special of 3 for £21 until St Porrington’s Day.

Each idea comes with branding and logo, all trademarks and worldwide patents, several ever-so-slightly narked staff (there might be a minor pay quibble?) and a job lot of Charles and Dianna commemorative garrotting wire:

  1. Whorology – brothel where the girls also mend watches.
  2. Thirst Repaste the Post – horse racing themed eatery.
  3. Can-tan-caress Old Kents – Spray tan and massage parlour for OAPs in the ‘garden of England’ county.
  4. Bottom Feeders – gay fish restaurant.
  5. FUNerals – inflatable-based send off service.
  6. The Porner Shop – norks and newspapers, growlers and groceries.
  7. Race to the Bottom – horse racing themed gay eatery.
  8. Shoovers – footwear with suction cleaning.
  9. Woolworths
  10. The Drive Thru Dentist

Blues and terrible twos

Two constables were working like Dutch whores in stag weekend high season to keep the growing crowd of rubber neckers and busy bodies at bay. As the investigating officer glided through the increasingly unruly throng of curious locals and into the relative calm of the crime scene, one of the officers instinctively went to lift the police tape to allow her to proceed unchecked. To his transitory astonishment, this wasn’t necesssary.

BRITAIN-LATVIA-CRIME-MURDER“This your first suspicious death?” enquired Detective Sergeant Nigel Muck. He was stood at the foot of the stiff: a well dressed, portly middle aged man with an expensive salon cut and bruising to his throat and face. The corpse, that is. Muck was a slovenly shit of a slaphead beanpole.

Without warning she stopped still in her tracks and fixed him with an incredulous, faintly amused look. Clearly feeling uneasy under her searching gaze, he muttered “don’t, er, I mean, well, take as long as you need, this is a real tit-twister. A bloody arsing great shitemare of a head-scratcher”. With that, Muck fished a Crunchie from his Parka pocket, and exited the room masticating horribly.

73e0ff11-7c85-439c-988f-6e6659eeba60-237-00000021f2fac38c_tmp“What happened to the man?” she asked, pointing at the prone unfortunate.

“It’s a bit of a mystery I’m afraid, ma’am” replied a forensic scene of crime officer, who was busily taking photographs, making the tatty little room at the top of this cramped Docklands bedsit feel like the world’s saddest fashion shoot.

“There are clear signs of a struggle, and yet the room was locked from the inside with only that tiny” he gestured with his camera “velux window in the roof. Only about 10 by 12 inches. I mean, you could probably” he tailed off, thinking better of suggesting that his superior could feasibly have been the mysterious Spring-heeled Jack that perpetrated this fiendish act. “His injuries” he continued, “are consistent with strangulation, and we’ve pinned the time of death to between 24 and 27 hours ago”.

ef5fcf00-82a3-4aa8-955d-4f4f42ecce26-237-00000023eccb36ac_tmp“Stangly-ayshon. Twenty teighty four hour wowers” she mused, drawing out and lingering on her words as though they tasted lovely. Her grin disappeared when she saw that the SOC officer was staring at her with a half disbelieving, half disdainful expression.

“NO! Why is the man there for?” she barked. Her unsignalled annoyance made the officer start, and he sheepishly picked up from where he had left off.

“Odd thing is, at precisely that time this room was being used by the young man who rents it. He’s one of those internet vloggers“. The last two words he said with special emphasis, as though at pains to signal that he found them alien or objectionable to utter. He might just as easily have said ‘one of those piss fetishists‘.

He continued. “He was doing some sort of live stream. Four hours and thirty seven minutes of utter bollocks. But as alibis go, it’s water tight”.

She hopped back and forth between legs, all the while shaking her head. Clearly a brilliant maverick, he thought, some sort of Holmesian savant, must be why she’s on the force so young, obviously a brilliant mind. But she was awfully young. Too young. It was silly, really.

“Well ma’am, what happened to him?”.

1ca504ef-2a6c-49c4-a1a4-648662e10519-237-00000029eb554368_tmp“That man POOED himself ‘cos he was very naugh-ty. And then he didn’t, and he did because YOU stangly-ayshon him with you BUM”. On this staccato ‘bum’ she dropped to the floor and started rolling back and forth, asserting every now and then that she was a “floppety spider” and a “no-face”.

The Chief Superintendent walked in at the height of her asylum worthy floor-based antics. “Shame” he muttered. “Such promise but clearly the job is just too damn much for her”.

“Is 30 months too young, sir?” offered the female Inspector at his side. “I mean, if you consider that there are 216 months in 18 years, is 30 months enough time to develop all the skills, knowledge and experience necessary to be a police detective?”.

c7b429be-3340-4ccd-9c31-44ed3273bf3d-237-00000028fd21c83c_tmp“Five minutes ago, I would have replied a resounding ‘yes’. But now”, he paused to observe the diminutive sleuth edging round the room whilst wearing the dead man’s shoes and issuing high pitched squeaks, “I’m not so sure”.