I hate talking to strangers in the street. Usually I’ll have nothing to say to them of interest and they’ll have nothing interesting to say back either. If I see someone approach me in the street who wants to initiate a small talk session I have to be immediately sick. I honestly can’t contain the projectile vomiting.

Small talk should be banned. I don’t want people to be friendly with me, especially when I have nothing in common with them. I only have time for proper conversation. Life’s too short to be embroiled in bland small talk for the rest of time.

God it’s all pointless.

I can’t be talking to anyone these days at all. I want to do is to sit about and admire the smell of my own balls. Is that too much to ask?

I hate Dancing On Ice. As if ITV’s schedule couldn’t get anymore puerile after the likes of ‘I’m A Celebrity’ they force this pile of shit down our throats. Who the fuck wants to watch Dr Hilary Jones skirting about on the Ice like a little girl?

It’s bad enough having to watch him on GMTV in the mornings diagnose old men with cock cancer without being forced into watching him shit out his ‘Oh I’m still shit at skating but I’m getting better’ routine. Who gives a fuck?

What I’d like to see is him collapse right onto his hole, rupture his arse and for him to have to diagnose his own prolapsed rectum on Breakfast television. I would whoop with joy as Dr Hilary bends over with a magnifying glass to analyze the full extent of the injuries he’s inflicted on his sorry smug hole.

That would be real entertainment now. Especially if Andrew Castle had to knock the broken bone back into place with a tennis bat.

Fuck’s sake, I despise the word ’socialize’! Why the fuck would anyone want to deliberately stay in a groups company? It’s the most depressing thing in the world. Pubs to me, are absolute sewers. Every time I go into one sober I immediately realize why I have to get so drunk to go into one in the first place.

It’s because they suck and people are over-rated.

I’ve tried other means of socializing in the past, like going to the cinema and joining the ramblers, but both just leave me hating humans all the more. Cinemas in particular are fucking pointless. I only go there to eat popcorn for 20 minutes. Once my bowl is finished, I want to move on. The last thing I wanna do is spend 2 hours watching a bland movie whilst surrounded by all sorts of shit heads and low lives.

So if you’re looking for a way to socialize without alcohol, there isn’t one. Stay indoors and count the number of scabs on your left bollock. It’s the only way forward, my friend.

The chances are that if you’re reading this blog, then you’re already an asshole so you won’t need to drink anything to become one.

On average I start to become an asshole after about half a bottle of Whiskey. I will start waltzing about town with a traffic cone lodged on top of my head, flash my cock at the cops and steal chips from the local fish shop.

It’s not until I’ve consumed a full bottle of whiskey that the real carnage begins. During this phase my body will clink into hunter-gatherer mode and I’ll begin surveying the landscape for anything that could potentially be tasty, whether it’s a KFC, the cat next door or my own fist.

If I can not get anything to eat, then I’ll deliberately piss and shit myself out of spite. I only ever do this when I’m in another persons house. There’s nothing like smudging my ass into their sofa just to leave them fond memories of my night out at their house.

Eckhart Tolle is one sexy motherfucker. I’ve spent many an hour listening to his recordings, basking in my own presence and basically having a ball thanks to his teachings.

In case you don’t know who he is, Eckhart Tolle is a new age guru who believes that in order to achieve spiritual enlightenment we have to shut the fuck up for a minute. So far he’s written 3 books, all of which should be titled ‘Shut the Fuck Up’ as that’s the one and only premise that they teach. Somehow he manages to stretch out each publication to about 5,000 pages, iterating over the same point endlessly.

I’ve even watched shitloads of his videos on Youtube and most of them are unbearable. I honestly feel like I’ve been drugged after watching. It’s less exciting than watching flies fuck. The man spends about 4 hours pausing and guffawing as he realizes that the cash is rolling in whilst the gullible idiots who subscribe to his new-age mumbo jumbo are thinking they are on step away from reaching enlightenment.

According to an article printed in the Sun today, it is now legal for women to pleasure themselves in public throughout the UK. This wouldn’t be so bad in itself if men weren’t prohibited from the exact same act. It’s not something I really want to see either way when I’m sitting there munching on my chips at the beach. The last thing you want is some fat bastard walking past you pounding his parson whilst you’re trying to keep your food in your stomach. But still, this law should apply to both sexes or none at all. I blame those goddamn commie feminists, they won’t stop until they have us all in chains with electric pegs attached to our nipples.

Sure enough I might be tempted to pleasure myself in a field at night providing there were no cows around. I mean Jesus, I’d be terrified that one would come up behind me and try to jag me up the arse or something! I wouldn’t be able to run away either because my bags would be around my ankles.

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So it seems as if my family have been reeled in by all of this free broadband malarkey offered by Carphone Warehouse through their Talk-Talk service. I’d be indifferent about it if it weren’t for the fact that I had the opportunity to ring BT to request a MAC code. How I fucking love ringing BT. I’ve inherited this all from my mother who loves hollering down the phone to the bastards!

Anywhooo, I gave them a call and I’m was put through to this eager sounding woman. I could tell she was fat. I think it was the shallowness of her breath. Anyway I asked for a MAC code. And she responded with a “Why?”. A good start. I knew fun and games were ahead. I had to restrain myself from screaming “Because yer fucking shite luv! ” down the phone at her but I wasn’t prepared to lower myself to such levels. I leave such tomfoolery to my mother.

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Thats right. You can do it here. You know you’ve always wanted to.

I’ve been told by a few people I am the antichrist, which might explain why I am constantly flanked by Christian Evangelists whilst out on the piss at late night. What is it in particular that makes me afraid of them? Well how long do you have, oh patient visitor?

One of the most intimidating characteristics of the Christian Evangelist is their sheer determination. They will do almost anything to win your soul. Anything. Sometimes this may involve a cup of tea or a hotdog. Sometimes a wagon wheel and a cup of orange squash. Usually they will just shout at you for a while whilst furrowing their brows. Either way its aggro and it is not necessary.

It is becoming increasingly common to encounter these people at night, doling out phamplets to anyone with hands. I encountered some of them a few months ago on the way to a pub. I saw 6 sillouhettes in the distance and thought “Oh fuck, my life is over!”. Then I saw that the people in front of me were in fact overcoats and then I knew immediately who I was contending with. It was the God Squad.

I knew what was coming next. “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your saviour?” the tall one whispered. Being a smartarse I eagerly replied “Aye, he’s my ma” And as you might expect that left them in the lurch for long enough to escape in haste.

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Food glorious food! Ice cream, mustard and whatever the fuck………..argh I can never remember song lyrics!

Rants about anything and everything to do with the Net.

This song is a definite contender for the worst song ever recorded and it’s freaky as fuck to boot. Why was it ever even published? I don’t think my ears have experienced anything as brainrottingly futile (and that is saying something, boy have I subjected them to some shite over the years!)

The theme of the composition seems to be about safeguarding the future for our children by restricting their access to television. And this was in the 80’s when the most offensive program on television was ‘Murder She Wrote’.

It all starts with an innocent enough circus ditty which is repeated at random points throughout the score. This is followed by a bizarre social commentary by Karel directed towards his son which includes a perplexing question in the form of “Do you see the cat, do you see the mouse?”. Well use your imagination Karel, if your son is watching Tom+Jerry there is a good chance that one of the two characters will make an appearance at some stage in the show y’know?

For once I think I will refrain from commenting as this picture well and truly speaks for itself.

It goes on. And as it all progresses it becomes ever more pretentious.

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There are countless meaningless cliches present in the English language. Just check out the average day time talk show for evidence.

None grate me as much as the abomination that is “Be Yourself”. People have forced this phrase upon me countless times, usually before job interviews. Let me ask you, who else am I meant to be bar myself? It is very unlikely that I can be Sven Goran Eriksson no matter how hard I try. Even If I did put a lot of effort into it, it would be nothing more than a pale imitation.

And the same applies when someone asks you to be yourself, only this time you are imitating who others think you are.

Job interviews are by their nature absurd and are rendered even more so when one of the interviewers attempts to settle your nerves by telling you to be yourself.

At my next job interview appearance I am going to go dressed like the fellow on the left.

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Contrary to its title Darkstarlings is not the website of a charity for depressed birds, it is in fact a portal for goths and metalheads to join hands and moan about how shit life is.

I decided that I wanted a piece of the action. So I signed up. What follows is a transcript of my terrifying journey into gothdom.

My first task was to choose a username that would not raise suspicion. So I choose something that most goff types would find easy to digest.

Notice the little star logo in the top left hand corner? That indicates that we’ve entered into the scary-goth-lair. When shite occult symbolism is about, you know the goths cannot be too far away.

After filling out a short form and responding to a verification mail, I am in.

It will be soon time to introduce myself to the community, but before that I must fill in a little more information about me in my profile.

It’s an intriguing start. One of the very first questions concerns my sexual orientation. Being a new psuedo-goth my sexual orientation must be scene friendly. Straight is not an answer here. So I decided to choose “pansexual” just for kicks. Does that mean that I fuck woks? Time will only tell.

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Whatever happened to a good old fashioned “hello” or “right mate”? These days I am confronted by people continually asking me “How’s it going” without them actually stopping to hear my response.

Since when has “How’s it going?” been a valid salutation between two acquiantances who have different places to go to? Am I the only one who becomes completely bewildered when this question is posed?

What the fuck are you meant to say in response if you are not planning on sticking about? You can hardly say hello as that will make you sound retarded. If you simply say “fine” it’s going to sound far too abrupt and you’ll come across as an ignorant twod.

It doesn’t help either if you like the person who asks it. You are completely cornered. Unless of course you take a direct course of action.

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It’s been all over the news recently like a demented hungry rash. We’re constantly being told about how about 555,000,000 of us are going to die because of Avian flu even if they make a vaccine in time.

This is fair enough, we don’t have a right to this earth at all and a good few deaths will inevitably lighten the load on the world and perhaps it will all make people think a little bit more about what exactly their lives mean.

However it has occured to me that no one really cares about the Birds. Have the flapping bastards got one inch of column space from a sympathetic journalist attempting to reassure them that everything will be ok?

No. Its all about us. Fuck the ducks and the pidgeons and the chickens. The only reason why we might be concerned about the latter is that they are a culinary favourite of ours.

We should endeavour to comfort our beaked friends in their hour of need. Next time you have an hour or two go around to the local duck pond with a 12 inch sub and feed the birds. You might not hear a quack in a long time.

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Pens to me are just absolutely useless. I went through a stage of losing about 50 of them a week in school and I’d always end up having to shyly ask some fucker I despised for the loan of one during a lesson. There was nothing more confidence-sapping than having to plead with someone for a writing implement. You would feel like absolute shite. As time went by I learnt that my dignity was too important for any of that bullshit.

Towards the end of my academic tenure I used to pretend that I was writing with a pen. Yes! I would hold my hand in such a way and actually deceive others into believing I had a pen in there. It is amazing how something that seems so trivial becomes such a big thing when you do not have one and you are being ordered to write down notes on the physics behind the common vibrator.

I think its truly disgraceful that as students we have to use pens to write out our exam script. By 30 minutes into the exam I can barely move my hand at all. It usually spasms like a dog with an live electric current running through its collar. I mean this is the age of keyboards. Why can’t we use laptops to do exams or sommat?

Yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Aye to fuck mate.

It’s confession time good fellows. I’m a boy who eats pens. It started off with just nibbling the cap. I’d chew it up good and proper. Make sure that the straight bit was completely bent and maybe use it as a whistle. When this stopped being entertaining I would move onto the main part of the pen. I’d hoke out the ball thing at the top with my teeth and chew it up. This would usually end up being a teeth breaker but ultimately tremendous fun.

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I hate the “What I’m Listening To” feature on Msn Messenger. And whats more I hate myself all the more when I use it. Instead of simply listening to music that I want to I have to cater for my target audience. Who is online on msn? What do I want to be seen to be listening to in front of these people?

This is shallow I know but I see it all the time with people on my list. There are 2 different groups of people. You have those who will deliberately listen to all of the most obscure music they can find so that they can appear to be all mysterious and cool.

These are the same type of people who will continually complain about bands selling out. Whining nonstop about how mainstream music is shit and such.

I was once like this. I listened to obscure music because I felt very mediocre in comparison to other fans of the band. I was not as intelligent as a lot of the bands fanbase or as goodlooking so I decided to start listening to obscure bands so that I had something of my own. I wanted something to show for my mediocrity. I wanted to say to the public “Look I listen to these bands, you’ve never heard of them so therefore I rock and you do not.”
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Anyone remember the Tamagotchi craze? Jesus Christ how I was addicted to those infernal bleeping bastards! I used to own about 30 of them at a time as a young ripper. Owning a virtual pet was such fun and moreover it took attention away from my actual pet which was a whiney skinny fucker.

So 5 years after Tamagotchi’s disappeared off the radar I discovered the Neopets site thinking “Yes, another chance to own a virtual pet. This time it doesn’t bleep and you can buy it all sorts of shit.” I gladly signed up completely unaware of the hell that would unsue over the following couple of months.

I started up by adopting a Pteri which is a dinosaur of sorts. I took an instant dislike to my new pet. Everytime I fed the fucker it told me I was the best. I was not willing to stand for such unashamed wankery so I cut myself completely off from the critter and decided to go and to try to make some money so I could buy……….fuck knows what really.

It is enough to send shivers down my spine. I am personally praying for the extinction of the Pteri.

And that was the beautiful thing about it all. You could have 6,000,000,000 Neopoints and you’d have absolutely nothing worthwhile buying. Sure you could go about reading your pet books and sure enough it would get smarter but to no actual avail.

There was no point. As the pets intelligence grew nothing happened to its intellect. It still came out with the same shit everytime I fed it (which by now was extremely rare). It still greeted you every morning with the same moronic grin even if it hadn’t ate since the Battle of Hastings.

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If there is one thing that bores me it is the great fox hunting debate. To me it is completely irrelevant as there are no hunts that that have been held in Northern Ireland to the best of my knowledge. Which is a pity as like the bull run it has great potential for entertainment.

From what I’ve seen from television I do not believe that it should be the foxes being persued. Foxes are great, sure they may have a reputation for massacring farm animals but that gives them something in common with humans.

There is a reasonable to good chance that this man is a cunt.

Now, to concentrate on the humans for a moment. First things first, the outfits need to go. Who ever thought up the hunt costumes should be brought in front of the court of law and royally shat upon. By a great big dove of justice. They are absoutely horrendous looking. Are they really trying to look ike English soldiers going to battle with Napoleon? Anyway……

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Everytime I go out a walk I encounter old people walking their nasty little hounds around the block. The bastards always stare at moi and on occasion make a half arsed effort at a mauling but always pull away inches from my shoes. They must realise that I have quite a sizeable stomp.

I could accept this nonsense if I understood why old people own small dogs. Wouldn’t it make more sense if old people owned the massive fuckers that people in their 20’s walk? If you saw a 70 year old man walking a Great Dane with blood around its lips you would seriously think twice about trying to mug him.

Ok, bigger dogs might require a bit more maintenance but it pays for itself in the long run. Large dogs can carry larger things. You could even use something like a Great Dane as a dinner tray.

This is all part of my vendetta against small dogs. I seriously hate the fuckers. I’ll be walking down the alleyway towards work and some fucker behind a gate will jump out and start barking at me.

Less of this shit already please.

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I hate motorists. As you might have gathered I hate a lot of things but right at the top of the pile are motorists. There are a number of reasons for my unreserved hatred of drivers. I will not go into all of them now as I do not have 3 months and I am sure you do not either.

The main reason is car horns. I am tired of fuckers beeping at me in the street. Even if its my own family. Whenever someone toots at me I instantly react by giving them the fingers and wishing that there car blows up halfway down the road.

See I like my peace and quiet. I like day-dreaming whilst walking down the street. I like talking to myself, easing my concerns about my irregular bowel movements.

Then out of nowhere some utter twat comes along and shatters that peace. They think they are being clever. They think “Fuck he’s going to like this!”. If I could sprint fast enough I’d start after the fucker, clamber onto the trunk of the car Terminator style and start “fucking their shit up”.

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I like Cheese. It is probably my favourite food. So of course I had to give the old Cheestrings a whirl. I first tasted them about 6 years ago or so and to this day I can not tell whether I like them or not.

For starters I think Cheesestrings (or however the fuck you spell them) should be re-branded. Instead of sticking with the current “Real appealable cheese” slogan they should opt for a truer description ala “Surprisingly pleasant plastic”.

Still on marketing, the adverts are pretty terrible. I mean who the fuck actually strips them nowadays? I used to for the first couple of strings and it grew very boring. I’d end up trampling bits of plastic into my carpet for the next month and a half. I now opt for the “get it in there” strategy. No fucking about. Just get it in the mouth. Fuck the commercials.

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If you like the smell of baby vomit, enjoy being quizzed relentlessly by a “sandwich architect” and dig being gawked at by self-important yuppie types you will be right at home at Subway.

Subway in principle is a good idea. It’s good to have a bit of choice. However am I the only one who gets a little perplexed by the question “What bread would you like?”

Bread y’say? What type? Do you have any Hovis? Kingsmill? That wholegrainy stuff that birds turn their beaks up at? We’re from Northern Ireland fucks sake! How can you possibly expect me to know what bread I want beyond the basics?

Subway is the one restaurant where it is compulsary to have an honours degree in bread studies before placing an order. And it doesn’t stop there.

Fuck. This would make a good weapon.

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If you’ve ever been to Scotland you will understand how important Irn-Bru is to the culture, heritage and pride of the country.

For the uninitated – Irn Bru is a soft drink which is mostly obscure in nearly every part of the world bar Scotland. It’s taste is rather hard to describe, but if you were to mix cherry cola with piss and strain a volume of ginger pubic hairs in there for several days you would be along the right lines.

Travelling up from England you know you will have hit Scottish territory by the volume of empty Bru bottles and cans strewn across the countryside. You might also notice the peculiar ginger cows. They are Aberdeen Angus and the reason why they are that colour is because of Bru poisioning.

If you dislike Irn Bru up North you are as good as an illegal alien. In order to be a True Scotsman you must love ‘Irn Bru’, ‘Take The High Road’ and Kilts.

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I do not have time for self righteous pop-stars. Particularly ones that are talentless. Andy McCluskey of Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark matches both criteria well.

Why does he irk me so you ask? Well for one his music is shite and his lyrics are even worse.

He used to rabbit on in the early days of OMD about how he was so different just because he could write love songs about power stations.

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This is a new section where I identify all that is wrong with the world and pounce on it, like an oversized cat of taste.

Over the past 6 months I’ve made an effort to monitor the search terms through which people find this website. And it makes rather disturbing reading. I’ll cover some of my favourites below.

February 2006

“Significance of constantly seeing a white owl”

Does this person live in an owl sanctuary? Perhaps their current medication is a little two potent and it needs toned down a little? Either way someones fucked.

“I take a shit once a week”

The only thing I can recommend is that you either eat more or watch more Hollyoaks. That always seems to coax my digestive system into spraying out the brown.

“What do you do if you get a bone stuck in your throat”

I certainly would not recommend visiting Google and typing that question into it, that is for starters. It can be quite serious y’know? Get yourself to a hospital if you are not already dead.

“Goths and how they eat and survive”

There seems to be two train of thoughts about this. You have the Robert Smiths of this world and the Richey Edwards. The former eats more than their fair share and survives albeit with no remaining discernable musical talent. The latter does not. So is it better to be eat and be a mediocre goth or not eat and die mediocre?

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So the ungodly rumours are true, A-ha are back like a terminal illness that was once thought to be in remission.

I can only imagine that Jokke is rolling in his grave. He must be up there thinking “fuck I released the world from the grasp of that curse 15 fucking years ago and now it’s back again”.

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Fuck thank God that the atrocity that was the Kelly show has finally ended. Gerry Kelly was and still is the archetypal talentless (and horrificly ugly) Norn Iron presenter who should have been put out of their misery a long time ago.

I wish he would take Pamela Ballantine with him as well.

Anyhow to cut a long story short, I haven’t been around these parts much. But I am now back and I’ll see how things go.

Happy New Year to all of ye out there.

For information on Mr James Dean Bradfield’s solo project and a lot more visit

The James Dean Bradfield Temple Of Not-So-Quiet-Contemplation

save yourself from crap

endless white crap

and more endless crap.

best music video of all time. ever.

thats exactly what you are if you aren’t reading this in 5 minutes

aye vera. aye vera indeed.

pete doherty! you sniff and you sniff and you jab and you jab and all for what?????? COCAINE WILL NOT ALTER YER BONE STUCTURE YE SKELETAL-TWIX-SCRAPING-GOBSHITE.

a gram a day helps you fall asleep on stage.

ladbrokes today have announced that pete doherty is odds on favourite to win the STONES VS DOHERTY DERBY. THE ODDS THAT PETE CROAKS IT BEFORE ANY MORE OF THE ROLLING STONES DEPART IS 2/10. GOOD FUCKING ODDS I SAY. YE’D BE A COMPLETE FUCKING SHAMBLES NOT TO BET ON IT.

PETE PETE PETE PETE. WOULD YOU LIKE A PASTY MY BOY? PETE PETE PETE PETE. THINE PENIS IS NOT A TOY.

fucking hell, what a bloody mess this site has become recently! i’m quite sorry but i managed to bugger the whole site up and it will be a couple of days before everything is back and proper. it’s coming on strong though and soon i’ll be able to add more and more! YES!

bloody yes i say!

when “reality” wages war with puerile optimism
Hope is dismissed as a passing phase
Tomorrow’s dawn will reveal your prospects
A managerial sales obituary carved in stone

I am obligated by my heritage to satisfy the stereotypes
Severed Limbs, cracked mugs and wedding rings
Entombed In rubble bore testimony to this prophecy.
Why settle for less When you can settle for semtex.

I have followed this path throughout the night
But dawn is gradually breaking and I cant contain the fire
Living in security, waiting for cancer, nevermore
When darkness contains your sight its indistingushable from the light

And as I stroll through the cemetry
I struggle to recall the list of failed politicans
Bands and Figureheads who had a golden chance
To break the deadlock, but did not have the key to the gate

This isn’t a chorus
This isn’t about dying young
This isn’t a protest song
This is one man’s realization…

why settle for less when you can settle for semtex

“I used to have nightmares about the death of rock n roll” *
I saw Cale lynched with no retorts
His valley brogue ever fading
Behind the heckles of a generation, discontent with the underground

Persistant as this verse and twice as blind
To this day he clambers at the perimeter
Soaring high, but only in his mind
With closed eyes, ears and heart he murmurs

“If life doesnt happen by the end of next week im moving to Europe to read poetry to the
deaf”

Pride yourself on your inability to innovate
Pride yourself on your ability to deterioate.

A stammering stint of light ripples across the room through the ashen lace curtains. It would have been pitch dark if it wasn’t for the light, which brings an etheral glow to the whole room. The scene is set in a small bedroom in a suburb in Birmingham, the proganist Kramer Kronocaust is lying face down in bed, emitting loud, frequent snorts, as if he had swallowed a hedgehog the previous day. The room is bare apart from a few obsolete pictures which display long forgotten about people. It is approxmiately 3am and the faint humming of a milk float can be heard from outside, as if it were a hyperactive insect around a pot of jam. The curtains flap impatiently as if possessed (). Suddenly a loud crash can be heard from downstairs

Kramer : What the hell was that

Kramer cowers under the bed covers, but eventually picks up the courage to go downstairs to investigate. He begins to descend the staircase, each stair makes a different distrubed wail, as if 30 years of punishment had began to take its toll. Kramer finds the living room door ajar. He grasps the door handle cautiously, and begins to open the door slowly. The living room is pitch dark, the faint hum of a clock can be heard somewhere in the room. Kramer now focuses his attention on the noise of the clock, it appears to be louder than he originally thought. He dismisses it. SUDDENLY a light flashes in the kitchen, the noise of the clock disappears, Kramer’s sanity disappears, with his heart beating like a buffalo trying to escape from his rib cage. He convinces himself its merely a taxi cab foolishly blinking its headlights. He approaches the kitchen door as if he were a prisoner making haste towards the electric chair. He slides the half-open door across and steps into the kitchen. NORMAL. Everything appears to be normal. He hears a voice coming from the corner of the room

Voice : I’ve been waiting for you

Kramer gazes into every corner of the room. NOTHING. He charges towards the living room phone, when the door slams in his face. Kramer falls to the ground in a heap. Suddenly the light which he had seen in the living room shone once more, only it is much much brighter. Kramer who is now on his feet gazes into the mirror, to see his worst nightmare. IT surely had been waiting for him, and now the time had come

Microwave : I’ve been waiting for you Kramer

Kramer : What the hell is wrong with me?? ~Kramer headbutts the wall~ I must stop eating cheese before bedtime.

Microwave : But Kramer……you are not asleep!

The microwave opens and closes its door frantically signalling intense laughter

At this point Kramer was desperately thumping the door. He knew he could never knock it down. But he tried and tried and tried. And eventually he did. He dashed through the livingroom and leaped through the front window, landing on the patio outside. He looked up at the moonlit sky, and thought about what his life had become. The sky that night was beautiful, full of exotic purples and blues, it was if time had frozen on a maginificent airborne firework. The expierence for Kramer was somewhat surreal, he never used to have arguments with kitchen appliances, that was until he slapped a three armed toaster who apparently called him a Son Of A Bitch. SILENCE. THE RIVER OF LIFE. HAS ENCOUNTERED AN ULTIMATIUM, ARE YOU READY FOR IT?.

Kramer : What?

Kramer stared up in the sky with awe as another shooting star penetrated the arch of heaven. Over the past year he had began to ponder his exsistence. ITS OVER

Kramer : Will you shut up?

An unseen force appeared to grab Kramer by the neck

Unseen Force : THE RIVER OF LIFE HAS ENCOUNTERED A FINAL ULTIMATIUM. THE GOD’S LOOK DOWN AND SEE NOTHING BUT ICELAND CHICKEN CURRY AND POT NODDLES. HOW DO YOU PLEAD?

Kramer : Who are you? What are you doing here?

Unseen Force : I was sent…..that is all you need to know

At this point the unseen force pulled Kramer up to at least 30 feet in the air, and dropped him straight on the patio. The sky had changed all of a sudden. A red cloud had emerged from nowhere. Before long this single cloud obscured all but one of the stars in the night sky. Kramer, obviously shaken by the fall could hear a harrowing sound in the distance. WAS IT THERE? His fear heightened. He ran for cover behind the nearest tree, but was it a case of too little too late? He could feel IT getting closer. He looked up towards the sky, but could see nothing. He crouched down, with his head in his heads in a complete sense of despair. His tears didn’t stop IT. He decided to get up. “Self-pity is useless” he thought. “It wont help me escape this hell” All of a sudden it started to rain heavily, Kramer decided to take shelter in a deep growth of grass. He pondered the beauty of the rain dripping off those long blades of grass. The drops of rain reminded him of his own tears, his own realities, his own fears. He felt IT watching him again. When will it end? How will it end? Kramer sprung up from his temporary refuge. In the distance he could see a housing estate, full of bright lights. He breathed a huge sigh of relief.
The sun was beginning to rise as Kramer walked fearlessly through the deserted fields.
A myriad of litter swept past his feet pulled by the easing winds. Kramer looked towards the heavens to see a circle of birds, flailing around in the sky like a velvet ribbon. He could see nothing in the horizon apart from the sun rising. Where was he going in life? He felt he must have been walking for at least an hour now, and was presently in a pedestrian zone. He had seen this place before, he was sure of it. The sky-scrapers loomed high in the air above him, with the office apartments appearing misformed due to the poor light. It was as if he was being watched, but from where? It seemed as if the area was completely covered in windows, “Enough to make anyone paranoid” he remarked to himself. He had walked past at least 30 of these sky scrapers, and was yet to notice a difference in the over-used grey marble facade. Suddenly he felt claustrophobic. He felt as if he was drowning in a sea of windows and cracked pavement. His heart began to beat faster, as he noticed that the sky appeared to get darker. He stopped. An air raid siren began to sound in his mind. He grasped his head with both hands trying to drain out the noise. He collapsed to the ground. Blood began to trickle from his head. FADING. EVER FADING. THIS IS THE DAY THAT IT HAPPENED. THIS IS MY DAY. WELCOME TO ‘THE PLACE’ KRAMER. THIS IS WHERE IT HAPPENED.

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SILENCE
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Kramer woke up in a long corridor, with a huge window at the end. Everything was clear, the magnificent combination of darkness and despair obliterated his body. He shielded his eyes from both the light and the darkness, he was not in any position to decide which was worse. The window cast vivid sillhouites all around the corridor. This corridor as far as he could see represented his life. There was nothing but a window. A window which caused irreversible dillemas through light and darkness. Light and darkness were one as far as he could see. For at least the last 10 minutes he had been standing there looking out of the window, looking for a revelation, looking for the end. The end refused to come. Huge storm clouds drifted past the window, emitting what seemed to be huge sparks of lightning. The light emitted from these clouds lit up every corner of the room. Nothing made sense. Kramer started to approach the large bay window. The clouds were still moving ever slowly, inconsistently firing bolts of fire towards the earth. Something caught Kramer’s attention, before this moment he could not see any walls, the light from one of the storm clouds revealed a dark coloured plasterboard wall. In the plasterboard, he could see the word PATHS. Kramer became frustrated “If only I had a path to follow, at least something would make sense” He stood completely alone in the darkness for at least a minute. His anxiety was at a peak. Suddenly a huge bolt of lightning followed by a magnificent drum roll of thunder came from the storm cloud nearest the window, this lit up the whole room with a fiery glow. Kramer looked to the wall once more. “PATHS OF THE MOON LIE DEAD LIKE THE SEA” was etched into the wall, with what appeared to be a sharp instrument. At that moment, the corridor appeared to extend, the window grew further away from him, he could hear that noise he had always feared as a child. Something was calling him, yet pulling him away. He was moving rapidly away from the window. At that moment the siren began to sound in his mind once more, this time taking a different pitch. From a corner of the room a sillhoute appeared. The sillhoute began to beckon to Kramer. Something told him to push himself further back. There appeared to be no end to the corridor. Kramer looked towards the clouds outside, they appeared darker and larger before. At that moment a huge spark of lightning annihilated the window, the force of the blast lead to the floor begginning to crumble. Kramer turned away and ran as fast as he could away from the collapsing floor, but he knew it was too late. He could feel the crumbling pieces of floor hitting him in the back of the leg, he knew the fall was certain. Without notice the piece of floor which Kramer was running from broke off. Kramer struggled to grasp hold of the nearest piece of tile, but it was too late, he was already falling. The impending darkness swallowed everything.

Dear Lady Matilda walks onto the stage. Its a midsummers day. She enters the living room with her betattered housecoat which is gelled to her flaccid, dying skin with sweat. She reeks of cigarette smoke. Her dear friend Henrik enters through the front door. He is a young man who looks like his mother was a mountain goat.

Lady Matilda : Its a mighty fine day isnt it?

Henrik : I must concur, did I leave my hat here last night during our fine relating?

Lady Matilda : Yes good sir! Its sitting on the table mounted on that huge dildo

HENRIK POURS HIMSELF A GLASS OF WINE AND SLUMPS ON AN OLD LEATHER ARMCHAIR

Henrik : My woman! Your hips remind me of the joints of a low quality deckchair! How are your shares?

Lady Matilda : My shares are bloody well fine my dear, fancy a fuck?

Henrik : My motor isnt running today im afraid. Henrik sets down his glass on the ring stained coffee table I’m dying Matilda.

Lady Matilda : Good lord, is it serious?

Henrik : Of course its bloody well serious woman!