Beat him like a red-headed step-child.

At the bottom of the page I have included the link to the news article this ramble refers to.

A 37 year old British man by the name of Mark Colborne is on trial for planning to commit acts of terrorism. He planned to murder Prince Charles in the hope that Prince Harry will come to the throne. Now, ignoring the fact that Harry is fifth in line to the throne, so, killing Charles would have done precisely bugger all towards furthering this man’s cause, it’s very interesting to look at the why he planned to off the befuddled horse shagger in favour of the Nazi uniform wearing, party Prince in the first place.
Mark is a militant ginger.
He planned to get Harry on the throne in the hope that by having the ginger Prince become the ginger King society might just stop persecuting people with red hair.
(Obviously, when I say “ginger king” I mean King who is ginger. Chris Evans is the “ginger king”!)

I think people have very little idea what its like to grow up ginger in a society where it’s the one group everyone feels they can abuse without fear of any retribution by society. Only the persecuted individual will exact retribution for the abuse and then will inevitably be punished for exacting said vengeance.
So, basically it’s lose/lose for us fire crotches.
People constantly bang on about how damaging it is to suffer racial abuse if you grow up in a “minority” but, being a “carrot top”, that’s an actual minority.
The highest statistic I saw was 5%; 5% of the global population and the majority are concentrated in the Scandinavian regions of the world, Holland and Scotland.
So, southern England? 1 in a 100. That, that’s the unrepresented minority.

“Oi, oi copper knob!”
“Hello Duracell”
“Carrot top”
“Ginger twat”

I said to my ginger-fancying wife only two days ago at my, thankfully not ginger, eldest daughter’s school that we, the gingers, are the true minority. There we were, sat waiting and a bit bored, and I was looking round the assembly hall at the assembled parents, teachers and kids when I noticed there were lots of Asian faces, Oriental faces, White faces and Afro-carribbean faces, but, just the one ginger girl (and me).

“hello ginge, how’s your minge? Is it red, like your head?”
“Go and cry to mummy you little ginger bitch!”

I guarantee she get’s plenty of this sort of grief, yet, I can also guarantee that nobody addresses it as anything more than playground taunting. They, the school, certainly wouldn’t treat it the same as they would if someone said the “N” or the “P” words and I expect she, the girl in the class, probably wouldn’t even know to complain in the same way one of her technicolour classmates would.

Consider this: so institutionalised and accepted is red hatred that there’s an oft used, popular American expression that get’s delivered pretty frequently in TV shows and movies, usually with a southern drawl. It says: “Beaten like a red-headed step-child”
Think about that. It implies, nae, it flat out states that not only is it ok to beat a red headed child but they should get extra hard beatings over and above the normal because they have red hair… Bet you don’t even think about how that impacts on people who are red headed let alone red and step children, but, if it was “beaten like a n*gga by the police” the world would be up in arms.

Did you know you can even buy a jolly greetings card to send to gingers? it says:
“you may claim you’re strawberry blonde, or even auburn but… it you deny you’re ginger, you’re off your ginger nut”
I checked and I couldn’t find the one that said:
“you may well claim you’re English and only lightly brown, but claim you’re not a P*ki and you’re a bloody P*ki clown!”
I should at this point clarify I’m not racist or xenophobic, I give not two shits for the colour of your skin, your hair or your disability, I hate you all and I do so with equal loathing…
This could just be the reason why.

Still unsure if you believe me?
Maybe I’m over exaggerating?
Type “best ginger insults”, or “ginger jokes” (these amount to the same thing) into your browser and go see for yourselves.

Whats the difference between gingers and bricks? Bricks can get laid.

Look, I’m not saying people should stop abusing gingers, at the end of the day you won’t hurt me with words because of the abuse I continually suffered, I’m just saying don’t be surprised when one of us goes apeshit and kills you all. You fucking asked for it!

Let’s bury the rhetoric instead.

I lost a reader yesterday, he was, in all probability, the one person who I wrote to impress. My harshest critic and most valued fan.

He died, ostensibly,from either heart failure or more probably from cancer, both of which had been troubling him for some time.
His weak heart meant surgical treatment for the cancer was not an option and his 3 month prognosis ruled him out of further heart treatment.
He was just a few years into retirement and the doctors said the engine’s shot, the gearbox is knackered, you’re scrapped.
He gave his life to government. He worked as a civil servant from 17 and eventually came to the position where he orchestrated every election in his sizeable region for the last thirty-odd years. To put this in context, this was the first election of my lifetime where he was not at the helm and the truth is that when he needed the system he had worked for, and sacrificed two marriages and a child to, when he desperately needed it to help him they told him he was too much of a risk to help and would only last 5 months anyway.
That was well over two years ago.

He was a man of culture and of the earth’s salt… though that may have contributed to the heart problem.
He mas a man of dignity and believed in continual learning, love of art, theatre and music and these enriched the soul leading to self-improvement. He liked Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen and yet wasn’t a miserable twat.
He believed one should be actively engaged in the business of the day and pay attention to the world around you. He was political and passionate.
He could tell a joke like only a scouser can and he taught me that debate, words and conversation are vital to a functioning society, but, humour will make people engage.
He was absolutely fucking useless with a stroppy teens,we did not speak for twenty years and whilst he was fallible as a Father, or shit as I used to say in my angriest of moments, he was a good man, a real man, a worthy human being and a great friend to all those lucky enough to know him.

When conventional medicine gave up on him we discussed the latest alternatives to chemo. He discussed it with his Macmillan nurse (donation coming soon, thank you, you wonderful people) and he and I discussed if there was time and if it was possible to provide the means for him to try the one hope that appeared in his world of terminal prognosis.
We discussed the possibility of finding a trial for him and we discussed the practicalities of relocating to somewhere that did allow this pioneering treatment.
Sadly, such a death sentence makes it difficult to relocate, there is no trial for this product in the UK and the cost of the “drug” prohibits my acquiring sufficient amounts to make the product myself.
I do not have a license for producing this product so had I have begun making the base ingredients at my home I would have been subject to a sizeable prison sentence, my wife would have lost her job and my children would be in care not private school.
So, we decided I wouldn’t produce it and that road was a dead end.

I have no idea if this product would have worked for him; there is growing evidence that it may, but, equally, not enough is known to ensure my father’s tumour was one of the 20 plus different types of cancer known to react to the treatment, but, there would have been reason for at least some hope and when you live 18 months past the date you’re told you’ll die hope is something your soul craves to get you through the pain.

I am glad his pain is over, I am glad we came to speak again, be friends, engage in honest dialogue and resolve our past actions.
I will miss our chats and rue the lost years.
I’m also angry, really rather angry.

Cancer may have killed my Father; Marijuana prohibition killed our hope.

Don’t cry for me Argentina.

How do you take down an institution, utterly destroy a multi-media behemoth that you created, but not offend the army of followers? Actually, Army is the wrong word when there’s a continents worth of followers, anyway, how do you achieve such a difficult task?
After 22 series of “new” top gear that must have been a question facing the much talked about “oaf” and host/co-creator Jeremy Clarkson as he and his cohorts came to renew their BBC contracts.
Imagine, if you can, being trapped, by your own creation, into working for an ever increasingly hostile employer in the form of the politically correct BBC.
They want rid of you, but, simply can’t afford to lose the revenue stream that comes from a TV show, broadcast worldwide, a website with a vibrant and active community, a magazine in both print and digital formats and a live event that sold 1.5million tickets on it’s last WORLD tour.
The show has a multitude of international spin-offs and everybody knows there is no show without Clarkson, ergo, if the UK show goes the rest will wither and die. It’s contribution to the BBC is 50 million pounds in the last financial year, so, they can’t afford to fire him no matter how much they want to.
The result is the BBC tried to put him on a leash, then, when he snapped the leash and still ran off and crapped on the neighbours lawn, they tried to put a muzzle on him. This didn’t work either and some say this  because he talks out of his arse.
On the other side of our rock and hard place equation, an equation that sees Clarkson as the squishy baloney like bit in the middle of the sandwich, is an incredibly loyal and diverse audience that makes him one of the most watched stars in the world and his programme one of the most watched factual programmes in history with a simulcast of the last series shown in more countries than the British Empire managed to conquer…  and remember we had a serious Empire going on there for a while.
That’s the word for Top Gear: it’s an Empire and Jeremy is the Emperor upon whom the empire was built. How do you leave and set in motion a chain of events that brings down the empire without incurring the wrath of those who follow you?  In particular, how do you do so and not hack off those that will follow you to another channel should you choose to take one of the many offers you have received from Obergruppenfuhrer Murdoch and others? These are rumoured to involve sums as large as 50million pound for the three gents with the lion’s share going to Clarky himself.
Jeremy is in the twilight of his long career now, he’s becoming a dinosaur and a throwback. He’s hosting topical comedy programmes one week and the butt of their jokes every other week, but, a three year deal with Mr Murdoch could make him a very wealthy man indeed, a man who wouldn’t ever need to leave the comfort of a laptop on a Caribbean Island unless he chose to.
I should point out at this point that I am a fan of Jezza and pals, Jezza in particular, and I have been reading his work, as it intersects with one of my primary interests, for some 20 odd years now and I would estimate I have read or watched some 80% of his entire creative output during that period. This doesn’t mean I know him, but, I do feel I know his public persona quite well.  I also suspect he’s a mischievous man and believe his need to poke and prod combined with a belief that he is far cleverer than most, which he very much is, can lead him to do things that seem like a good idea right up to the point someone else cottons on.
Like Argentina.
There are two possible options with the Argentina license plate debacle:
First, a researcher bought the car randomly and nobody noticed the offending number plate until it was too late, or, secondly, one of them saw the car and number plate and they set about building the show round the car and the amusingly inappropriate plate. If all went well they would make a huge joke about it from the safety of the studio afterwards, and if it didn’t, then they had a plan for that too.
They didn’t anticipate such a violent response, but, maybe they did anticipate some negative reaction…  When they were chased from Alabama it did make bloody good telly. I can say with certainty that I am on the fence, but, I know which one seems to have the higher statistical probability.
This brings me back to the current situation.
Originally, this was to be a piece defending Jeremy, offering up  a humble request for some compassion for  a man demanding a hot meal, not only for himself but, for an entire crew who had worked a 12 hour plus shift of outdoor work. Demanding it not from the staff, like some over-inflated diva, but, from the person within the team who’s job he perceived it to be to arrange such food and how, perhaps, if this person had a bit of a history for cock ups, this could turn into a drop of argy-bargy, fisticuffs, a slap round the ear-hole.
Then, as I was poised and ready to mount a vocal defence, it was revealed that the person who reported the incident to the BBC was Clarkson himself and he did so some 6 days after the incident, which, coincidentally, is within a one month window during which the 3 gents would sign new 3 year, lots of money to us, but, nothing compared to what the competition are already offering, contracts.
These contracts will clearly never be signed, Top Gear will never come back in it’s current format and the fans will, and do, hold the BBC completely responsible.
A lot of fans, myself included, believe that, sometimes, men just need to clump each other, settle their differences, then shake hands and get on with it. We have compassion for and empathy with a dinosaur, like Clarkson, because we’re dinosaurs, or were raised by dinosaurs ourselves!
Apparently, the BBC executives’ reaction of suspending him whilst the investigate the possible assault, that he reported to them, has made the situation untenable and Jeremy feels he can no longer remain in the BBC’s employ. So, when the chips fall, we hold the BBC responsible because Jeremy was just being Jeremy and they’ve, more or less, fired him in many eyes.
The people who hated him before hate him just as much now as they did before, but, to the fans and devoted he has been martyred with the sword of political correctness. The sword that has hung above this modern day Damocles for a decade, has finally fallen. We will be overjoyed when he rises, phoenix-like, on Sky and hand over our money to Mr. Murdoch, grateful to him for giving us back our champion.
“How do you destroy an Empire without angering the citizens?”
Turns out that was the wrong question all along, the real quandary, in the parlance of the show, is “How hard can it be to make it all someone else’s fault?”

A force for equality and mutual respect.

I am an atheist.
This means I do not believe there is a God. I am, however, a spiritual person. I believe in a power greater than myself, I believe in Karma of sorts and although I have listed myself as an atheist my “faith” does have a name. It has prophets and saints, Father and Son, stories and parables, an old new-testament and a new old-testament, and an even newer new-testament that the powers have yet to deliver unto us.
I am quite certain my messiah already walks amongst us, incarnate. If not he’s most definitely a prophet and imbued with powerful force beyond my comprehension.
Usually I keep this all to myself for fear of ridicule and mockery, but, of late people have been calling for respect amongst all faiths, to tolerate and capitulate to the wishes of all religious sects and so, in this spirit I have decided to stand up for my faith and all other faiths to demand equal respect.

I stand here for the Catholics and demand that “Dogma” should be pulled from sale. All copies should be burnt and Alanis Morrisette et al. must stand trial.

I stand here for the Christians of all denominations (including the snake handlers) to decry the awful Monty Python. Too long they have escaped justice; these terrorists should be stoned for their Blasphemy. All copies of the film “Life of Brian” must be burnt and I simply don’t care how nice Michael Palin seems, he’s a heretic, stone him like he said “Jehova!”.

I stand here for the Jehova’s witnesses; Cease slamming doors in their face or pretending you’re not in. It’s disrespectful.

I stand here for the Church of Jesus Christ of the latter day saints. Stop mocking the Mormons
Joseph Smith gave us The Osmonds for crying out loud and the doorkeeper is judging you.

I stand here with Saint John and Saint Tom. They who endure such torturous ridicule yet still follow with such fervour. Must they be forced to lead their followers in violent crusade before we finally give scientology the respect we give the Abrahamic faiths?

Jahweh, Ganesh, Dokkaebi, Sosamshin, Shiva, Buddah, Hubal, Zeus, Apollo, L.Ron Hubbard!

The followers of all faiths need to be recognised and respected. Gods shouldn’t be portrayed, represented nor disrespected by members of another faith and the law should accommodate all our different beliefs and tenets. To do otherwise is nothing short of racism and bigotry.
This all brings us neatly to my religion and no, I’m not about to claim I’m a Rastafarian or a member of the cannabis church that would be silly.

I am a Jedi.
A true follower of the prophet Yoda, student of the Teachings of Obi-Wan, devotee of He of the quiff to whom the prophet handed the holy scripts so that he may bring the truth unto us.
(A truth that came in widescreen and with a stereophonic soundtrack, not just on some crappy parchment like the other faiths, BTW!)
As a Jedi I have rejected the dark side of hate and of anger, embraced the proper side of the force and lived according to the lessons found in the parable of Han the lonely one:
He who doesn’t help himself does not get stuff for free.
He who dumps his cargo at the first sign of the police will find there are greater vexations than getting caught.
Always check thy vehicle works as is divined; One cannot know when one might need to flee the authorities.
He who mounts a Princess is set for life. Amen.

I was once passive like the legions of my Brethren, avoiding the mass prayer meetings and vigils at comic cons and Sci-Fi expositions, but, I think the time has come to stand up and be counted, I think it’s time for militancy, time we were respected.
Henceforth we, The Church of Lucasfilm and The Jedi Knights, have the following demands and the world has until the third day on the fifth month of this year to comply or suffer our wrath:

Non-Jedi’s must not wear the Holy masks of Star Wars; From this day forth no child may dress as a Stormtrooper for a party unless sworn into the faith and a follower of the Jedi teachings.

All impressions of Lord Vader must cease immediately, it’s offensive and frankly terrifying. You are not Luke’s father and to claim to be is blasphemous.

The people of Liverpool must immediately stop insulting each other by calling each other “Jedi”.
Their so-called Gods John Bishop and Robbie Fowler must be offered in sacrifice as recompense for the cities crimes.
Scousers: Do you have a pit to throw them into? The sort where they can suffer the horror of being digested for eternity in the stomach acids of a many-tentacled beast?
If not, throw them in the Mersey with the jellyfish. It’s more or less the same.

All three Holy films will be shown at Christmas in every country, without adverts, just after everyone has had their Christmas dinner and is a bit tipsy as we find this is when we get the most converts.
The heretic films, known as episodes 1-3, must never be shown.
All copies should be burnt along with “Dogma”, “Brian” and “Charlie Hebdo”.

Holy relics must be returned.
No more “original 1977 Stormtrooper helmet, great condition. NO RESERVE!!!”  appearing on Ebay thank you very much. We want all relics back for the holy church.

Representations and likenesses of the figures from our religion and all associated logos and branding must not be made by anyone of any age in any medium, unless:
i) They are a fee paying member of the faith;
ii) They are officially licensed to do so by Lucasfilm and manufactured in Jedi approved establishments in full accordance with Jedi (Anakinsian) Law.

Finally, Derren Brown must come forward and admit he is Luke Skywalker, reborn and walking amongst us, using his Jedi mind tricks on the weak willed.
Or, at the least admit he’s a prophet.

On the fourth day of the fifth month of this year, and if our perfectly reasonable demands go unheeded, we will rally for our cause, standing up to show the oppressors what force really means.
Gather we will. In peace and love, not anger and hate.
For that is how our small green Prophet said we should behave.
We will congregate armed only with our Jedi mind powers and home-made light sabres to march forward like an AT-AT and fight like Ewoks to demand the same equality, protections and freedoms other faiths enjoy.

Change your Facebook religion to Jedi if you will stand with me against ridicule and hate.
Write Jedi if you will gather in the streets with the millions of other peaceful Jedi warriors.
Write Jedi to let them know that they can attack us but we will not break we will fight in a peaceful and loving way.
Write Jedi to warn them: We are Jedi; strike us down and we will become more powerful than they could possibly have imagined.
Write Jedi if you will be there, with our brothers and sisters, united as one, and I will, on May the Forth, be with you.


British businesses announce “Global name shortage”.

British businesses announce “Global name shortage”.

Today, at a shocking late afternoon press conference, two titans of British industry, the automotive giants Bentley and Jaguar staged an emergency media event to make a stunning announcement regarding an industry wide “good name shortage”.

Earlier in the day both companies had faced a barrage of questions over their new cars names and neither company had been able to explain, in Jaguar’s case, the God-awful nomenclature “F-Pace” and, for Bentley, the completely ludicrous “Bentayga”, whatever the hell that means.
A Jaguar spokesperson, Richard Tootington-Smythe, began the press conference speaking in an almost exasperated and brutally honest tone:
“There’s no good names left!”
This stunning announcement was met by gasps all round from the assembled journalists. After a suitable pause to let the news sink in he continued:

“We’ve been aware that good names were going into global shortage for some time, but fortunately, until today the evidence has been gone mainly unnoticed, hidden and kept to cars that nobody actually buys, the Pagani Huayra, SSC Tuatara and of course the KIA Cee’d for example. Now, however, we at Jaguar have been launching new cars at such a rate we’ve used up everything we had in stock, on retainer, or found down the back of the sofa and when we tried to register some new names we discovered the Germans had put their beach towels down on almost all words, numbers and letters by registering them for tradenames way in advance.”

Despite being a member of the Volkswagen group the Bentley spokesman, St.John Cuppinton-Buckets interjected at this point to support his fellow countryman and old Etonian:
“It may have gone unnoticed to the general populace, but, the Germans have been buying up all the old defunct British companies but never relaunching the brand, I mean, no one noticed they were buying any old cobblers even back at the end of the last century? Well, this strategy has given them access to a whole range of cool pre-loved names like Allegro, Maestro and Metro all of which will soon be launched under the MINI brand and now there’s literally nothing left for us! It’s just not sporting.”
“I can’t comment for my friend here, but, at Jaguar/Land-Rover group, well… the truth is we’ve only got enough money to make cars, buy paper clips and give the odd novelty tie if someone leaves and yet we’re battling with The Americans, Koreans, Japanese and the French for every new word or letter that comes up for sale or exists, but, remains undiscovered. The French are throwing huge resources at finding words they can squash together to form new ones and the Americans have G.W. Bush available to make stuff up and the option to remove the letter ‘U’ from words and also change esses for zeds! All over the world Major companies, including our competitors have set aside big budgets, and in most cases the State also helps them, to employ people from all nations, multilingual staff to sit with foreign dictionaries and ancient writings searching for defunct words that don’t mean “I have sex with vegetables” in an all important emerging market and others equipped with packs and packs of scrabble letters just making new words up!
We’re based in Coventry, near Birmingham, and honestly, who do you think wants to come from abroad to work in Birmingham?!? We looked at a feasibility study but we simply can’t afford to relocate the whole ‘Names and Nomenclatures’ department to Rhodes just to pull in the top industry talent, but, even if we did research showed we couldn’t guarantee getting the cream of domestic wordsmiths let alone the best from abroad!”
“Ask yourselves if you were a former countdown contestant would you come to Brum or would you follow all the other quiz show champions to work for the BMW and Mercedes christening departments in the Caribbean?”
“Realistically, if it’s not very basic English or Gujarati we’re stuffed!”
“I’m afraid to say it’s true and, now we’ve reached the point where the cash rich Chinese have entered the fray, it saddens me to say that all future cars and then eventually all consumer goods will in all likelihood have daft or unpronounceable names.”
“The days of Vanquish, Spirit and Ghost are gone and we’re left with a bleak future. I can tell you we, the UK motor industry, have had at-length discussions with regard to this crisis, of course all kept behind closed doors for fear of widespread panic, and it’s accurate to say that all British car companies are, to use a colloquialism, up a certain creek without a paddle.”

“It’s not like we’re Italians and can just call it anything we want and because it’s in Italian it just sounds cool. The ‘Ferrari Scoreggia’ for example, you’d buy that, it sounds great, but in English it’s the ‘Ferrari Fart’ and who apart from footballers will buy that?”  Interrupted Tootington-Smythe, before allowing the Bentley man continued:

“ I cannot stress how important this matter is and that it must be taken seriously as, and I’m speaking solely for Bentley here, without support from our parent company and access to ‘Das Namegewölbe’ (literally ‘the name vault’) the VW groups offsite secure name-storage facility, we may finally see a complete good naming meltdown and our next planned model, a midsize Roadster, is going to be called the Divorcee or the Newidow.”

At this point the two were joined on stage by Aston Martin Chairman Sir Henry Fuzzlewick who had stepped up from the audience, unannounced and clearly much to the surprise of all, to take the podium. He proceeded to confirm they had been in secret talks to discuss this turn of events and he went on to appeal directly to politicians to:
“stimulate new word production and discovery and do furthermore warn that if Britain’s politicians don’t make word invention a core module in the school curriculum then, by as early as 2020, we won’t be able to produce anything new as we won’t have any spare names, not even bad ones! No marketing! No sales! No production and no employment because, how do you market something if it doesn’t have a name?…”

The press conference closed after Sir Henry’s final shocking words:

“…Despite huge investment in our naming department, relocating it to Mauritius  and putting together a top team featuring two previous ‘Times crossword’ winners, a three time Scrabble world champion and a retired English teacher from Stoke-on-Trent we are still struggling. We have two models coming out this year; a two seat Grand Tourer with a massive engine that will sit at the top of the range that we are calling the
‘Vaginator’ and a sub one hundred thousand pound model with a folding hard top that we’re hoping will attract more female customers to the company. That, well… That we’ve had to call the ‘Vajazzle’.”

Industry representatives have been summoned to an urgent meeting with the British Primeminister and cabinet to take place within the week.

An excerpt from my new book.


Here is a small free sample from my new adult book.
Having noticed the popularity of badly written smut in this post “fifty shades of grey” world. I decided to venture into the smut writing business myself, so, here is an excerpt from my debut work:

Love on a council estate; or, 50 shades of Burberry.


“I opened the door to find him stood there as handsome as a man could be, dressed top to toe in a fresh blue Lonsdale hooded tracksuit and clean white Reebok classics. I looked up and his eyes pierced my soul and seized my gaze, his holding mine with the passion and intensity of a horny Staffie humping your leg and just as reluctant to release.
I realised that for the first time in our long three weeks together neither of these soul-filled pools was black nor swollen and I felt a relief and a tingle in my love garden when I was assured that both wndows to his soul did, in fact, look in the same direction.
He smiled at me, that mischievous smile, both adult and childish at the same time, and I must admit, for a moment, I was jealous that he still had so many teeth and none were black.
For the first time since he arrived he spoke:
“I got my giro today…,” he said referring to his benefits payment and with great theatricality he produced from behind his back a bottle of Vodka in the one hand and a pack of krispy crème donuts in the other. “They wasn’t reduced or nuffin” he continued in the husky, phlegmy voice that had attracted me to him so much the first time I saw and heard him racially abuse an Indian.
I could feel myself warming up down below and my nipples begin to stiffen as he gestured down with a glance of his eyes and, in a voice dripping with triumph and lust, he crowed “That’s not the only fing I’ve got for
you, darlin’”
My eyes followed his and my gaze was drawn to the large bulge in his trackie bottoms. My eyes widened and my hand moved instinctively forward a few inches to reach out and touch before I hesitated, showing a reluctance and nervousness I’d not known since I was 14.
“It’s ok, innit,” he said, “there’s nuffin to fear, just touch it!” he cajoled and with his encouragement I did, softly at first, running my palm gently over the bulge, but, then as my confidence grew and, emboldened by the rush of adrenaline, I softly gripped and squeezed this very large parcel…
I looked up to him, my pleasure bringer; “How… how…?” I could barely form the words. I’d never encountered such a large package before, I’d seen plenty of small packages and was far more used to them, this one had rendered me speechless.
“How much is
that you’ve got hidden in your keks?” I finally spurted out and his face beamed with pride “It’s more than enuff for a good time…” he smirked, “Get it out and ‘ave a butchers”
I reached in and wrapped my hands round it; if anything it felt even bigger now. Holding it gently I carefully pulled it out from its hiding place and gazed down. It didn’t take long for the delicious musky smell to overpower me and it gave me a heady rush.
“It’s an ounce, innit luv, proper skunk, no seeds or nuffin!”
I couldn’t contain myself any longer and leapt up, embracing him and wrapping my legs around his waist. “Come in and close the door” I softly whispered in his ear “the hallway stinks of piss”.

Now, in the kitchen/lounge/bedroom of my bedsit our passions ignited and we barely had time to drink half the vodka before we could contain our desires no longer. We each had our pre-carnal routines: He readied himself logging into snapchat , setting up his autoflash and tweeting all his mates. I practiced my sexy, pout face in the mirror and prepared myself to taste his manliness.
My special place was dripping like a leaky tap in a poorly maintained south London tenement as I knelt before him and readied to please him like he was my landlord and I didn’t have the rent… This experience would be as good for him as he had been to me; he had given me so much: vodka, donuts, weed…He’d even topped up my phone credit!
I would show him my gratitude.
I had hardly begun to show him the well practiced, dyson-like, fellatory skills so often written about on pub toilet walls when his mates tweeted to ask to see my heaving mounds of love so, as he snapped away, I took his stiff love rod in the fleshy fold between my love-cushions and pursed my lips and poked my tongue out until we were so inflamed we could take no more; my precious foofy was as hot as the seat on a scooter left out in Malaga’s midday sun.
Without warning or care he reached out and, emboldened by frenzied lust, swept the week’s worth of bowls, plates and McDonalds cartons from the sofa before sweeping me up from my knees in his powerful arms and throwing me face down on top of it. A tiny beautiful cloud of dust and fag ash flew up as I landed and I felt his left arm, so strong, holding me down and restraining me like a third ASBO, whilst the rough, nicotine stained fingers of his right hand tugged down my best yoga pants and searched for underwear that just wasn’t there.
I heard him sigh and barely noticed as he entered me.
For a brief moment my mind wandered, hoping the kids, sleeping so peacefully in the corner, wouldn’t wake up to find a strange man using me for his pleasure… again, and for a brief second I questioned if I should lock them in the bathroom, but, such thoughts are fleeting when concentrating on the business of enthusiastic moaning, trying to keep track of the Eastenders omnibus and modelling for photos all at the same time…

To continue reading the adventures of S’har’leen, our heroine on heroin, buy the book on E-reader:
Learn how wealth comes her way from webcamming.
Feel the joy when her life really opens up after the council finally take “those shi**ing kids” away and puts them into care.
Experience the love when she finally meets her Prince, a rich second-hand car dealer who introduces her to dogging.

Love on a council estate; or, 50 shades of Burberry.
An Angry Baboon novel.