Missive From ‘Merica: The Man In High Dudgeon

*Hang on, Clicky… /lights up… Bladerunner? …/drags… The Man In The High Castle? …/streams smoke… We’re talking Dick…*

Roob show Cade Dick

*What happened to my avatar, Clicky? …/squints…*



Dear Reader, Rutger Hauer has died and fucking Twitter has fucked my ‘selfies’ by ‘improving’ its layout. But it’s not all bad news: the LoL has received a new missive from Cade, the Okie Devil of Text US. A mid-week treat for us all to enjoy. So Doo! ❤



We seem to spend a good portion of our lives trying to be found.


We also seem to spend a good portion of our lives telling others to go away.


Very strange indeed, eh?

Now that you’ve read that, I need you to stop reading this, go read the rest of this, then fuck off.


^Slow Motion! Hot Light – Dynamite (Original Mix)^

Howdy. I have nothing clever or earth-shattering to say for an opening, so lets us jump right in.

What is hallucinogen-persisting perception disorder?

That begs questions as to the nature of any and all experiences that we as humans can have. Especially the extraordinary experiences that are not drug induced/drug related. Those experiences which are traumatic or exhilarating could leave some lasting marks, yeah? Perhaps even more so seeing as how the sensory input is not going to be just/only visual stimulus.

Q: Can blind people drop acid and see weird shit?

A: OK, OK, not just LSD, but any kind of hallucinogen

Surely some completely mad and totally twisted government somewhere in the world has tried this out on blind and/or visually impaired people. Maybe even deaf people too. And what I’m thinking here is primarily the nature of perception during “a trip”, maybe why people see what they see whilst they are tripping, what sensory input(s) are driving these visions, and most importantly of all…when.

Yeah like, if I saw something 4 years ago, heard something 11 years ago, and felt something 45 years ago, then take a hallucinogenic drug, are all of those things going to aggregate somehow and affect my current trip? The funny part about all this nonsense is that the article, above, is not really what inspired me to sit down and start writing this morning. It was a few of the articles listed in ‘Related Coverage’ at the bottom of the article page, above. I’m not gonna link them here, but the articles listed were on the subjects of ‘psychosis’, ‘PTSD’, and ‘tactile hallucinations’.

^So Inagawa – Selfless State^

Ya see, me and Roob are watching a TV show called ‘The Man In The High Castle’. The show seems to be centered around trauma(s), as well as the decision making processes before, during and after these traumas.


!!! 危険 !!!


!!! JUST SAYIN'!!!

There’s not much happy going on in this show. In fact there is virtually nothing happy going on in this show. Everyone seems to be in a big hurry to get away from the current traumatic experience in order to get to their next traumatic experience. So much so, that the characters seem to actually be driving this and these traumatic flows. No one has any moments of clarity and stops what they are doing…

oh no they don't

…they gotta undo and/or rectify the previous trauma by creating a new one. Hrm…sounds a bit like those “resets” I hear mentioned here and there.


Anyway, they had some people doing some LSD in this series, and it was just prior to the big reveal that there are people bouncing around alternate universes, where the outcomes to World War II are different than the ones in our own history books here. In episode 1 of season 3, they get around to addressing the trauma(s) of travel of this nature. Basically, the idea of distinguishing what is real, where and how. You saw your mom die in the fires of Hiroshima, then suddenly, you are whisked away to a universe where she is fine and dandy.

So which one is real? 

You know both of the experiences, appear to have been real, but one experience is happening now because you are present, and the other…well…you aren’t there anymore…so…yeah…it did happen, but it isn’t happening now only because you aren’t there to experience it…even tho it did indeed happen, so you are always kinda experiencing it.

Make sense? No? Yeah? Both? Yeah...

I think that is some of these characters’ issue(s)…their not really sure what to do except keep going forward from where they are. BUT!!! There’s a twist.

^Gregory Porter – Liquid Spirit (Claptone Remix)^

Most people in this show have no clue that the outcome(s) were different elsewhere. As a result, they just keep doing what they’ve been doing, and they do so with absolutely no regard for “what might have been were the outcome(s) different”. So with respect to drugs, reading that article above got me to wondering about the decision-making processes that lead to unexpected outcomes. We wanted to expand our mind, we drank our Ayahuasca, we had our experience. Then years later something unexpected starts happening…we start having flashbacks of that experience and/or similar experiences in the now, even tho we’ve not taken any more Ayahuasca.

^Unders – Syria^

I’ve never knowingly nor willingly taken LSD or any other hallucinogen.

Does reading that sentence above plant a seed of questioning in your mind? If not, it should.

I intentionally put it there
^deadmau5 feat. Chris James – The Veldt^

From a writing standpoint…

Q: Does the complete absence of humor make potentially sappy or corny stuff seem more serious?

A: ¿??

The thought of Americans wandering around in Nazi uniforms and/or Americans subscribing to Nazi principles on American soil is prolly a stretch for most. So, I can see this series potentially coming off to some as being totally preposterous and just downright silly. Americans bleed red, white and blue, forever and ever, amen. It’s our birthright. Even without all the time-travel bullshit, no fucking way any of this is even remotely possible. So, is that why humor is sometimes totally absent from a creative work? So it’ll be taken seriously? Let’s add a quick joke here…

Q: Why was the sand wet?

A: Because the sea weed.


^Shazam! Pitch Meeting^

NEWS FLASH!!! Just saw a Tweet from President Trump congratulating Boris Johnson on his being elected PM of Great Britain!!! I guess he won the election.

Wait...was he elected? 

Like, registered voters dropped their ballots in a box, those votes were counted, and he got more votes than the other candidate(s)? You folks over there are a democracy…right? Winner wins, loser loses, everyone is happy with the outcome because win or lose, you got to participate in the process instead of being dictated to by some evil sacks of shit telling you that your opinion doesn’t count?

Man-o-man...democracy sure is great, yeah? 

You have a say, you are totally stoked that you do, and you’re happy for your fellow citizens and respect their rights to be heard too. Life is grand, and you’d never, EVAR, want to subvert your fellow citizens’ rights…right?

^No Mana & i_o – Bad Things (feat. Fay) [Original Mix]^

I wonder if The Founders may have been a little to clever when they framed The US Constitution. Like, I know that they provided for change to happen, but at the same time, they didn’t exactly make it easy. I guess I wonder sometimes if they realize that they were locking many of us in to a system of government that can indeed be exploited quite easily, even tho they specifically designed our system to be difficult to exploit. Maybe that’s the problem? Building an unbreakable something almost guarantees that forces will coalesce to try and break this unbreakable something, if for no other reason than this something is being sold as something unbreakable.

^Billie Eilish – bad guy^

This guy in the vid, below, sure does jump to some sketchy conclusions pretty quickly.

The background music in the whole thing is…obvious.


I mean, if you guys want defenses around your airports, just fucking get them.

Loads of your voters seem to be swinging toward ignoring any democratic processes, so I’m sure you’ll have plenty of support for your actions without requiring something so trivial as drones, to justify these actions of yours.

You want support if you can get it, but you’re gonna do what you want irrespective of support or resistance. That’s your job after all…think for others.

I get it, I really do. You got companies building things, and someone needs to step up and buy it.

Oh…and…lolz…sniping drones? Shooting them down? Fucking rofl. Great idea. I’m sure those unfortunate souls downrange in your line of fire will appreciate you killing them with stray rounds in order to save other more important lives.

(cough...and infrastructure...cough)

Again, you want AA emplacements, just fucking install them.

Problem(s) solved

Shoutout to Southend Airport since they get some coverage in this doc.

Sup y0!

Hope you can grow.

^ Britains Next Air Disaster Drones (2019) Horizon S58E04 Documentary ^

Just a thought, but, do you think that maybe UAV aircraft/technology might wind up producing an ethics shift that is not being taken into account? I recall that when offensive UAV aircraft first appeared, there were LOADS of ethical questions raised. Did all those questions get answered? Did people get starry-eyed and stop asking ethics questions? Have others been born into this non-questioning world and they have no idea what questions to even ask? Maybe look to the shifts that things rocketry/missiles and the Kamikaze caused. Offensive and defensive lines have blurred, all in the name of…stability?

^Khåen – Daphne^

Think of it like this…when a religion becomes militant and starts arming themselves, are they still considered a religion? More than that, are the people within these groups still considered religious? We seem to be following some patterns that have little if anything to do with the original designs. So why are we still clinging to the original designers and/or their plans? They got to do what they wanted in their own times, so why can’t we do the same here and now? These fuckers are long gone, right? Why do they get to keep telling us what to do? Wait…is this treasonous talk? Discussion of discretionary thinking leads to treason…

^Deadmau5 – Ghosts ‘n’ Stuff (feat. Rob Swire) [Extended Version]^

What are the odds that someone with certain roots, will unknowingly hook up with someone who has similar roots? You as a reader need to keep in mind that I’m coming at this as an American Mutt, and my lineage is fuzzy as fuck. I know people, and I know names, but their origins never really was that big of a deal. OK, well, sometimes their origins was a very big deal in that certain factions of “the family” seemed to have a vested interest in keeping those origins concealed.

Don't ask me why, I have no idea

They kept it hidden from me, still keep it hidden from me, and I’ll likely never know. I only know that I’m not supposed to know. Guess I better get on with living my life, eh? Anyway, was just wondering if I’m supposed to hook up with the people that I hook up with, and how I’m supposed to treat them when and if we do indeed hook up.

^Janelle Monáe – Make Me Feel (EDX Dubai Skyline Remix) (Official Video)^

HA! Roob just messaged me and said it was really hot there today. I grabbed my phone, checked the weather, and it looks like it is 90°F/32°C there. It’s only 68°/20°C here.


Granted it’s only 8:33 in the morning here, it’s 14:33 in the afternoon there, but it’s also July 24th. Very unusual for the temperature to ever drop below 70°F/21°C in July. And yes, even at night. It has been VERY cool here the past coupla days. More easterly winds bringing in a lot of moisture over the past two days, and highly unusual weather happening here. Just yesterday I was outside and was thinking that it felt more like early September than it felt like late July. Yeah, I realize that I go on and on about these winds coming in from the East, but I cannot stress how unusual that is here in Northeast Texas. I even saw an aircraft contrail in the sky the other day. Very unusual to see contrails in summer here. Something is definitely going on with the jet stream.

Not that I'd know what
^Deadmau5 – Brazil (2nd Edit) (1080p) || HD^

Watched some vids on this whole Iran business the other day. Wait…lemme start over. The other day, I attempted to watch some vids on this Iran business. As soon as Trump started talking, I had to turn the video off.

“They will pay a price like nobody’s ever paid a price.”


What does that even mean? After you go after them, you’re gonna go after all their relatives and friends and neighbors? Go after anyone that looks like them, sounds like them, as well as go after anyone that even reminds you of them? What in the hell kind of nightmare(s) are you committing us Americans to, and what if some of us want no part of it? You gonna come after me too? Call me un-American and accuse me of all kinds of other vile crap just because I don’t support your blather and/or bullshit?

Sounds fair

I think there was something about “Iran’s economy heading for a crash”, but I have no idea what that means either. Maybe someone can bring me up to speed on what I’m supposed to think about it.

^Error in my Head^

I had a ray of sunshine drop into my life yesterday. Instead of some expert someone telling me what “ascension” is, they asked a question…

What in the heck is “ascension” anyway?

Someone apparently trying to see “ascension” through the noob’s eyes, instead of looking at the concept through the master’s eyes. Not saying that I agree with everything in the article, nor that I understand everything in the article seeing as how I, myself, am a noob, and an outsider noob at that. But I’ll not qualify nor comment on the article further, and you can go read it for yourself if you want.

^Sunlounger – Lumumba (Chill Mix)^

So what is it like to not only know things that you have no idea how you know them, but to also experience things in real-time that you also know that you already know them/have already experienced them? I dunno. It’s not a problem that I have. Even if I did have such problems, I wouldn’t tell anyone.


Seriously…who the fuck am I going to tell, and why in the fuck would I be telling them? The best that I can come up with, is that maybe that and those decisions are discretionary. If my knowing this shit is not a problem for me, why should I talk about it? Out of the goodness of my heart? Yeah right…I have no heart, and even if I did have a heart, there’d be no goodness in it.

^No Mana & i_o – Bad Things (feat. Fay) [Original Mix]^

Speaking of discretion and/or being discretionary, I was reading an old post of mine, and again got thinking about a reader perhaps reading my bullshit, and wondering why I speak/write the way I do. Welp, you’d really have to had walked in my shoes to understand that, but mostly, it revolves around being told what to do. More than that, being told what to believe and/or how to behave. Who I can and cannot commingle with, and the reasons/justifications for these barriers.

These things I’ve been taught/told echo in my head. As such, when I’m writing, I sometimes think about what others have told me, I try and assume that line of thinking for the purposes of discussion, and it just comes out. Sure, I could go a different direction, but wouldn’t that also be because I’m thinking like someone else thinks I should think? ‘Tis quite difficult to speak your own mind, especially when you are trying to be considerate to others, with them showing little to no consideration for you.

EX: I had someone call me stupid the other day.

I admit that I laughed when they did, but it appeared that they were actually quite angry with me/were not laughing themselves. So I got to thinking…wait, what in the hell makes them think they can talk to me like that? Do I have a “kick me” sign on my back or something? I just asked them a question, and the response was rapid and vitriolic. We here in the US know quite well that the Social Security pot is empty, the whole thing is a Ponzi Scheme to begin with, and most of us will never get out what we paid in. A broken promise that continues to perpetuate itself.

Am I misinformed?

US Debt Clock

Those Global Hawk thingies are expensive. There appears to be some disparity in the press as to exactly how much these things cost, but there is little doubt that they are very expensive. What does that have to do with Social Security and/or the level of my intelligence? No idea. I’d be too stupid to know anyway.

^Eagea – Billy Esteban^

So yeah, I speak harshly sometimes, and the fact that I do it tongue-in-cheek, within a certain scope, prolly doesn’t matter to most people. Fair enough.

Flame on
^deadmau5 – Drama Free (feat. Lights) [Official Video]^


^Ilkay Sencan – DO IT^


*Yes he was, Clicky… /stubs butt..*

Dear Reader, have a Song…

‘Secret Santa’: 2 Sleeps to Go (Part 2)

And we’re back!


Sit back and enjoy, Dear Reader, the conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’ 😀


Josie lived in the opposite direction to me, but I didn’t care. As the taxi pulled up outside I could see she lived in a block of flats. I paid the driver, remembering to get a receipt of course, and made my way to the entrance. I pressed the button for her flat.

The intercom burped into life. “Hello?” sputtered a tinny voice.

“Hello, Josie? It’s Harriet from work. I’ve got your Secret Santa gift here. Can I deliver it?”

There was a pause before she replied, “Oh, Okay. I’ll buzz you in.” The intercom gave a mournful wail and the front door clicked. I pushed it open and entered.

Josie lived on the second floor. The building didn’t have a lift, so I was slightly breathless by the time I’d climbed four flights of stairs, carrying a gift that seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. I found her waiting for me, stood in front of her open door. Like a pink Venus she rose in my field of vision: first fluffy socks, rolled to the ankle, followed by shapely naked legs, topped by tight shorts with added camel toe crevice, completed by a cropped tee-shirt that emphasised her toffee smooth midriff and perfectly rounded breasts. The sight took away my remaining breath and left me feeling faint and weak at the knees.

“Oh my god, that’s huge!” Josie cried, making her way forward to help me. “Gosh, are you alright, Harry? You’re white as a sheet. Do you want to come in and have a drink?”

I took a long, deep breath and nodded. The universe seemed to have relented and fortune was now smiling on me. I followed her into her flat, doing my best to hide the grin on my face. “Where do you want me to put it?” I asked her. “The present, I mean…” I added slyly.

Josie giggled at my double entendre. “Oh, anywhere in there will do.” She pointed in the direction of the living room, then closed the front door behind us.

I placed the box on the living room floor and looked around. A half full bottle of wine and empty glass sat on the coffee table. Her TV was mounted on the wall and playing some festive Hollywood crap. The volume was turned down, sparing me from having to listen to its seasonally cheerful inanities.

“We didn’t want you to miss out on your secret Santa gift,” I said shrugging off my coat. Josie took it and my handbag then disappeared back into the hall.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” Josie called. “Was it a good night? I got home from work to find the washing machine had flooded. By the time I’d cleared it up I really wasn’t in the mood for socialising.”

“That’s understandable. It was alright. I’ve had better,” I called back getting comfy on the sofa. This one is already starting to get better, I thought picking up the wine bottle and studying the label. Shiraz, my favourite.

Josie returned carrying another wine glass and I filled both from the bottle. “Cheers, Harry! Merry Christmas!” she said chinking my glass.

I took a mouthful of wine and swallowed. “Mmm, nice. Merry Christmas, Josie. Are you going to open your present?”

Josie gave a girlish squeal and sat down cross legged in front of her wrapped box in one graceful, fluid movement. The elasticated fabric of her shorts stretched, barely managing to cover the modesty of her plump but righteous arse cheeks. She pulled her hair back from her face and let it hang over one shoulder.

Just as earlier in the evening, I could feel the blood pump furiously through my veins, only this time it was directed to a completely different area of my body. “Josie, can I use your bathroom,” I asked.

“Sure, it’s the door on the left before the bedroom,” she said as her hands caressed the smooth and shiny wrapping paper.

The bathroom was pink – obviously her favourite colour – and smelt of roses. I peed and washed my hands, then splashed water over my already moist pussy and gave it a rub with a fluffy pink towel hanging next to the sink. No harm freshening it up just in case, I thought. I checked my teeth in the mirror for any untoward particles of Christmas dinner and stuck out my tongue – stained red from wine but not furry. Good.

When I returned, I found wrapping paper and cardboard discarded on the floor, but Josie herself was nowhere to be seen. I retraced my steps and found her in the kitchen, bent over her microwave and displaying even more of those sweet arse cheeks of hers.

“What are you cooking?” I asked once I’d drank my fill.

She rushed over and gave me a hug, encircling me with her slender arms and pressing her breasts against me. I felt hard nipples push into my skin and gave a silent pray to Jesus for the invention of chocolate.

“Harry! Oh my god I can’t believe someone bought me a chocolate fountain. Chocolate is so much fun!”

The contraption I’d bought her sat on the kitchen table, plugged in but empty, its shiny tiers waiting to be filled. I breathed in the vanilla scent of her luxurious hair as I hugged her back, gently rubbing my own throbbing breasts against hers. “Ooh, a chocolate fountain!” I exclaimed. “Lucky you!”

The microwave pinged and Josie turned away, opened the door, and removed a bag of melted chocolate with her fingertips. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she snipped the corner off and poured a stream of warm chocolate into the fountain’s bottom tier.

“I’ve always wanted one of these,” she said as she threw me a smile and switched the machine on. After a few seconds, a flood of chocolate gushed up through the top tier and cascaded down smoothly, enveloping the tiers below.

“Now that is a thing of beauty,” I said admiringly.

“Yes it is,” Josie replied and stuck her finger into the rich stream of chocolate. She pulled it out and put it in her mouth, sucking hard. Her elfin features contorted with pleasure. “Oh my god, Harry, you’ve got to try this!” she said invitingly.

Tentatively, I approached the gently humming machine. Encouraged by her ecstatic gasps of pleasure, I decided to make my move. I poked two fingers into the silky, warm stream, cooing at the sensation. I pulled them out and sucked on my index finger, holding the middle finger out to Josie, my other hand poised beneath to catch the drips. “Mmm… more?”

To my amazement, she took my dribbling middle finger in her mouth and sucked hard. I could feel her tongue lap at the sweet gloop and marvelled at the innocent look of pleasure on her face as she sucked the chocolate off. With our lips just inches apart, I reached up with my free hand and gently stroked the underside of her chin.


Looming in the doorway of the kitchen stood Alfie. Josie and I both jumped. Me guiltily.

“Alfie. I didn’t hear you come in. What you doing home so early?” Josie asked her hulking boyfriend. Up close, the Easter Island resemblance was uncanny: he looked rock hard, menace etched into his face.

“WHO THE FUCK IS THIS BITCH?” he demanded of Josie, who flushed. “WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOING?”

Shit! I thought, I need to get out fast and in one piece.

“I think there’s a misunderstanding. I’m Harriet from work. I’ve just dropped Josie’s Secret…” I started to tell him before he shut me up with a stinging slap with the back of his hand. I felt my incisors rip through my bottom lip as my head rocked back. Blood sprayed out across the pristine white tee-shirt that covered his chiseled pecs.


I felt warm blood fill my mouth and mingle with the residual taste of chocolate. I held my hand up to my face and cringed. “My mowff…” I spluttered.

“No Alfie!” Josie explained, “Harry’s just a work colleague.”

“THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FOR?” he yelled, pulling my ‘Big Boy’ butt plug Secret Santa gift from behind his back. I’d put it in my handbag, but it must have fallen out. “WERE YOU GONNA RAM IT UP HER ARSE, YOU FILTHY CUNT?”

Josie looked at me aghast. “Harry?”

“No, I can eshplain…” I started to say but didn’t get the chance. Alfie’s meaty hand grabbed the back of my neck and spun me round, pushing me face first into the chocolate fountain. I felt the warm chocolate flood over my eyes and nose.

As my nostrils and mouth filled with molten sweetness, I could hear Josie yell and plead with her boyfriend: “Stop it Alfie! It’s Secret Santa. Stop it, please!”

My final thought before passing out was Jesus! Death by chocolate. This is no fun at all…



*/sigh… I wrote it for the Christmas Underdog Anthology, Clicky. It’s not supposed to have a happy ending, for goodness sakes… /rolls eyes…*

Well, Dear Reader, I hope you’ve enjoyed my first Christmas tale at the LoL. If you liked this story, I have others in The Underdog Anthology… Although, to be brutally honest, the other authors’ contributions in it are so much better than mine 😉

Merry Christmas to you and have a Song… ❤




‘Secret Santa’: 2 Sleeps to Go (Part 1)

Dear Reader, at last it is Friday and the day the F A Kontrell office Christmas shindig. In this two-post conclusion to my Christmas tale, we’ll find out if Harry’s devious machinations to woo the fragrant Josie actually bear fruit…

*/rolls eyes… Way too much, Clicky… Come on, just relax, put your fins up and let me tell the story…*

So, for your pleasure, the fourth installment of ‘Secret Santa’ in three, two, one


Friday evening seemed to take forever to roll around, but at last I found myself, suitable attired in sartorial elegance, at the pub the Fat Kontroller had selected to host the evening’s events. He’d hired the dining room, but most of us were gathered at the festively decorated bar while we waited for the stragglers to arrive. The pub was called The Exchange, a converted bank, with high vaulted ceiling and polished wooden floors. The Secret Santa gifts had been transferred from the office by Shazza – who else? – and were piled up in the dining room. The heap of presents was dominated by one conspicuously large parcel with a gift tag that read ‘To the gorgeous Josie, with lots of love from your Secret Santa xxx’.

Unfortunately, the object of my affections turned out to be one of the stragglers and was nowhere to be seen. I lounged against the bar with one eye on the door and the other on my watch while I swigged my drink, trusting the alcohol to sedate the butterflies that had congregated in my gut. Around me, my colleagues made small talk about work and gossiped about the latest office romances. The former was tedious beyond belief, so I tuned in on the latter just in case I heard Josie’s name mentioned. Or my own for that matter. Damn! I thought. Where the fuck is she?

A stream of cold wind blew in as the door opened and everyone looked up expectantly. The Fat Kontroller stood in the doorway, beaming and looking natty in DJ and bow tie. The man loved to make an entrance. I caught the barmaid’s eye and ordered a double scotch, his favourite tipple. It arrived just as he reached the bar.

“Harry! Is that for me?” he asked and downed the drink before waiting for an answer. He smiled at the barmaid and indicated for another. “Splendid! Let’s get this party started!”

“Oh, are we all here then?” I said as nonchalantly as I could. We were most definitely not all here; Josie had still not arrived.

He finished the second drink and looked around. Shazza appeared as if by magic and hovered at his elbow.

“HR Josie called, Mr Kontrell,” she said with a glance in my direction. “She can’t make it tonight. Her washing machine has flooded or something.” On hearing the news, the butterflies in my stomach instantly disappeared, leaving a hollow as cavernous as the pub we stood in.

The Fat Kontroller frowned at the news. “Oh, that’s a shame. She’ll miss a cracking evening,” he said, then shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well, can’t be helped I suppose. Come on Sharon, lead the way,” he said as he grabbed her fleshy bare shoulders and steered her toward the dining room.

I followed them through the crowd with leaden legs. When I reached the dining table I discovered that the seating plan had placed Josie in the seat next to mine. It felt as if the universe itself was conspiring to rub salt in my wounds. Shit! Fuck! Bollocks!

The seasonal set meal tasted like ash in my mouth as it progressed through starter, mains and dessert. I tried to look interested as the conversation swirled around me, but all I could think about was the empty seat beside me. Eventually, after coffee and petite fours had been served, the Fat Kontroller stood up and announced the start of the Secret Santa gift-giving ritual. Shazza served as his assistant: she passing him the gifts and him calling out the names. One by one we trooped up to collect them.

Eventually, he got to me. It was inevitable really. “Harry! Where’s my PA? Harriet!”

I scraped my chair back and wandered up to the top table. The Fat Kontroller was holding a gift. Not a voucher-shaped envelope that I was expecting, but a rectangular box wrapped in shiny silver paper and curly blue ribbon.

“Harry,” he beamed, handing it over, “this is for you.”

I was dumbstruck. Somebody had bought me a proper gift. “Thank you,” I said, turning it over in my hands.

“Well open it then,” Shazza urged excitedly. “I love shecret Shanta pressies,” she slurred.

“Quite sure you’ve had enough wine, Shazza?”

“Nearly,” she hiccuped and giggled into her hand. “Go on open it.”

I pulled at the tight ribbon and eased it off. Something inside the box rattled. Fuck! Somebody actually bought me a present, I thought as I started to rip off the paper. And then I saw what it was and my face fell.

“OH MY GOD!” Shazza shrieked with barely contained glee. “SECRET SANTA GAVE HARRY A BUTT PLUG!!!”

The room fell silent for a moment, and then the laughter began, triggered by a booming guffaw from the Fat Kontroller. All the blood in me seemed to leave my limbs, rush to my face, and combust there. I looked up into the Fat Kontroller’s eyes. They twinkled with mirth, unlike Shazza’s which glowed with something else altogether.

Somebody must think you’re a pain in the arse, Harry,” she said coolly before joining in the merriment with exaggerated howls or laughter.

She set me up… the fucking bitch!!!

Slowly, I turned toward the room and held the ‘Big Boy’ butt plug for all to see. “Thank you. Thank you, Secret Santa. If I ever find out who you are, I’ll know exactly where to put this,” I shouted.

I walked back to my seat, still holding it aloft, like a prize fighter displaying a glittering belt. This elicited further laughs and a round of applause, which slightly mitigated the fucking disaster the evening had turned into. I sat down and pointedly read the packaging before putting it in my handbag. I downed my drink and wondered how long I had to stay before getting the fuck out of there.

Not long as it turned out. Once the Secret Santa ritual was out of the way, those with babysitters to relieve began to make their excuses. It was the only perk of having children that I could see, so decided to slip out with them in the rush for the door. I rang for a taxi and started to gather my coat and bag.

“Harry!” the Fat Kontroller called and beckoned me over. Thankfully, Shazza was nowhere to be seen. If there was any justice in the world then I hoped she’d laughed herself sick and was puking her ring up in the toilets. “Leaving already, are we?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m driving up to mum and dad’s tomorrow,” I lied, “early start, you know.”

The Fat Kontroller looked at me kindly. “You handled that very well, Harry. That was very naughty of somebody. Are you getting a taxi?”

“Yeah, it’s on it’s way.”

“Here,” he said pulling fifty pounds from his wallet. “Shazza!” he boomed and mouthed the word ‘receipt’ to me.

Shazza appeared from thin air again, still grinning at her prank. She was obviously not the complete air-head I’d supposed her to be. “Yes Mr Kontrell?”

“You know where Josie lives. What’s the address of our missing HR manager? Harry here is going to drop her secret Santa gift off on the way home, aren’t you Harry?” His eyes twinkled.

“Yes,” I informed Shazza slowly, following his cue. “I’ll take HR Josie’s gift to her and tell her all about it. Let her know exactly what she missed this evening.”

Was that a gulp from Shazza? I hoped so, but I was too excited at the opportunity that had suddenly presented itself. I would get to see Josie and give her my gift. I might even get a cup of coffee for my troubles. I played it cool and strode off to collect Josie’s superbly wrapped gift, whilst the Fat Kontroller handed Shazza his pen and a discarded cracker joke so that she could write the address down.

We bade farewell, wishing each other a happy Christmas, and then I left to wait for my taxi…


Don’t miss the exciting conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’, which follows on in just a bit…

*/lights up fag and waits nervously… You know, Clicky, if this was on telly there’d be adverts now… /drags… Perhaps I should mention The Underdog Anthology and Cultish… /blows smoke… What do you think?*



‘Secret Santa’: 6 Sleeps to Go


Dear Reader…

*Where? …/wipes nose… Oh for fuck’s sake… the stuff gets bloody everywhere… /wipes hands…*

Dear Reader, I’m busy, busy


*Yes, you’re always busy, Clicky. Now shush it… /wipes snout… Oh for god’s sake, you’re covered in it too…*

… busy, but I haven’t forgotten you, nor the promised third installment of ‘Secret Santa’. For anyone new joining us today, it starts here. But to briefly recap: Office Letch, Harry, moons over Office Honey, Josie, but she’s taken. However, a lucky pull from receptionist Shazza’s Secret Santa hat gives Harry the opportunity to make sure they both get what they want for Christmas. Though, what each of them want is not necessarily the same thing…


Friday the 23rd crawled ever closer and the gift I’d bought for Josie had still not arrived. The artistically baubled and tinseled plastic office tree was already starting to accumulate a drift of brightly wrapped presents underneath. I was feeling nervous and tetchy. Josie’s secret Santa gift would be on the large size and I needed to get it under the tree without anybody seeing, especially Shazza, otherwise where’s the fucking anonymity in that?

The tree itself was Shaz’s work, of course. Another time wasting opportunity courtesy of the Fat Kontroller. She’d spent an entire afternoon erecting it, dressing it, redressing it, and snapping selfies with it on her mobile, whilst the rest of the office – myself included – ran around picking up the phone she was paid to answer.

My ill will toward Shazza was further exacerbated by the group email she’d been sending out each morning. It contained a photo of her handiwork and a subject line that read: ‘Tree Minus X Days to Secret Santa!!!’. Three exclamation marks – not one (acceptable) or two (okay, it’s Christmas) but three. It arrived in my inbox at 9am prompt every morning, and as the days passed it seemed to me that she was mocking my attempt to woo the lovely Josie. My present to her had still not arrived.

Going by this morning’s missive, ‘X’ equalled ‘5’. It was Monday afternoon and I now had less than four more days to plant my gift under the tree without the rest of the office seeing me do it. Assuming it ever arrived that is.

At least it would be pre-wrapped. I’d taken full advantage of the online service and chosen the most expensive option. My plan had been for it to be delivered to the office last week, the wrapped present concealed by the outer box’s plain packaging. This would allow me time to take it home, extract the gift, and smuggle it back into the office in all its sumptuously wrapped finery, without anyone making the connection between the two. So much for that, I thought moodily.

My telephone rang, making me jump. It was Shazza.

“Harry. There’s a parcel in reception for you,” her voice trilled in my ear.

Thank fuck! “I’ll be there in a bit,” I replied shortly, and made to put the receiver down.

“No wait! Harry!” she squealed.


“Please hold for one moment caller,” Shazza purred and put me on hold. I looked at the receiver and fumed. Fucking bitch!!

I was about to hang up when she returned. “Harry, it’s being brought round to you now. Byeee!”

She hung up as the Fat Kontroller ambled round the corner carrying what I presumed was my parcel.

“Harry! This is for you,” he bellowed placing it on my desk. The Fat Kontroller loves to make dramatic entrances. Half the heads in the office popped up over their cubicles, then popped down again like a troupe of wary meerkats. “What have you bought?” he asked. “Not been surfing Amazon on company time I hope. It doesn’t look like my Secret Santa gift this year…completely the wrong shape, eh, Harry?” he said with a wink.

“No Mr Kontrell. It’s for my dad. Power tools. He loves his shed,” I said with added eye roll. In fact mum had banned dad from doing any home maintenance since the Kitchen Refit Disaster of ’01, but the Fat Kontroller wasn’t to know that.

“Oh. How boring. Still, it’s better than giving him socks, I suppose,” he replied. Not if you’re my mother, I thought.

He seemed lost in thought for a moment and stood drumming his fingers on the top of my parcel. I watched his fingers rise and fall. Stop bringing attention to it, you bastard, I screamed internally.

“Erm, how did the big meeting go this afternoon?” I asked in an attempt to retrieve his attention and stop that infernal drumming. “We weren’t expecting to see you back until tomorrow.”

“Oh fine, fine,” he said, patting his bulging waistline. “Seasonal hospitality. Clients insist on being entertained this time of year. It’s one of those necessary but irksome tasks of business. Someone has to do it.”

Yeah right, I thought. Only he would consider lunch in a 5 star restaurant, overlooking the city skyline, as ‘irksome’. “Oh absolutely,” I agreed with a sympathetic look. “And you have more to endure before the week is out.”

“Yes,” the Fat Kontroller nodded gravely. I sensed that my diversionary tactic was about to backfire in the form of more work, but at least he’d stopped fingering my parcel. “Actually Harry, can you get me the sales projections for next year? I think we might be able to revise the figures upwards.”

“Of course, Mr Kontrell,” I replied brightly.

“And I might need you to stay on at the end of the day. Onwards and upwards, Harry,” the Fat Kontroller boomed, moving off towards his office. “Onwards and upwards!”

As soon as he’d gone, I slid the parcel across my desk and placed it underneath. All I needed to do was open it, remove the wrapped gift it contained, drop that under the tree when the right moment came along, and take ‘dad’s present‘ back home with me. Simples! as a TV meerkat might say…


Be sure to come back on Friday, Dear Reader, for the exciting, double post conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’…

*Will it have a sting in it? Stone the crows, Clicky… Spoilers! …/rolls eyes… *


‘Secret Santa’: 11 Sleeps to Go

Erm… as it turns out, I’m now going to be quite busy tomorrow. So, Dear Reader, here is the second installment of ‘Secret Santa‘ today. Enjoy!


Unexpectedly, Josie called me the next day. She said she wanted a ‘quiet word’, and all I could do was imagine her hot breath in my ear. We agreed to rendezvous in the empty conference room, so I took the opportunity to visit the bathroom en route. Just to freshen up, adjust my underwear, that sort of thing.

She was already there when I arrived, sitting at the head of the table. Her long legs were crossed and her business skirt had ridden up to expose smooth, tanned thigh. She must use an all over sunbed because her tight-fitting, white blouse contrasted nicely with the colour of her caramel cleavage, making the most of her small but perky tits.

“Thank you for coming to speak with me, Harry. I realise you’re very busy.” She waited until I’d closed the door and sat down before continuing. “I need to speak to you about Shazza.”

“Sharon on reception?” I asked with an innocent face.

“Yes. I’m afraid she’s made a complaint against you. Apparently you were very rude to her yesterday.” Josie’s tone and steady gaze was meant to impart the seriousness of the situation. It just made me want to cover her plump lips with my own even more.

“Josie…I don’t know what to say. I’m…Is this about Secret Santa? I know I was a bit short with Shazza, but I was extremely busy at the time finalising our bid for the Clovis account. So this…is this an official complaint?” I enquired, feigning immense concern. Little Shazza’s had the nerve to make a complaint? That’ll be the day.

Josie looked flustered at my reply. A splash of humility can work wonders when you have as prickly a reputation as mine. “Er, no. Not an official complaint per se, but she mentioned the incident to me in private conversation. I thought I should have a word. I could see she was very upset.”

Not an official complaint, then? Interesting. “Let me assure you, Josie, that I’ll apologise to Shazza at the earliest possible opportunity.” I reached over and covered her delicate but beautifully tanned hand with my own and let it rest there.

“Look, I realise I can come off as a bit abrupt but I have a very stressful job. I’ll try to be a little more conciliatory in the future.”

She looked relieved. “Thank you, Harry. I realise Mr Kontrell can be a very demanding boss…”

I didn’t let her finish. “Josie, you’ve only been with F A Kontrell for, what, a couple of months now? We’re an expanding business, so one should expect there to be a little pain.” Time for a little self deprecation. “That would be me,” I said with a cutesy finger wave.

Her giggle was delightful. So was the way she used her free hand to push a lock of shiny, black hair that had fallen across her face, back over her ear. Her other hand was still trapped beneath my own and she seemed in no particular hurry to retrieve it. I pulled my hand away and sat back in my chair.

“So, how are you finding it here? Are you glad you joined us?” I asked with a rare smile.

Josie smiled back. “Yes. Everybody is very nice and, like you say, it is very busy.”

“Yes,” I replied as I sat back and crossed my legs. “It’ll soon be the 23rd and then we can enjoy Christmas.”

Josie recrossed her own legs, flashing some deliciously tanned inside thigh. An idea came to me.

“Actually, I’m not really fond of the Secret Santa tradition. I never know what to get the person,” I sighed.

“Oh, well who have you got to buy for?” she asked.

I gave her a look of bemused befuddlement. “I can’t tell you that, it’s a secret.”

She frowned and thought for a moment, pulling her shoulders back just enough for me to see a hint of lacy bra, as the buttons on her blouse gaped.

“Without some idea of who it’s for… gift vouchers?” She offered apologetically.

I grimaced. “Oh god no, I get those every year.”

“You poor thing, that’s so boring.” Josie’s hand, the one I’d been touching, moved toward me.

“Maybe you can help me,” I mused, shifting my weight forward. I lent my elbows on the table and leaned in conspiritorially toward her. “You may have noticed the office here is predominantly female. Now I won’t confirm it’s a woman I have to buy a gift for but it’s a strong possibility. I’d like to get something more…personal,” I confided in a hushed tone.

“Aw, that’s really sweet,” she replied, leaning in closer and cocking her head to one side. “How about perfume? That’s personal and functional.”

“Perfume?” I appeared to weigh up the idea. “I don’t know, I like that idea but I wouldn’t know one perfume from another without asking first, and that would give the game away. I think I’d like to get this person something fun.”

“Chocolates,” she offered emphatically.

“Er, chocolates are fun?”

“You can never have too much fun with chocolate,” Josie replied with a wink.

Saucy minx! “Well, you’re lucky in that you have a lovely physique, Josie. Not everyone is as blessed as you,” I countered.

She blushed. Dear sweet Josie, I could have eaten her up right there and then.

“Okay then,” she continued, “it has to be personal, functional and definitely fun… although not chocolates or perfume.”

“How exactly are chocolates functional?” I asked with a quizzical lift of my eyebrows.

“Er, to have fun.”

“Right, I will remember that,” I replied with a low chuckle. “Personal, functional, fun…chocolate is optional. You’ve been a great help, Josie. Thank you.”

She stood up and I allowed my eyes to wander over her body for a moment, admiring the way her hipbones thrust forward and accentuated the tautness of her flat tummy. She could have been a model. She should have been a model. It’s not often an angel crosses your path.

“And you’ll apologise to Shazza?”

Would I fuck! “Of course. Consider it done.”

We left the room together. I held the door open with one hand, cradling the small of her back with the other as I ushered her out before me. She was a honey all right and I knew exactly what Secret Santa would be giving her this Christmas…


Part three will be along at the start of next week, Dear Reader. Until then, have a Song…

*Ha! Good choice, Clicky… /thinks… this would be an ideal opportunity to remind Dear Reader they can get a copy of The Underdog Anthology immediately on Kindle…*

*Oh you… /blushes…*


‘Secret Santa’: 12 Sleeps to Go

secret (n.) late 14c., from Latin secretus “set apart, withdrawn; hidden, concealed, private,” past participle of secernere “to set apart, part, divide; exclude,” from se-“without, apart,” properly “on one’s own” (see se-) + cernere “separate” (see crisis).

As an adjective from late 14c., from French secret, adjective use of noun. Open secret is from 1828. Secret agent first recorded 1715; secret service is from 1737; secret weapon is from 1936.

Dear Reader, I’m given to understand that sales of The Underdog Anthology have been ‘brisk’, which is very heartening – it’s an ideal stocking filler or Secret Santa gift…

*/sharp intake of breath… That’s a good idea, Clicky! I could definitely do that… /pats snout…*

I have a Christmas tale that I wrote for the ‘Christmas Underdog Anthology’, but that won’t now happen until next year. So here, Dear Reader, for your entertainment is the first installment of ‘Secret Santa’ by Roo B. Doo…



I’d been watching her do the rounds all afternoon. She was shirking again, moving from desk to desk as slowly as she possibly could, irritating the hell out of everyone with her silly bloody ritual. Eventually, she got round to me. It was inevitable really. I gritted my teeth and braced myself for the explosion of seasonal bonhomie.

“Hi Harry! How’s it going?” Shazza gaily chirped from behind a stack of reports I’d neatly stacked along the edge of my desk. She was gripping some red velvet tat between nervous fat fingers.

“Shaz. What do you want?” I replied. For once my curtness was justified; I was actually quite busy formatting and pivoting tables on my computer screen.

Shazza briefly frowned but quickly recovered. “It’s Christmas in two weeks,” she smiled brightly, holding up her hands to reveal the tatty Santa hat she’d been holding.

“Really? Who’d have thought? Why don’t you come back in two weeks then?”

I really was very busy and not in the mood for another of the ‘bonding’ activities that the Fat Kontroller dreamed up to keep our airhead receptionist entertained. If you’re in need of a raffle, bake-off, dress up, dress down or sweepstake, especially if it’s for charity, then Shazza’s your man.

“Ooh, looks like we’ve found our Scrooge!” she squealed for the benefit of the entire office. “We all have to play our part, Harry,” she continued in that irritatingly positive sing-song voice of hers, “and I’ve been chosen to organise Secret Santa this year.”

I sat back in my chair and swivelled round to face her. “Sharon, you’re chosen to organise Secret Santa every year. Look, I’m up to my arse in it at the moment, I don’t have time for this shit.”

I must have hurt her feelings, because she suddenly came over all professional. “You are required to select a name from the hat to buy a gift for. Minimum £10 spend. Wrap and label it with your recipient’s name, and place in under the office tree, no later than 23rd December as they will distributed at the Christmas party at The Exchange that night.”

She thrust the Santa hat toward me. It was the same cheap hat she used last year. A threadbare velour Poundland job that was probably past its ‘sell by’ date on the day she bought it. Its fur trim was meant to be white but was tinged grey from the entry and exit of dozens of grimy wrists. I really didn’t want to put my hand in there, but the sooner I got it over with the sooner I’d get Shazza out of my face. I winced and took the plunge.

“You do know my great-grandfather was half Jewish, don’t you? Next year, Shaz, I’d appreciate it if you used a yamaka, so my cultural sensibilities aren’t infringed.”

The hat felt empty. I rummaged around until I felt a slip of folded paper that had worked its way down into the pointy end. I pulled it out, looked at it, and held it up for Shazza to see. “It says ‘Harry’,” I sighed.

“No! You have to buy for somebody else!” she cried, snatching back the hat and peering inside. Her dismay quickly diminished as she spied another slip of folded paper wedged in its grubby depths. She took it out and handed it to me.

I opened it out, read it, put it in my pocket and turned my attention back to my PC screen.

“Who did you get?” Shazza asked excitedly.

“It’s secret,” I replied, focusing on the numbers on my screen.

She looked crestfallen. “Don’t you want to know who’ll get you?”

I slid the slip of paper with my name on across the desk toward her. “No. Now piss off. We must be missing tons of important phone calls because you’re fannying about over here. We’re a very busy company. Chop, chop.”

Shazza scowled, turned on her heels and left. A few heads from neighbouring workstations bobbed up and quickly lowered. People walking away from my desk in a huff is not an uncommon event.

I thought about the name in my pocket. I hate the Secret Santa ritual – in the two years I’d been at the company I’d selected the Fat Kontroller from the hat on both occasions. The score so far was two bottles of malt whiskey for him and two £10 gift vouchers for me. They were from Boots and had all the hallmarks of an afterthought purchased whilst out buying haemorrhoid cream or a sandwich.

I hadn’t gotten my boss this year though. No, I’d picked out Josie’s name instead. Lithe limbed Josie in HR, with an elfin face, raven hair and legs up to her armpits. She was new to the company and the only honey in the office I’d even consider getting my fingers sticky with. Unfortunately, she came with baggage in the form of a muscle-bound boyfriend called Alfie, who chauffeured her to and from the office. With the visage of an Easter Island statue and phyisque large enough to affect gravity, Alfie would have no problem effecting profound change on the features of any love-struck suitor.

Still, an anonymous gift given legitimately might just open some doors, maybe some legs too. My mind began to whirl as I considered the possibilities. I checked the time: just 45 minutes until close of business. There was no point continuing with what I was doing now that Shazza had so inconsiderately shattered my concentration. A little Christmas gift web browsing might help me wind down and would, in all honesty and with hand on heart, be completely work-related…


The second installment of ‘Secret Santa’ will follow in a couple of days. In the meantime, Dear Reader, have a Song…



Underdogs are GO!

At last! Dear Reader, the Underdog Anthology is available for you to read…


In paperback or on Kindle, even a hardcover version is available if you’re feeling rich and saucy…

32 stories by nine authors across a wide range of genres – most of which are certainly not suitable for children. Sex, violence, blood, gore, booze, drugs, cowboys and smoking – this book has it all. The first anthology of Underdogs contains something for everyone and a few things that are probably for nobody. It’s a lucky dip… If you’re feeling lucky.

*You what? …/concentrates on assistant’s clicks… No, really? What is it, fucking Christmas or something? …/sigh… No matter…*

Dear Reader, apparently if you avail yourself of the ‘Look Inside’ feature from Amazon, you will be able to read my three Anthology stories in full. However, if you want to find out what happens at the end of John Duffy’s story ‘The Wheel’, you will have to buy the book…

*Oh give over… /rolls eyes…*



‘The Fall’ by Frank Davis

‘Til the Fat Lady Swings

“They’re at it again!”

John’s eyes briefly flicked up from his newspaper, taking in the bulk of his wife peering through the net curtains, before returning to yesterday’s racing results. You’re at it again, he thought but decided it was safer to respond with “Who are?”

“Next door.” Sheila pursed her lips. “They’re having another one of their gatherings,” she hissed.

Sheila craned up on the balls of her feet and twitched the curtain back further to get a better view. Oh how she wished they lived in something taller than a bungalow. The fence and bushes obscured most of the neighbour’s garden but she could just make out the tops of two heads moving toward the rear. Toward the shed. She could hear the low drone of their conversation but not their words. The shed door first creaked, then thumped.

She turned back toward her husband and snorted impatiently. “Are you listening to me? Next door have got people in their shed again. They’ll be burning things, you mark my words. Goodness knows what they’re up to.”

John put down the paper and reluctantly turned his attention to Sheila. It hurt to look at her; he had no idea where the beautiful, happy girl he’d married had gone to, but he suspected the spectacularly fat harridan stood in front of him had abducted and eaten her.

“I am, and I think you’re overreacting. In all likelihood it’s nothing. It’s just people living their lives.”

“Nothing?!” Sheila squealed incredulously. She brandished her notebook at him, the one she’d been detailing all their comings and goings in. “Strangers traipsing through the garden at all hours of the night, bonfires – that’s nothing? The noise and smoke? That’s nothing?” She resumed her watchful position at the window. Whatever the reasons for next door’s social gatherings, it was bound to be no good.

John caressed the plump armrest of the sofa with the palm of his hand. There was no point arguing with Sheila when she had a bonnet full of bees. He stood up and puffed out his cheeks. “I think I’ll go to The Crown.”

“Go on then, go. Leave me here alone with that lot,” Sheila spat out contemptuously to the retreating figure of John. She heard the front door rattle shut. “Coward!”

John stopped to light a cigarette before strolling into the balmy evening light. The sun was just setting and he was in no rush to get to the pub. Custom at The Crown had dwindled a lot in recent years, especially in the winter months, but there might be some in tonight. He lived in hope. In any case it was better than sitting at home with Sheila and her paranoid fantasies. Just about.

His hopes were dashed as he stubbed out the last of his smoke and entered the cool interior of the pub. In one corner a group of teenage boys stood huddled round the fruit machine, whooping and smashing buttons. In another, Tom and Barry sat silently nursing their pints, but apart from them The Crown was empty except for Alice. The landlady stood behind the bar, dressed to her usual nines, polishing glasses. She saw John and smiled broadly.

“Evening John. Usual?”

John sat on a bar stool and watched Alice pour him a pint. She always looked good, despite her advancing years. Fitter than Sheila, who was half her age. “Quiet in here,” he said. “It’s a lovely night, I thought it would be busier.”

Alice frowned and cocked her head. “No darling, just the boys’ brigade and dad’s army in tonight.” She set a full glass in front of John and took the fiver from his hand. “I’m not going to be able to retire to the Algarve on them.”

John pulled deeply on the frothy liquid; Alice always pulled a good pint.

Her long, manicured fingers wrapped round his wrist as she gave him his change. “Say, I’m dying for a whiz and a fag, John. You wouldn’t keep an eye on the bar for me whilst I pop upstairs? Len’s off night fishing, so I’m on my tod.”

Alice disappeared and John surveyed his local. Time was when The Crown had full time bar staff, and Len and Alice would sit out with the customers all evening. A time when the fruit machine’s pings and whirls were mere background noise and the kids with soft drinks sat outside. Now they made do between the two of them, with occasional staff at the weekend. For Len and Alice, Portugal couldn’t come too soon.

John sighed and sipped his pint. He was wrong; this was worse than being at home with Sheila. She may be a bit crazy but this felt like sitting in a rotting corpse. At that thought, the fruit machine burst into a frenzy, pumping out a stream of dirty coins to the teenagers’ delight.

Jackpot! John sneered to himself.

When Alice returned he bid farewell to her bright, stiff smile, and tried to ignore the hurt in her eyes that he was leaving so soon.

“Sorry Al, I only came in for one. I’ve got to get home to Sheila.”

John shrugged and laughed with embarrassment. “She thinks next door are domestic terrorists or something. I dunno.”

“Didn’t she think they were devil worshipers?” Alice tried to entice him to stay with her playful reply but John was resolved to leave.

“No, that was last week. Next week they’ll be cannibals.”

Happy to leave on Alice’s bark of amusement, John waved from the doorway before lighting a cigarette for the return journey. Darkness was now falling but the night remained warm. With any luck Sheila would be in bed by the time he got home. If he walked slowly enough.

Sheila wasn’t asleep when John got back. As he turned the corner of his road, he spotted her rapping smartly on the neighbour’s front door. He stopped and quickly retreated; he didn’t think she’d seen him.

“Fuck!” John whispered furiously to himself. The last thing he needed was Sheila making a scene. For a moment he wished he’d stayed in the pub. He decided to sneak a peek and caught sight of his wife’s ample rear entering next door’s house. The door closed and John breathed out heavily, unaware he’d been holding his breath.

What to do? John lit another cigarette and considered his options. He could go back to the pub and come back later. Sure, Alice would be pleased to see him, but he’d already used Sheila as an excuse to leave. No, best get home unnoticed and feign ignorance when she returned from her rant. Finishing his smoke, John walked briskly home, hands in pockets and head bowed, as if it somehow made him invisible.

Safely inside, he rushed to Sheila’s favourite position, the lounge window overlooking the garden. Parting the net curtain, he peered out.

There was nothing to see – just the garden, fence and bushes. And the roof of next door’s shed. He took a step back when he heard its door creak and thud.

Tired of the drama, John slumped down on the sofa and felt something dig into his backside. He pulled Sheila’s spiral-bound notebook out from under his bum and opened it. He’d not looked at it before; she always kept it close.

The room was dark but he could make out his wife’s neat block capital writing against the white pages. He flicked through them with growing dismay. Times, dates and descriptions gave way to suspicions, theories, lamentations and solutions. Sudden fear gripped John’s stomach as he read the last entry:


“Oh, you’re home early.” Sheila’s greeting was flat but her eyes looked white with surprise against the gore streaking her face. John shrieked and turned in his seat, pointing at the bloody weapon in her hand.

“It’s next door’s axe for cutting up firewood,” Sheila stated dully.

John cringed away as his wife waddled past, on toward the window. Sticky fingers smeared the net curtain as she twitched it aside.

“It’s okay now, John.” Sheila reassured him as her eyes scanned the garden. “We don’t have to worry about the neighbours and their smoke any more.”


There, Dear Reader, my efforts are quite tame compared to the rest of the stories in the first Anthology volume from the Underdogs. No, it’s really not a book for children at all…

Have a Song ❤

Room x37 – Spotting Syncs 101: A Pointless Exercise Part 1.1

Part 1.0 can be found hear.

This the image Clicky woz-knot able to place in last night’s shambles *Click, if anyone presses, just embiggen and please, NO hiding things this time. I saw what you did. Scolds.

2. Emale One of 7 talks to 6 Sent Sunday evening 201215 Homework


I am in the process of transcribing a conversation I had with Clicky yesterday, whilst dissecting the show. Hopefully, it will be reddy later this week 😉

Sew… wats on massage in emale? *lights up*

The Thing is, I think I can show you through the medium of a Pointless exercise.

For this, you have to know that I am one of three:

1 a. Love the Glove came from Shiny. That’s Clicky by the way in case you didn’t recognise the Joker faced dolphin. Gets everywhere *rolls eyes*
2 b. Who can resist those Legs? Wat a storyteller? I nicked Click off of him *squint*
3 c. Click: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b06tgyd1/pointless-celebrities-series-8-14-reality-tv

I’m going to shamble this tomorrow as the first lecture on ‘Room x37 – Spotting Syncs’ at the LoL. These take time. I’ll try to keep it simple. I suggest we make your homework fun, so I suggest a game… Texas Hold ‘Em.

Card I: watch this with my husband. He is The Tardis and I am The Doctor. But I’m not always The Doctor; with sum I am The Tardis. Or River. Or Clara Or A N otherDeepends 😉

Card 2: We compete against each other, St Eve and I, but we also compete against the contestants on the show. We are one team, it’s a game we like to play. Like me and Loopy Louis. He gave me this video to show after we made his den for the evening (photos attached)

Card 3. In my shamble, I will include our answers. These will be honest and truthful. I donut L13 about this because I donut cheat. You see, I’m better than Captain Kirk 😉

Card 4: Another video from Louis. He loves bringing me things we can LoL about together. I’m the Girl with the Mousy ‘air… u gno Roob or Boor… I’ve seen iT 10 times or more

River Card: “Argentina! Woo Hoo! Pointless answer!” *buffs nails*

So homework people. Chop! chop! I’m going to watch the last three episodes of Doctor Who with my husband, now. I’m afraid I am going to have to take a lead role in the search for 137.

On the other hand, I can’t tell you wat to do. Do what you like. Butt I love you all ❤


Okay, we didn’t get to watch Doctor Who that night. We watched some ‘Married with Children’ instead… Sew then *puffs out cheeks* correspondence to catch up on, screen shots to, well… grab

CYL and have a Song 😉


Fiction v Non Fiction: An Under Underdog’s Reply

Broken Girl has posted about the top 5 books she’s excited about right now…
Top 5 books Poppy is excited about right now

I’m sworn off all new fiction until ‘Panoptica‘ is published…

Cheer up, Clicky. Not long now… probably

In the meantime I have a few ‘non-fiction’ books on the go…

I have a bet with Scruffy Oik that we can defeat this generation’s Nazis…

That’s right, Click, every little helps…

The next couple are a bit of a double act…

Aww… Nice staging by Kitten there, Clicky. Tell me, what am I going to have to watch in return?

Oh good lord… he’s only 13!


The fourth book is one I’ve commented about before, ‘The Fourth Turning’. It helpfully describes which part of the spiral of history we’re occupying…

The last one was bought for the name of the author *titters* Sometimes I can be just that shallow 😉

Okay then Clicky, let’s be having ya; we’ve got things to do, places to go, people to see…