More exclusive writings...

In honour of World Book Day, here follows yet more of my unfinished work, following on from my post of 2nd February. And just so you know, it starts to get a bit racy towards the end. If you want to read more, let me know and I will oblige... There's 27 pages of it!!!


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My mum came home at about six thirty, having had her hair done. She came through and asked me what I was up to that night.

“Probably head into town. Meet up with some people.” I said casually.

“What people?” She was not purposely nosey, but didn’t always come across that way. The end of my marriage had given her extra cause to worry about me, whether I liked it or not.

“Just some work people” I lied through my teeth.

“Oh. You’re not going to be back too late are you? You’re helping Marie move into her flat tomorrow, remember.”

How could I forget? Along with worrying about me excessively, she was also planning my spare time for me these days.

“I hadn’t forgotten. But I’ve done nothing all week, I need to get out.” Lord only knows why I felt I had to justify this at the tender age of twenty eight years old. Marie was four years younger, and had a boyfriend and a mortgage, and as far as I can recall, she never had this.

Seemingly satisfied, mum left the room, only to return minutes later.

“Do you want some tea before you go out? It’s casserole.”

“Nah, it’s okay, thanks. I’ll get a pizza or something.” Anything other than the old classic casserole.

Mum looked at me with scorn in her eyes, but let it pass and left the room again. 

As it was still early, I passed some time by playing on my Playstation2 console, taking out my stress on some poor unfortunate computer footballers. Just as I was getting ready to put it away, my dad shuffled into the living room.

“Aren’t you a bit old for that?” he grumbled.

“You’re never too old, dad. Trust me” I smiled and patted him on the leg from my kneeling position in front of the television. He grunted something unintelligible. He hovered for a moment, then went out of the room. I glanced at my watch and decided it was time to go. I left the Playstation2 littered over the living room floor, a throwback to the days when I would spend all night on my own waiting for Lucy to come home. I would eventually go to bed in a mood, and then be expected to be pleased to see her at two in the morning. If you can work out how I ended up being the bad guy in that situation, I’d like to know, really.

I sorted out my clothes for the night and went for a shower. As I stood under the water, watching it cascading down my body, I psyched myself up for a good night out. I got myself showered and smartened up. I shaved off the two days stubble that had accumulated on my haggard face, hiding the stresses and strains of divorce. I’d forgotten how young it made me look. After getting dressed in jeans, bright amber Mickey Brown ‘Cult Zeros’ t-shirt and brown kappa trainers I made sure my hair was tidy and cleaned my teeth. I completed my preparations with a splash of Abercrombie aftershave, a present from my parents on their last trip to the USA. I gave myself the thumbs up in the bathroom mirror and went out through the front door. As I was going down the driveway, my mum opened the front door and called me back. Reluctantly I turned back towards the door.

“You’re going then?” she said, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I thought you were out the back.” I lied.

“Well, make sure you don’t get into any trouble,” she looked at me meaningfully. “Your dad said to give you this.” She handed me a roll of notes. I took them from her hesitantly. As she watched, I counted out fifty pounds. I looked up to see her face breaking into a smile. I wordlessly hugged her and turned back down the drive. As she went back in through the door I gave her a wave and carried on down the street with a spring in my step.

Chapter 2

I made it into town with no problem. A one way train journey did the trick. I got on with another group of people all going into town for the night. As I sat down on the train, I noticed a pretty girl sitting on the other side of the carriage, a few seats down from me. She was on her own and looking nervous. She looked about twenty years old, but she could have been older, I’m not good at guessing ages. She was wearing a sparkly black vest top with a lipstick mouth logo in red sequins. The man in me was drawn to her breasts, which were impressive, whatever her age. A silver pendant hung tantalisingly in her cleavage, naturally drawing attention. The conductor came and I paid for my ticket, still glancing occasionally at the girl. The conductor went over to the girl, who rooted in her purse for change. She looked apologetically at the conductor. Craning my neck, I could overhear the conversation going on. The gist was that she was short on the train fare. Feeling generous, yet having my mind filled with images of her thanking me profusely, I stood up and sauntered over. I stood at the conductors shoulder and coughed politely.

“Is there are problem at all?”

Both looked at me, non-plussed. The conductor broke the silence.

“This young lady doesn’t have enough to pay her fare. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

Not liking his attitude, I wanted to give him a punch in the mouth, but smiling, I countered.

“Would it be my concern if I offered to pay the difference?”

The girl looked at me puzzled. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders in a ‘can’t do any harm’ way. She smiled back at me. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt a murmur in my underwear. The conductor turned round to face me full on.

“Well, it makes no odds to me, as long as the ticket’s paid for.”

“I-I-I‘m sorry, I usually have lots of change on me” the girl stammered apologetically.

“Don’t worry yourself” I soothed her. “Where are you going?”

“Just into town. One way.”

I got out my wallet, and pulled out a five pound note. I waved it in front of the conductor.

“This should cover it, my friend”.

He took the money and keyed in the ticket on his machine. As the machine spewed out the printed ticket, he snatched it and held it out to me. I gestured for him to give it to the girl. He handed it to the girl with a grunt and shuffled off up the carriage.

I smiled at the girl and went to go back to my seat. As I turned, she leaned forward and grabbed at my jacket.

“Hey, thanks for that. You didn’t have to do that for me.”

I shrugged my shoulders at her.

“I couldn’t let him throw you off the train in the middle of nowhere. I’m too nice”

She smiled warmly at me.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have.”

“Probably not” I agreed. “But I’d rather not have left it to chance”. I smiled back at her. It’s hard to tell in artificial light, but I’m sure she blushed.

“Do you want to sit down?” She patted the seat next to her. I looked at her as though considering her offer. I took in her short black skirt, black tights and boots. She seemed like she had a body to die for.

“Sure, why not.” I gently sat down next to her, angling my legs out into the aisle. She smiled again, and angled her legs towards me. I could read that body language. Or I thought I could. I knew I wasn’t going to chance it.

“I’m Becky, by the way.”

“Hi, Becky. Nice to meet you.” I shook her hand and smiled. I held on to her hand a little too long, without realising.

“And what’s your name?” She probed.

“Mine? It’s Jon.” I smiled. I gave myself a mental telling off. I was falling apart right in front of her. I let go of her hand and put both of my hands on my lap, out of the way. Or so I thought.

“Are you going anywhere special?” I was jolted out of my private thoughts by her sudden question.

“Er, no not really. Just into town for a few drinks. You?”

She smiled coyly. I was beginning to wonder about her.

“Same. Are you meeting up with anyone?”

“At some point.” I admitted. I was beginning to feel out of my depth.

“It’s horrible drinking alone, isn’t it?”

I turned and looked at her. There was a glint in her eyes. Her body language was obvious now. She was playing with her hair. She twirled her long, dark brown hair in her fingers, letting it fall on her shoulders. I was mesmerised. All I wanted to do was take her hand again and stroke it. I was losing my control.

“Yeah. I suppose it is.” I said, trying to fill any silences. She smiled.

“Do you mind if I ask how old you are?” she ventured.

“Er, no. I’m twenty eight. Although I feel about forty six after what I’ve been through.” I tried to laugh it off.

“You don’t look it. Do you want to know how old I am?”

“Well, I’m a gentleman, and they never ask a lady her age.” I smiled bashfully at her. I couldn’t believe how I was flirting with her. It was no wonder I was awful with women.

“That’s okay. I’ll tell you. I’m twenty two.”

“Oh? That’s nice” I said. I prayed for the journey to end so I could go and give myself a good talking to over this. No such luck. The train pulled into a station I knew was two stops from the end. I felt panic start to rise within me. I’d thought that playing the field was going to be easy – this was a rude awakening. All this time Becky was slowly edging closer to me. No one got on or off at this point, and the train started with a jolt. I could be paranoid, but I swear she made more of it than necessary as she toppled into me. I helped her up and steadied her in the seat. One of the straps of her top had fallen off her shoulder. I happened to glance at her and didn’t see a bra strap of any description. I took a more concerted look, in case she had some of those clear straps on. There was nothing, and worse, she saw me. I hastily looked away, waiting for the accusations to start flying. Nothing happened. Except I felt a hand on my thigh. I looked down and saw it wasn’t one of mine. It was too dainty. I looked round and she was watching my reaction. There was definitely something going on. I could feel heat rising inside me. It had been a while, but I was pretty sure I was onto something now.

“You have nice firm thighs Jon. Do you work out?”

“Um, not really. I play football every week. Does that count?” My habit of using small talk to diffuse situations was kicking in, much to my annoyance.

“So you’re athletic, huh? That’s wonderful.”

I nodded agreement. I tried desperately to come up with something to say. She beat me to it.

“I used to do gymnastics when I was younger. I’m still extremely supple you know.” As if to prove her point, she fidgeted in her seat and manoeuvred herself into the lotus position. Her knees were now almost in contact with my crotch. As I took in her pose, I saw a flash of skin between her skirt and what I’d thought had been tights, but now appeared to be stockings. From that point on I was lost. I only had one thought on my mind – see more of that. Images were racing through my mind of frantic sex with Becky. On the train, in the station, in bed, on the back seat of my car. I could feel the beginnings of an erection and self-consciously shifted to hide it.

Etcetera...

So there you have it. Granted, this was written in the early days when I couldn't be bothered to come up with creative character names, so used my own instead.

Attempting versatility.

As I struggle with the evil writer's block, I was looking through some of my old projects and happened upon this little effort at a Children's story. Written for my eldest son, and based on his two favourite bed-time toys, I thought the idea had legs. I even entered it into a competition, being placed in the top 50 entries I seem to think. I never really carried it on.



The Continuing Adventures of Dog And Elley

The Garden
Dog and Elley were best of friends. They lived together in the bed of a little boy called Eoin. Whenever he went to bed, there they would be to watch over him while he slept. But while he was out, they got up to allsorts, as we shall see…

One summery day, when Eoin was at nursery, Dog and Elley were sitting in the bed where they had been left behind. Elley turned to Dog and whispered in his ear.

“Hey, Dog, why don’t we go out today?” Dog turned to Elley and looked puzzled.
“And go where?”
“We could go into the garden. The sun is shining.”
“Alright, then.”
So Dog and Elley went into the garden. But not before they had covered themselves head to toe in sun-cream! What a sight they were as they crept down the stairs leaving sun-cream footprints behind them!

In the garden, Dog and Elley played all sorts of games. They played catch, hide and seek, and skipping, amongst other things. Eventually they got tired and sat on the grass. Elley turned to Dog.

“I’m thirsty. Shall we get a drink?” he asked.
“Alright then.” Dog replied.
So they went back into the kitchen. Dog stood on Elley’s shoulders so he could reach the taps. He filled two cups that had been left on the side and climbed down. He handed a cup to Elley.

“Elley, why are you all wet?”
“You spilled all the water on me.” Elley replied.
Dog looked at his now empty cups.
“Oh, Elley, I am sorry.”
Dog went to get Elley a towel. As he handed him the towel, they heard a car door shutting. Dog and Elley tiptoed to the window. They saw Eoin and his mummy coming up the driveway. They scrambled up the stairs and back into the bed.

Eoin’s mummy took Eoin up the stairs. She saw wet marks on the carpet, but thought nothing of them. As she put Eoin to bed, she picked up Elley and handed him to Eoin. He seemed a bit damp, but she ignored and kissed Eoin and turned off the light.

Before they fell asleep, Dog winked at Elley.

Elley winked at Dog.


THE END

I don't mean to moan, but...

I have two points of issue at this time of writing. Both sports related. So, for those with no interest in either Football or the NFL, please have a look at my other offerings. Anyone left? Hello? Hello?!

Oh, well, I'll carry on regardless.

1) The England Manager's Job:
Ah, yes. This week's 'Big Story'. The bigwigs at the FA take the decision to relieve John Terry of the England captaincy, and then deem it suitable to inform the manager after the fact. Then there is the sharp intake of breath when said manager publicly disagrees with their decision on foreign telly in his home country. Now, I agree that John Terry should not be England captain. He shouldn't even be in the squad. But this is the manager's decision to make. The rationale that the John Terry-Anton Ferdinand situation shouldn't be allowed to side-track England's Euro 2012 doesn't wash with me. If the press don't have that to harp on about, they'll find something else. Because, let's face it, the British press just can't bring themself to get behind the team and their manager. They have to find something to pull at and stick the knife in.
Now Fabio Capello has resigned, I can't help wondering if he is breathing a huge sigh of relief. He is much better off out of it. And we wait for the bumbling, incompetent FA bigwigs to appoint the next mug, sorry, well-qualified, successful, hungry manager to bring long-awaited success for the England team. DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH!!
The current squad are nothing more than over-paid, over-hyped, under-developed, selfish, self-aggrandising halfwits. There is no other explanation. How else do you explain the inability to carry out simple instructions? Or Wayne Rooney's decision to unnecessarily kick out at an opponent in the final qualifying game?
Which brings me on to those England fans who think the England team has the God-given right to win tournaments, just because we did so in 1966. That was 46 years ago. When there was real pride in playing for England. These days player's loyalty is all down to money. How many times did Rooney kiss his Everton badge? Then, in the blink of an eye, he's kissing his United badge. Do a Google search for pictures of Wayne Rooney. Count how many pictures of him kissing his England badge.
I digress. England are not World-beaters. They don't have the players with the technical ability to adapt to differing situations. They can hardly string ten passes together before punting the ball towards goal. The infrastructure in this country benefits only one party. The clubs.
The general consensus is that the England manager should be English. Why? If you want success, you must get the best manager available. There are no world class, English managers. Harry Redknapp? Don't make me laugh. He's done a great job at Tottenham, but he's been able to work with some top quality foreign players. FOREIGN PLAYERS. Last time I checked, Gareth Bale, Luka Modric and Rafael Van Der Vaart weren't English. And let's be honest, they're the key players in that team.
My tip for the job? Guus Hiddink. Experienced in International football management, success with modest talent (Russia, Turkey and South Korea), and, above all, experienced with the vultures of the British press.


2) The NFL and it's British fans:
Superbowl XLVI was great. I stayed up to watch it until gone 3 in the morning. In the run up to the game, the NFL announced that the St Louis Rams had agreed to play a game in the UK for the next 3 years. Great. I looked at the ticket prices. Not great. £50 for the cheapest seats. Add to that, travelling costs to get to Wembley, and you're looking at close to £100 for the whole shebang. Who can seriously afford to spend that in this current climate? And why is it that only London gets to host the party? (I can answer that one myself, it's because to the American's, London is the only place of importance.)
It's not like Wembley is the only stadium in the country capable of hosting an NFL game. Through gritted teeth, I say that Old Trafford could easily accommodate the NFL. Plus, it's in the North.

Apparently there is a Parliamentary committee set up to help promote the sport in the UK. Is this just a show? Time will tell. A good start would be to get the merchandise widespread and affordable. As a Pittsburgh Steelers fan of 25 years, it has proved a fruitless quest to find reasonably priced gear. In this cold weather, I thought, what better way to show my support for my Steelers than to buy a Steelers hat to keep my head warm? Most of the stuff comes all the way from the US, with the postage charges to boot. Or what about a t-shirt? £20 for something remotely satisfactory.
Apparently there is talk of there one day being an NFL franchise based permanently in the UK (who are we kidding? It'll be in London of course). I don't think this is a good idea. We tried American Football here once before. Hands up who remembers the London Monarchs?? No? They were a team set up to take part in a world-wide tournament that culminated in the World Bowl. Completely separate from the NFL itself, it was designed to capitalise on the late 80's-early 90's boom, but it eventually petered out, leaving barely a trace. And this would happen again, but to a current, well established NFL franchise. Which would upset the NFL bigwigs, who would then arrange to ship the franchise back to the US for resuscitation. Leaving the UK fans with nothing again.
So, leave it how it is. Just send a variety of teams to play over here, and rotate the locations to give us all a chance to witness the show.

Moan over. I feel alot better now, thanks.

Albums You Should Own Part 9

And here we are at the latest helping of my tips for the perfect record collection. We're in to the month of February now, you've all managed to survive the post-Christmas cash flow panic and things are looking up. Hopefully. So, what better way to celebrate this feeling than with the latest must-have offering.

The Fleet Foxes by The Fleet Foxes
Now before the purists kick up, I'd like to acknowledge the fact that this first album is not actually their first release, it was merely the first full length studio album. I was non-the-wiser myself until reliably informed and presented with the evidence by my girlfriend. The thing that stands out for me is how an American band managed to produce such quintessentially English sounding music. But, by jove, they pull it off with uncanny perfection.

The album kicks off with the perfect album opener, 'Sun It Rises'. Just listening to it, you want to look out of the window and see the sun actually rising. The vocals and harmonies are heavenly and compliment the melody. This is quickly followed by 'White Winter Hymnal', possibly the best song on the album. Again, conjuring up the essence of English-ness, and lyrics that talk about "scarves of red tied round their throats, to keep their little heads from falling in the snow" and "turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime". You will find yourself singing along before too long, this I promise you. And the album continues in this vein. Yet another stand-out track is the beautiful (yes, I've just used the word 'Beautiful' to describe a song. Can't believe it myself) 'Your Protector'. Words can't do the song justice, so I merely implore you to give it a listen. And I defy you not to be filled with emotion by the end. I will even tell you that in the infancy of our relationship, for my girlfriend and me, this was 'Our Song'.

The album's first disc (oh, didn't I mention there was a second disc? Yes, there is, and we will come to this in due course. Have patience) comes to a close with two more brilliant tracks, 'Blue Ridge Mountains' and 'Oliver James'. Both contain the haunting harmonies that flow and persevere throughout the entire record. The latter is nothing but vocals and minimal musical accompaniment.

Right, disc two. This is essentially one of their earlier EPs included because it contains the most successful of their UK singles (reaching the shamefully low peak of 51 in the charts), 'Mykonos'. This is yet another gem of a song.

There it is then. Go and buy the album, listen to it and be amazed. In fact, with the cold weather upon us, this album is the perfect antidote as it will give you a warm feeling by the time you've listened to it all the way through.

Thank you for reading.

Incredibly Exclusive!!!

What you are about to read is an excerpt from one of my many started then abandoned writing projects. I have about six or seven of them kicking about, and after an initial burst of creativity, the concentration wanes, then Television or Facebook take over, and then I lose interest, or the next idea has taken over... It's a never ending cycle really, and I really ought to break it and actually finish something for a change!!

Anyway, please cast your eye over what follows and feel free to pass comment either positively or, if you so wish, you can leave some constructive criticism. Which means you can't call me any rude words or just call it rubbish. You have to tell me WHY it's rubbish, or why you think it's justified to call me a rude word.

So, make sure you are sitting comfortably, and I shall begin... (also, this idea is still so much in it's infancy, I have not deemed it necessary to give it a proper title - the file name on my conputer is simply "Another novel idea". And it's in a different font, so you know where it ends too. I'm helpful like that.

Chapter 1

The winter sun set behind the hills as I drove home from work. I fumbled around for my sunglasses in the glove compartment. Finally, after littering the passenger seat with various pieces of rubbish and CD cases, I put my hands on them. Emitting a sigh of relief, I used my mouth to open the arms and put them on my face.

Oh, for fucks sake!” My vision was now impaired by a huge scratch on one lens. I angrily ripped them from my face and flung them on the passenger seat. I took a quick glance at the road, then fumbled around for a CD. I put my hands on ‘The Best of The Stone Roses’ and nimbly opened the case and slid the CD into the stereo. As the familiar sounding intro to ‘I Wanna Be Adored’ filled the speakers, I turned the volume up a few notches. I turned my attention back to the road in time to see the traffic in front ground to a halt. As my swearing mingled with the rumbling bass of the music, I rammed my foot on the brakes and eventually came to a halt amidst squealing tyres just millimetres from the car in front. I sat there gasping for air and sweating profusely. I opened the window for some air and turned the fans on to cold air and full blast. 

I drove slowly the rest of the way home. I finally pulled up outside my parent’s suburban bungalow. I stuffed the various bits of rubbish back in the glove compartment and slammed it closed before the things could topple back out again. I picked my bag off the floor where it had been thrown by the earlier braking manoeuvre and removed the key from the ignition. I sat in silence for a moment, then, taking a deep breath, got out of the car and, having locked the door, walked up the driveway and round the back. There were no cars on the drive, so both mum and dad were most likely out. Probably just as well, I thought as I shut the gate behind him. As I rounded the wall, I heard the dog barking and scratching at the French windows. I let myself in with my key and made a fuss of the dog, scratching her tummy and rolling balls for her to chase. Leaving the dog spread-eagled on the floor, I got up and made myself a cup of coffee and cut a piece of birthday cake left over from my sister Marie’s birthday at the weekend. It was still tasty, but was now beginning to dry out a bit. I peeled the icing off and dropped some cake on the floor for the dog, who greedily ate it up. Glancing at the clock, and seeing it was almost quarter to six, I went and got changed. 

This had pretty much been my routine for the last three months, ever since my wife, Lucy, decided to screw me over with her boss. It was still bitter, but as far as I was concerned I was better off out of it. To think I was considering having a child with her was frightening on reflection. Now she was living in my house with her boss, causing me all sorts of grief, and I was reduced to living out of my old bedroom after almost six years away. My confidence was shot to pieces and I couldn’t see a way out. It was a good job my family were supportive, and my friends too, as there were many times I considered ending it all. Sinking into a pit of depression and alcoholism had been all too easy, but thankfully, I was on my way up. For now, anyway. I had never told anyone about the time I sat on my bed with a glass of vodka, feeling low. I had emptied the glass and smashed it against the wall. Then taking a shard of glass, I held it over my wrist and paused. Luckily, I was far too afraid of dying to actually go through with it. Now I can look back at that moment and I know my life was supposed to go on. Maybe I had a reason. All I know is that I’m glad I didn’t slice my wrists open. And so are my loving family. If only they knew.

But anyway, as I got changed, I read the newspaper from front to back, reading the sports pages in detail. Having been on her own for a while, the dog was lying by my bedroom door looking sorry for herself. It was a Friday, and I needed to do something. Having got changed, I ran through my mobile phone contacts, texting my mates to see if anyone fancied a night out. Jim, Dave, Mike, Rick and Phil. Slowly, over the next half hour, they all replied in the negative. Looked like it was just me. Never mind, there was enough for me to do on my own in town.

......

etcetera, etcetera...

Any good you think?