Charlie Williams's Blog, page 14

GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part 8"

(A story in n parts. Part one here)

'I don't think you understand, Jock,' I says, staring at the corpse.

It were quite interesting because no blood were coming out of where he'd rammed the stake. I knowed it were dead quite a while now, and the blood dried up or replaced by special vampire blood or summat, but it were still a strange sight to see.

'It's you who disnae understand, Royston,' says Jock, sharpening another stake. 'You and all the other cunts aroond here. I'm giving you a chance, here. If you come in with me noo, and help me do what must be done, yis'll be a hero. The world will praise the name of Royston Blake, who wis the assistant of James McCrae, the great vampire eradicator.'

'No, I'm on about the hearse, Jock. I don't think you understand how much I needs it. It ain't just the pulling power them hearses have got, I could also do with the space in the back. When I goes on holiday I takes a lot o' gear, know what I mean? Who's this James McCrae, by the way?'

Jock had the half bottle of Bells out again, uncapping it and taking a swig. He held it out to us, spilling a bit. 'Yis'll need this.'

I frowned at it. 'Don't take this the wrong way, Jock, but I'm gonna say no this time. I got refined taste buds, see, and you can damage em if you drinks cheap shite like this. I drink Famous Grouse or fuck all.'

'It's no for yis taste buds, ye wee fuckin' bampot - it's to line yis blood. Vampires cannae drink blood that is lined with Bells whisky, which is a holy spirit.'

I took it and had a closer gander. 'Is that what they mean, then, when they're on about holy spirits in prayers and that?'

'Aye it's what they mean. It's a coded message - they're tryin' tae send us a public warning aboot protection from vampires. They dinnae want us to know the full facts, Royston. But I found them. And do yis ken what? I'm no standin' for it. Nor are yis.'

I sniffed the whisky, wondering who the fuck Ken is. Seemed to be a lot of folks I didn't know tied up in this. 'Cos when they says the holy spirit,' I says, getting back to the subject of prayers, 'I always pictured a massive ghost, with a big white sheet and—'

'Drink up, will yis!'

I necked some whisky. I'll be frank with you and say that Jock were making me a bit nervous. But he didn't half know a lot, didn't he? I found it amazing how he'd worked all this shite out on his todd. And him foreign. 'This Bells ain't so bad, Jock, once you gets used to it. Got any more?'

'Aye I got more. I got these wee fuckers.'

He were sat on a small chest of drawers, and he reached down and pulled the top one right out and dumped it on the floor. Inside was about a dozen wooden stakes like the ones I'd seen so far. He pulled the other two drawers out and they was full of em too.

'These are the tools of battle, Royston,' he says, picking one up and holding it aloft, like he wanted it blessed by the strip light he had up there. 'With these, and the Bells, there's no stopping us. The evil ones widnae stand a fuckin' chance.'

'I been thinkin' about that, Jock,' I says, draining the bottle. 'These evil ones, or badgers of the night or whatever, where exactly are they? I mean, is you saying they'm all in that place where I got the hearse? Cos I gotta tell you - I been watching that place a while now, eyeing up that hearse of theirs, and I don't see much coming and going.'

'Och, no – that place is the inner sanctum.' He got a couple of carrier bags and started stuffing them with stakes while he talked. 'Him in there, he's the queen fuckin' bee o' the entire operation. We'll deal with that cunt last, dinnae you fuckin' worry. First, we've the drones tae deal with. We eradicate them, and the queen fuckin' bee, and the whole evil hoose of cards will collapse. See, when the vampire who turned yis into a vampire gets destroyed, youse gets destroyed too.'

'Eh? I gets destroyed?'

'No, the hypothetical youse, yis fuckin' eejit. Now come oan.'

He grabbed the bags, now stuffed with about eight stakes apiece, unlocked the door and peered out, looking left and right and up towards the sky, which were now black like I couldn't recall ever seeing it. He handed me one of the bags. 'Take these,' he says. 'Yis drive the fucker under the ribcage, angling it like so. Reet? Then stand well back and watch him turn tae dust before yis very eyes.'

I looked over me shoulder at the one stretched out on the bench. 'So, erm, how come that one there never...?'

But Jock had bailed out, leaving the door swinging behind him.

I followed.

'You got a map or summat?' I says, catching up with him. He were crossing the road, heading back the way we'd come. 'I mean, say we get split up, we gotta know where the drones—'

'The drones are all in the one place. You dinnae need a fuckin' map.'

'Aye but we still might get split up. The coppers'll be... erm, Jock?'

He'd turned off the road into the frontage of one of them condemned houses with the boarded up windows. Looking more close, it were only the front window that were boarded, the rest being unsmashed glass. And it weren't a warning sign out front but a blue and white notice saying POLICE.

'From now oan, shut yis mooth,' Jock hissed, sweeping through the crime scene tape. 'Reet?' He picked up a half-brick and smashed the window of the side door with it, then stuck his arm through and let himself in, holding a stake high.

(Come back next week for more...)

GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part 7"

(A serialised story. Part one here)

'Blake,' says Rache, 'what the hell are you playin' at?'

'I'm just creating a... I mean, I'm just singing 'You Don't Have to Say You Love Me', by Elvis Presley.'

'But why are you... are you drunk or summat? It's Dusty Springfield, by the way.'

'It's fuckin' Elvis, Rache. I got it at home on one of me Elvis tapes.'

'Yeah but it was originally...' She stopped there cos I'd just opened the passenger door, and she had to lean back onto her side while I climbed in. 'Um, Blake, I didn't really mean for you to—'

'Smart motor, this,' I says, testing to wipers. They worked alright. 'What is it?'

'Eh? Oh, it's just an old Mitsubishi. Blake, you need to—'

'Good cars, them. You can't go wrong with German motors.' I tried the fag lighter and that worked as well. Not as fast as the one in the hearse, mind. 'Got a fag, Rache?'

'Oi, Peewee!' came another shout from outside. 'Where's you gone, Peewee Herman?'

'I'll fuckin...' I went for the handle, still deciding what I'd fucking do to Michael Ballot when I got him. But Rache got my arm and held it.

She were strong for a good-looking lass with quite big tits.

'Leave it, Blake,' she says in that same calming tone she always had, except when she were having a pop at us. 'Just look at me. Listen to me.'

'Who the fuck's this Herman feller, Rache?'

'Never mind about him. Tell me what's been going on.'

I found myself spilling the beans about it all, right down to Jock and his lad being killed by a vampire. I left out the bit about Alvin and his petrol habit, mind. Rache loved her kebabs and I wouldn't want her fretting that they wasn't available no more, Alvin going off the rails. All the while I stared down at me lap, watching meself go from stirring to not so stirring. By the time I'd got to the bit about Little Royston being a victim of the vampires and all, I could hardly see my cock at all. I rummaged around between me thighs and found it again.

'Oh, Blakey,' she says, touching my cheek and gazing at us with eyes that was moist and tender, like pickled eggs. 'When are you gonna see the big picture?'

I weren't entirely sure what she meant by that, but I had an idea it were about me finally giving her one, the big picture being her with her kit off and ready to go. In short, she were putting herself on a plate for us, and you got to grab moments like them when they arises. I grabbed her hand from my cheek and brung it down to groin level, winking at her.

'Um, do you want summat to wear?' Rache says, breaking free and reaching for the back seat.

'Eh? I thought you—?'

'You really ought to wear summat.'

'I'm alright, Rache. I left me gear over there, and—'

'I think you'll find it's gone now.'

I looked over by the Youth Centre wall and, true enough, gone was my strides and trolleys and other garments. 'The thieving fucking—'

'Here, put this on.' She dumped some sort of pink anorak in me lap. 'It's better than nothing.'

I picked it up, trying to find the words to tell her I'd rather scalp meself than wear a garment that is pink. That's when I heard the sirens. Behind us, in front and on all sides, by the sounds of em.

I opened the door and jumped out.

'Blake!' she yells after us, like as not disappointed that yet another chance to get shagged by Royston Blake had gone begging. But she'd have to wait – I had business to attend to.

The first blue flashing lights hoved into view up ahead as I vaulted the wall, near crushing me knackers but only sustaining some minor scrotum laceration in the event. I shouldered through the entrance doors of the Youth Centre, ignoring screams and shouts and running up stairs and kicking doors down and getting a bit lost, quite frankly. Right about the time I heard the walkie-talkies somewhere downstairs I found a window that opened. I stuck my head out and there were a nice drainpipe leading you down to an astro turf pitch, or summat. Taking it nice and careful, I climbed out and got a good grip of the pipe, then let go the window ledge. Straight away the pipe gave way and I went down, landing arsewise on the pitch with a load of guttering shrapnel raining down on us. Stung like a bastard, my arse did on that astro turf, and I had to rub both cheeks for fully half a minute while a jogged out the back and down the road there.

It were getting dark now and lights was coming on, but there weren't many on this street. Up ahead I could see a humpback bridge that took you over the canal. I needed to hide for a bit and get me swede straight, and under that bridge seemed like a good spot. Rain were starting to spit as well, and I could shelter down there. I seemed to have brung Rache's pink anorak along. Fuck knows how I hadn't dropped it in all that turmoil in the Youth Centre but here it were, clenched in my sweaty paw like a keepsake from better times. I found it comforting, having that anorak with us. I pulled it on, savouring the hint of perfume and stale fag smoke.

'Och, that suits you, Royston,' says Jock, stepping out from behind a Fiesta up on bricks.

'You cheeky cunt,' I says, going to pull off the anorak but not. It were getting well parky. 'Fuck's you doing down here? Was you spying on us?'

'Didnae mean to make yis jump – my apologies.' He got a half bottle of Bells from his pocket and swigged from it. 'I said I'd pick yis up roond the back, though, reet?'

'You never made us jump, I just...'

But he were off, down an alley behind the Fiesta and past some manky allotments and the backs of houses I hadn't looked at or thought about in donkeys. Pretty soon we was in a road I didn't recognise, though the moon were bright and gibbous and washing everything in a silver light that made you wonder if you was in a dream. One side were terraced houses, half of them condemned by the looks of em and with windows boarded up and warning signs outside. Other side were lock-ups and a vacant forecourt with weeds growing up out of it. Jock's burger van were parked in the corner.

'Where's my hearse?' I says. 'You said you'd get her started and—'

'It's no yours anyhow. Belongs to them vampires.'

'But—'

'Shut yis mooth and get in here.' He unlocked the van door and climbed in, then leaned out again. 'I've something to show yis.'

He smiled. I didn't like that smile. It made us want to walk away, pulling Rache's anorak tighter around us and sinking into her warmth and comforting smells. But I had to go on. I had to follow the path, though it were dark and rubble-strewn and with strange things lurking in dingy corners. I had to find out if that path led to Little Royston. Or the cunts who had swiped him.

I climbed aboard.

To one side of the van were a bench, about six long and two wide. The dead one from the coffin in my hearse were stretched out upon it, legs and arms stiff and face grey. Jock's sharpened stick from earlier were planted six inches deep in his chest.

'This one here ain't wakin' up, the neet,' says Jock, locking the door behind us.


(Come back tomorrow for the next bit...)

GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part 6"

(A serialised story. Part one here)

'Did yis get that?'

'Aye.'

'Did yis, though? Ye cannae fuck this up, Royston.'

'Nah, I'm alright, Jock, just a bit... Why'd you want us to do this, again?'

'I need youse to create a distraction. Over there, away from this hearse. Youse do that and I'll take care o' Mr. fuckin' Vampire here. So go oan. I'll meet yis roond the back and pick yis up. OK?'

'Aye, aye... and you'll can get my hearse started, right? I need this hearse, Jock. I'm off on holiday, see. Thought I'd go to—'

'I'll get yis fuckin' hearse started. Now go oan.'

'Right you is, Jock. Right you...'

I were still in a bit of a daze, truth be telled. About everything Jock had just telled us, like. I'd only picked up the odd word here and there but it had been enough. Enough to know I'd been right all along about that place where they kept the hearse being a bit odd, and the bloke in it who I'd decked being a vampire. Enough to know I weren't alone. Enough to know I had to put me own wossnames aside for the minute and do exactly like he'd said, down to the fucking letter. Which in this case is a big S.

Cos Jock were ahead of the game, vampire-wise.

He were so far ahead of the game I reckon he'd lapped it a couple of times.

I says a big S there, but I gotta admit I weren't convinced. If I'd heard it right, it were a fucking top idea in terms of creating a distraction. So top that I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. Mind you, I'd best see if it works first. And to that end, as I went round the front of the grid and onto the pavement, I started getting ready, loosening my top shirt buttons and humming the first couple of bars.

While I'm doing that I might as well bring you up to wossname on what Jock had telled us, about the secret life he'd been leading these past few years. See, while everyone thought he were just doing the burgers, he were actually keeping Mangel safe from creatures of the night. And I'm on about vampires, not badgers, though they can also be a menace. Apparently, right, five percent of Mangel's population is vampires right now, though you wouldn't know it if you just went about your daily life and stayed home nights. But if you keep unsociable hours, like Jock with his van parked up Frotfield Way to cater for all the ravers coming out of Rockefellers, you got the full picture. And Jock had seen it... right down to his very own son getting snatched from out of his van by a giant vampire bat, who carried him up to the roof of Rockefellers and turned back into human form, then feasted on the poor youngun's blood. Ever since that moment Jock had dedicated his life to getting revenge, learning all about how they operate, what their weaknesses is and where they doss during the day. Which turns out to be the place where they keep the hearse.

I think that's what he said, anyhow.

Who could blame the poor cunt, though? I'd be doing same if my lad had got snatched by some evil cunts who can turn into bats. Hey, maybe that were what happened to him? All I knowed is Little Royston had gone missing a few years back, presumed snatched by an evil witch who wanted to bring him up as her own. Who's to say it weren't a vampire what got him? And the more I thought about it, the more I could see how it had to be the case. I mean, fifty fucking percent of the Mangel population, Jock had said. That's about a quarter of the people in town. With them kinds of odds staring you in the face, you just know. Do you know what I mean? I knew what I meant anyhow, even if you don't, you thick cunt. And right there and then, as I stepped up onto the wall of the Youth Centre and removed my final garment, which were my trolleys, I swore a solemn oath that I'd rid Mangel of all creatures of the night. Except badgers. And hedgehogs.

'When I said... I neeeeded you...'

Personally I ain't got a problem with nudity. Not in meself and not in others, so long as them others is birds. When it's meself getting togless, like I were now, I look at it as a great opportunity to show birds what I got, and how much better I am than other blokes. They don't like it, other blokes don't, cos it makes them look bad and opens their girlfriends' and wives' eyes to what they could be getting if they had a man like me. But that ain't my problem. My problem, as set by Jock the vampire hunter just now, were to create a distraction using the S word - namely stripping. He'd also suggested singing 'You Don't Have to Say You Love Me' by Elvis Presley at the top of my voice, which I thought were a nice touch.

'You said you... would aaaalways stay...'

And I'll tell you summat – it were working like a fucking dream. Not only did I have every set of eyes in that traffic jam turned in my direction just then, enabling Jock to get on with his vampire hunting business in peace, but I were also quite enjoying meself. And my audience were as well. They was taking photos and getting out their motors and cheering and whistling and everything.

'It weren't me... who chaaaanged, but you... and—'

'Oi, Peewee Herman!' one of em shouted. I think it were Michael Ballot from the hairy factory.

'Herman who?' I shouted back. He were alright, Michael Ballot. Bit of a cunt, mind.

'I says Peewee Herman! You, with yer fuckin' peewee out!'

'Eh? Fuck d'you mean by that?'

'Blake.' This one were more nearer, one of the motors on the gutterside who had the best view. Also it were a bird's voice. And sort of whispered, but loud. 'Blake,' it went again.

I still hadn't let Michael Ballot off the hook but I did a quick scan of the motors nearest us, latching onto one that had a bird leaning out of it and showing a bit of cleavage. I felt meself stirring down there and went to cover meself up, then noticed who it were.

'Alright, Rache?' I says, going over and not bothering to cover meself up no more. I'd always felt at ease with Rache.


(Come back on tomorrow for the next bit...)

GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part 5"

(A serialised story. Part one here)

'Look, Blakey,' Alvin were saying, eyes looking every direction but Blakewards, 'I don't want you to take this the wrong way, right? I mean, I reckon it's a common mistake.'

The main problem with having a shunt on the Wall Road is that it is a busy road, and if it's daytime, like this were, you're in for a traffic jam. As in fifty-odd motors nosing the arse of your hearse, which has got a vampire in it.

'Fuck you on about?' I says, trying to stare out fifty irate drivers.

'I'm just sayin'... well, I reckon you got a slight gap in your, erm...'

'Alv, spit him out or you'll be feeling the back of my hand. Plus the front and sides of it. And the front of my head.'

'Alright, well, can I just ask you a simple question? Without you taking offense to it, I mean.'

'When have I ever took offense to summat? I'm a fuckin' head doorman, fuck sake. High-ranking security staff, it is vital that we look at things subjectively.'

'What, in your opinion, is an 'earse for?'

'Eh?'

'A hearse, Blakey. Type of vehicle you've crashed here, what is it used for? Bread vans is for carrying bread, post vans is for carrying letters and that... what's a hearse for?'

Fuck knows why he'd been fretting over me hitting him. I were more worried about him than lairy at him. I mean, were he going senile or summat?

'Alv,' I says, all gentle and like I were talking to a small youngun, one who can't tie his own laces yet and has got snot running out of both nostrils, the dirty fucking bastard, 'Alv, hearses are taxis. They're just posh taxis with a bit o' space in the back, for posh folks, like. There's no great mystery, my little friend.' I reached out to ruffle his hair. He tried to flinch away but I grabbed an ear and reeled him in, then did the ruffling. 'You dozy fuckin' twat,' I says all affectionate.

'Alright,' he says when I let him go, 'so, the place you got this hearse from, what do they do there, in your opinion?'

'Posh taxi firm, ennit?' I says, shrugging.

I were more interested in them backed-up motors, realising that they made things a bit difficult here. If it were dark it would be alright, but it were blazing fucking midday sun, give or take a couple of hours, and it were like I were under the spotlight and they was my audience. A fucking pissed-off audience, going by some of their faces. I stepped towards them, watching fifty drivers shrink back in horror. Fucking chickens, the lot.

'It's a funeral parlour, Blakey,' says Alvin, his voice getting fainter and somehow more distant. 'And hearses is like taxis in a way, but for deadfolk. For ferrying em to funerals and that.'

Taxis for deadfolk? Things was worse than I'd thought, regarding Alvin and his swede problems. If I'd had a moment to think on it I'd have said he'd been swigging petrol. I'd seen a few go down that route over the years and Alvin were exhibiting all the signs. It's a fucking mug's game, petrol is, and you'll end up penniless and in the gutter. Save your money and get some creosote instead - it's way fucking cheaper. But like I suggested, I had other matters going on. Like fifty motors turning into seventy.

'This ain't so good,' I says, rubbing me chin. 'I'll be honest with you, Alv, and tell you that I dunno what the fuck to do next. So if you got any suggestions, short of just pegging it, I'm all ears.'

I thought about that a moment. 'Actually, shall we just...? Alv? Alv, where the...?' I peered up the other way, clocking his white kebab man coat flapping around his legs as he hared round the bend up there into Clench Road.

Haring up and down Clench Road - another classic sign of petrol-induced dementia.

Right about then, as these advanced trains of thought was tearing around my swede like Orient Expresses bombing full tilt towards Orient (which is in Wales, I think) Jabba the Hutt were prizing himself out the crumpled rear of his van. Meaning Jock the burger man.

I went to catch him as he gained his footage and let go the van door. That's the former doorman in me coming into play, the highly refined reflexes that can spot a paralytic drunk at fifty yard and step in just before he keels over and slams skull on dancefloor, then drag him out and kick him into the gutter, angling him so he lands facewise and gets a bit of gravel rash to take the edge off his hangover. But Jock weren't like that. He like as not were drunk, stinking of Bells like he done, but when I grabbed his arm he seemed more steady even than the Igor Statue, which stands proud to one end of the High Street, representing all the values summed up by some local cunt from olden times named Igor. 'Get yis fuckin' paw oaf us,' he says.

For fuck sake, I thought. Is it gonna be like this now? Cos I didn't have an interpreter no more, did I?

'Look,' I says, 'I ain't got the first fucking bit of a clue what yer sayin', Jock.' Cos you cannot beat around the bush with these people. 'Can you talk more slower, like? And with more English words in it?'

In response he did summat with his arm, shaking it free of my grip and sending us backwards a bit. But not so far like it were pushing me. I mean, fucking come on - we're talking about Royston Blake here, versus a fat Scottish cunt who came about up to my armpit... and who were climbing into my hearse just then. I got up and went over, brushing the dust off my arse.

'I want you to understand summat, Jock,' I says, leaning in. He were in the driver seat, fucking around with my cruise control buttons. I think that's what they was anyhow. 'First off, I am the hardest pound for pound former doorman in Mangel, which means you do not fucking do summat with yer arm that makes us fall over. Not in front of eighty-odd folk, like we got here, and not even in front of no folk. Second off, stop fucking around with the controls and get out my fuckin'--'

'Thus is a fuckin' raight-oaf,' he says.

I thought about that, watching him toy with the key in the ignition. 'I gotta say, Jock, that is a fucking odd thing to say. The controls of my hearse are right oafs? Eh?'

'Ye wee fuckin'... I should leave youse to yis ain devices, is what ah shid dae. But ahm a compassionate man, Royston. Ah'll tell youse the truth here - when I look at youse, I dinnae see the typical breed o' cunt yis see aroond here. Yis is a cunt, true enough, but no through yis ain doing. Yis is a product of yis environment, is what yis is.'

'The fuck is this "yis" bollocks?' I says. Cos it seemed to be an important word in his language.

I started wondering if he weren't getting at summat deep, and that I'd be missing a trick here if I didn't start getting his drift. Lot of them foreigners can be quite spiritual, after all. Like Demis Roussos.

'Do you mean like ying and yang?' Cos I'd read about that once. It means where you get two things that look like sperms, one black and one white, one upside-down and the other the right way up. If that ain't deep, fuck knows what is. 'Are you trying to say yis and yang, Jock? Like a version of ying and yang but slightly different, with one of the sperms having a longer tail, perhaps?'

'Do youse even realise the problem yis have got here?' he says, totally ignoring what I'd just said. 'Hem in the coafin back there, do yis ken who that is?'

I were starting to understand him a bit better now. Yis meant "you", for example. It's amazing how good I were with languages. Put us in front of a fucking Chinaman and I'll have him worked out in half an hour. Mind you, it's much harder with your Scotchmen.

'Look,' I says, 'if yer gonna give us the spiel about funerals and shite, I've just heard it, mate. Here, have you and Alv been supping petrol in the back of that--?'

'Shut yer stupid face a minute, will yis?' he says, reaching into his anorak and rummaging amongst the folds of flesh he had in there. Couple of seconds and he pulls out some sort of stick. One end were sharpened and looked quite dangerous, actually. 'Him in that coafin, he's a fuckin' vampire.'


(Come back on Tuesday for the next bit...)

Royston Blake on tour - an aside

No installment today, in case you were wondering. For some reason I find it hard to write at weekends and bank holidays, so Blakey remains stuck on the Wall Road with a vampire in the back of his pranged hearse. Come back after the Easter break to find out what happens next. I'm quite curious myself.

Talking of which, yes, I am writing this freestyle (ie no outline), which is how I nearly always do it. Mind you, I usually have the luxury of a few read-throughs of the finished piece before showing it to the world, which I don't get here. Luxuries go out the window in these straightened times.

GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part 4"

(A serialised story. Part one here)

I loves driving. Ever since I were old enough to drive - aged nine - I always appreciated the special magic that is created when man gets behind wheel. There's only two other things I can compare it to - shagging and having a dump. But it sets itself apart from them two.

It's pure, driving is.

You don't have to wipe your arse afterwards and you don't have to fart and roll over, then wake up a few hours later with your cock dried to the sheet. With driving, it's man and machine in total harmony, teaching the world to sing. You're in a different world when you're bombing along like that, one hand on the wheel and the other behind the passenger headrest, fag in mouth, pushing sixty up the Wall Road and not a fucking worry in the world. For that brief moment, I swear you come a bit closer to heaven. Then some cunt in a van pulls into the fast lane, and you plough right into the fucking back of it.

A while ago I were telling you about Jock the burger man, him who used to flip and flog bits of gristle out the side of a van in Frotfield Way. You can guess what I'm gonna say next, can't you, you being a clever fucker? That's right - the bloke I'd just slammed backwise into weren't Jock, but some other fucker entirely. In fact, now I came to get out of my hearse, and puff my massive chest out as I went up to exchange insurance details, I realised that it was Alvin.

Of Kebab Shop & Chippy fame.

But, right, he were in Jock's burger van.

'Alright, Alv,' I says, opening his door for him.

He were rubbing his neck and not turning it in my direction. 'I got whiplash,' he says.

'You pull a stunt like that again, hauling in front of me at 30mph on the Wall Road, I'll give you fucking arselash.'

'But it's a 30mph zone, Blakey.'

'Exactly. You're meant to go a bit over, not stick to it like a fucking granny in a wheelchair.'

'But you was doin'--'

'More to the fucking point, Alv, what the fuck is you doing in Jock's burger van?'

'I got a new line o' work, ain't I?'

'Since when?'

'Since I beat Jock at cards last night. You know that arselash you was on about? Tell you what, I reckon I got a bit already. This seat's shot.'

'Jock's a big lad.'

'Erm, I'd describe him more as big boned, and--'

'Bollocks, he's a fat fuckin' bastard who eats more burgers than he flogs. Tell you what - I seen him once flip a burger in the air and catch the fucking thing in his gob, swallowing it whole. He's like Jabba the fucking Hutt with glasses on. Even his glasses is fat. You seen the lenses? Fucking two inch thick they is.'

'Erm...' Alvin didn't seem to know what to say, prefering to hoik a thumb behind him and cover his face.

I leaned over to see where he'd been pointing to. 'Oh, alright Jabba?' I says, noticing him there. 'I mean Jock.'

He didn't reply. Always were a quiet one, Jock. I think it's cos of him being foreign.

Sight of Jock and Alvin in the same place had brung a sudden and violent hunger to me guts like I'd never known. 'Listen, lads,' I says, backing out and thinking of the chippy round the corner, 'I'd love to stay and have a chat with you, but--'

'Hang oan,' says Jock. I think that's what he said anywhow. 'Whit are yis doing in that funeral car there?'

I looked at his fat face for a bit, thinking hard about it, then says to Alvin, 'Do you know what the fuck he's saying?'

'Yis fill will fuckin' ken whit am sayin' tae yis, Royston. Yis have jist crashed a filly laiden hearse intae ma van. Yis have spilt the fuckin' coafin, ya wee daft preck.'

After a bit of silence I nudged Alvin. 'Did he just swear at me?'

'I reckon we should just go and have a look, Blakey.'

'I ain't having cunts swearin' at me, Alv. Not even in foreign.'

Alvin was already getting out of the van, taking a wide berth around me and pottering off towards my hearse. I found it embarrassing to be in a one to one situation with Jock and no interpreter, so I gave him a thumbs-up and went off to join Alvin, who were peering into the back of my new motor. I were more interested in the front meself. Grill were hanging off and one beam gone, and the hood had popped up and wouldn't latch down proper. 'For fuck's fuckin' sake,' I said.

'Can I just ask why you've got this?' says Alv, looking like he'd rather be deep-frying his cock than having this conversation. 'I mean, are you working for them now, or what?'

'This ain't work, Alv. this here is for my holiday. I'm off on an expensive caravan holiday.'

He glanced behind the hearse, maybe wondering where the caravan were. He could be thick sometimes, Alv could. 'Fair enough,' he says, 'but, I mean, where'd you get it from? Were it Joslin's Funeral Dir--'

'Fuck sake, Alv... do it matter? I got her from a place up by Vomage Park. Fucking creepy place, as it turns out, but I'll tell you about that in a mo. Anyways, I've had me eye on her a while now, seeing her going in and out of there a few times over the years. Tell you what, Alv, she's going to waste there. Every time I seen her, she's going about 10mph. Do you realise what this engine here is capable of?'

'Erm,' he were saying. Ignoring us, quite frankly, but I let it pass, considering what happened next. 'There's a coffin back here, Blakey. And it's... well, it's fell over a bit, and the lid's come off and...'

I weren't harking him no more. I didn't have to cos I were clocking it for meself, seeing a leg hanging out and a size ten patent leather shoe on the end of it, ankle stiff like a mannequin. 'Shite,' I says. 'Fuckin', fuckin' shite.'

'Look, Blakey, it's alright. We'll just pop him back in and take the hearse back to--'

'That ain't the problem, Alv. You dunno the half of it. See, back at the place I got this hearse, well, I sort of had a little scrap with... And I swear I fuckin' never noticed this fuckin' coffin when I climbed aboard. Do you really reckon I'd have drove off in her, knowing there's a...? Ah, shite. Shite.'

'Blakey, what's you tryin' to say?'

I looked at Alv. It were the most serious look I'd ever gave anyone, cos right here I had a problem like no other I'd ever head, and I were being forced to share it with him. 'That ain't no normal corpse, Alv,' I says. 'It's a fuckin' vampire.'

(Come back tomorrow for the next bit...)

GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part 3"

(Read Part Two here)

When I say Count Dracula, I'm talking about a bloke who looks like Dracula. I ain't thick, you know, and I realise it weren't really him. The real Dracula lives in Transylvania, so far as I know, which is in Scotland. Only jock I ever knowed in Mangel were the one used to have the burger van in Frotfield Way. Jock, his name were. But this one here, this bloke who had just waltzed into the place where they had the hearse, he didn't half look like Dracula. That's all I'm trying to say, for fuck sake.

'What the hell are you doing in here?' he says, stopping dead when he clocked us. And when I say dead, I mean he looked like a dead man. So much so that he had me reconsidering all I just said about Dracula and Scotland, but not the bit about Jock the burger man. (And if you're wondering why the fuck I keep going on about him, it's cos he comes into it in a bit. So keep your fucking hair on.)

The feller were looking at me, eyes all glassy and skin that way and all, waiting for an answer. But I couldn't come up with one, no matter how hard racked me swede. 'What's the fucking question again?' I says.

'I said what are you doing here? This is a private area. Do you have a deceased here?'

I had an answer now. 'Disease?' I says, feeling the hackles rise. 'You saying I got a fucking disease?'

'I'm asking if you--'

I cut him off. One thing I cannot stand, being a person who has gone through some shite to do with his swede and ended up in a mental hospital for a spell, is people thinking you're a lesser man for it. Like this one here, suggesting I got a mental illness on account of the scars I bear. In a certain light they show up prominent, I've noticed, making it look like I got a thin silver band around me swede, stretching across the forehead and just above the lugs, and this were one of them lights here. And it is true: they did pop my lid off in that ozzie and have a rummage around, looking for fuck knew what and not finding it. But it don't mean I'm barmy, right? And it don't mean I let cunts like Dracula here cast asparaguses about my intelligence. Which is why I cut him off. By giving him a little twock.

And I do mean little, which is why it came as such a surprise when he went down.

But not a bad surprise.

I say not bad because I'd been doing a bit of training of late, just press-ups and pull-ups for the minute, getting the old core strength up to speed again in preparation for summat I can't tell you about, being as it concerns a bit of a career change that must be kept under wraps for professional wossnames. And when the one here went down, it gave us a sign. It telled us that I now had the core strength of the biggest and strongest apple you even seen, and that I were ready for Stage Two. Which were fucking marvellous. As were the next bit that happened, which were that I located the hearse.

I were in summat of a workshop area, with saws and bits of wood and workbenches and wossnames all around. And that had throwed the fuck out of us at first, making us think I were in some sort of carpenter's shop instead of a place they keep the hearse. And then Drac had come in and insulted us before I'd had time to look through that door there in the corner, which I were doing now. And finding the hearse there. Polished up and shining and basically using all her charms to lure me inside her and give her on. I went and tried the door.

It opened.

As did the up-and-over door that gave her access to the yard out back and the streets of Mangel.

'This is a pr... what are you...'

It were Drac again, coming to in the workshop area. I had a glance through and saw him sitting up. His mouth were all mashed and bleeding, streaking his chin and neck. It showed up like black against his skin, which were white and leathery like a handbag our Sal used to have, bless her rotting carcass that is buried up in Hurk Wood. He put a paw to his lips and parted them wide, wincing and flashing a bit of gnasher where it don't have no right to flash, being as it were about an inch clear of his gums. And I gotta tell you right now, I sort of shat meself. Not proper like, but a little bit. Almost. Cos there and then, as I jumped in the hearse and hared off on me hols, admiring the walnut dashboard and savouring the surprising amount of torque the 2.8 V6 ticker delivered despite the hearse being so long and with the big load I'd glimpsed in the back, I realised that vampires truly do exist.


To be fucking continued...

Couple of new covers

GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part Two"

(Read Part One here)

Best time to rob a motor in Mangel is about 5am. Only ones who gets up that early is milkmen, but you don't have to fret over them cos most folks believe em to be thieves anyhow. So I set me alarm for half four and had a little kip. It's always important to get a good kip before a robbery so your nerves are sharp, like them of a fox or a badger. Or Rambo, when he's out in the woods in First Blood, and he's stitching his arm up with one eye and watching out for cunts with the other. But I couldn't manage to prize meself out of me pit at half four, and ended up rolling onto the carpet at about 11. But that's still quite early, so I felt alright as I walked downtown with me robbing gear in a placcy bag.

To the untrained eye, it don't look much like robbing gear. To him - the person with the eye he ain't trained - your classic robbing get-up is a black top and strides, pair of black leather gloves and black mask or summat. I tried that meself once, as a younger man, but I found that folks noticed you and started screaming. Especially when you're in their house and dying for a shit cos of the kebab you had last night from Alvin's, and your trolleys is already round your ankles as you shoulder into the bathroom and the person is in the bath. And she is a bird. And it's broad fucking daylight. After that, and with the screams still ringing in me lugs, I started looking for a new approach to robbing gear. That's when I stumbled upon what I now call the Uniform.

I stopped in the alley behind the place where they kept the hearse and put the Uniform on. It's more of a disguise than a uniform, but it is a uniform as well, being as you're disguised as a milkman. Only problem were that the hat didn't fit right. When I'd first acquired the Uniform, I'd done a bit of research and located what I thought to be the largest milkman in Mangel, but when I jumped him and twocked him and pulled the togs careful like off his deckwise shape, I realised that milkmen is a different breed, and that they're pinheaded streaks of piss. Mind you, if you pull hard enough to can get anything on. I proved that the time when I was pressurised into using a rubber johnny, and I went on to prove it again in the alley behind the hearse place, but with the milkman's hat this time. And on me swede, not me knob.

Then I walked right in the back door.

That is the thing about daytime theft - you can just waltz right in. Not that I can actually waltz. I tried it once with a bird I really fancied, going to a ballroom dancing lesson and everything, but when I bust her ankle I realised I was onto a loser here - no way was I getting in the pit with a bird in a plaster cast. Them things have a certain hum about em that reminds me of hospitals, which I fucking hate. And do you know what? My nostrils picked up a bit of that selfsame whiff as I stepped inside the place where the hearse was kept. It was a fucking ozzie smell, I swear it. But summat else and all. Summat a bit sweet and that made you wanna spill your kebab. Not that I'd had kebab the night prior. I'd had pie and chips down the Pry, same as most nights around that time. But I still wanted to spill the fucker.

I bent double to do just that, fighting against it cos my honking is fucking noisy and some cunt was bound to hear it and rumble us, meaning I'd have to twock them or clear off, thereby kissing a sweet and tender goodbye to my expensive caravan holiday.

That's when Count Dracula walked in.


To be fucking continued...

GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part One"

Like I says, I ain't been in jail. Mangel jail is a place for proper scum, not community pillars like me who sometimes fall a bit foul when they cut a corner in the name of doing the right thing. No, what I thought I'd do, following the success of my campaign wossname and in celebration of my forthcoming memoir, is go on a nice holiday. And by that I don't mean camping in Hurk Wood - I mean a proper, fucking expensive holiday.

In a caravan.

I had it all sorted as well, had me eye on a decent caravan and everything. Nice white one it were, only one previous owner so far as I knew and he were still owning it at the time. What's more, he were always out all day during the week and I knew how to pick the type of padlock he had on the gate, meaning I didn't even have to pay for it. All I needed were summat to pull it with, and we all know the best type of caravan pulling motor, don't we? That's right - your 1983 Ford Granada MkIII hearse. And it just so happened I knowed where they had one.


To be fucking continued...