Craig Stone's Blog, page 10

Last night, a Tony Parsons book saved my life.

This is an extract from Life Knocks. You can buy Life Knocks here: amzn.to/LifeKnocks

This event took place seven years ago, when I was in my mid twenties and a tad more foolish.

I don’t know Tony Parsons, we have never met, he doesn’t know me and this chapter has nothing to do with him directly.

Though, as you will read, his book Man and Boy did save my life. So I thank him for that.

You can buy Man and Boy here:  http://bit.ly/ManAndBoy

December 31 st

…When this guy said he was all about peace he wasn’t talking about peace because his mum never got him the horse he wanted for his eighteenth birthday, he was talking about peace because he’d seen war.

He talked about love because he knew hate; hate for those above him, hate for those he had served with, hate for enemies not born his but who became so and, lastly, hate for himself for how his mind was controlled.

He talked about life and living because he had seen death and had been the cause of it.

I really liked my new giant ginger bearded friend; his life until then had not been his own making, but he was taking it back.

Life is what you fake it.

Night fell; Lily and I danced and drank.

I met a tall old hippy from America dressed like a cowboy and he offered me acid, warned me I should only take one, so I thanked him and took both.

I was sitting on a bench and talking to a Thai guy and he put his arm around my neck. I observed the Thai guy wasn’t drinking alcohol and when I felt his hand on my neck I thought it strange, because we hadn’t been talking for long, and I wasn’t getting a friendly vibe from him.

Behind him on another table he had four other Thai friends, also not drinking; the friends were not dressed for a party in a jungle, they leered across the bar throwing judgemental daggers at inebriated partying revellers.

They looked like they were trying to act like they hoped they were perceived, so they stood out to me in a jungle full of hippies whose basic philosophy is be yourself.

The guy with his hand on my neck laughed and I smiled, but I kept my mind on the sensation of my neck, and felt his fingers moving.

I stared into his eyes and looked into darkness, his eyes were completely black; no pupils at all.

His face was flat, punched by a steamroller, his teeth stained yellow and his moustache thin and wispy.

Eight black chunks of hair rested on the top of his face creating a greasy dark thatch on his head, a spider feasting on his brain gripping his forehead for composure.

My necklace fell from around my neck; it wasn’t worth stealing because it was just a piece of string with a dark blue stone that looked like a heart.

The value was minimal; there was no point in trying to steal it.

I caught my necklace in my hands between my lap, which, situation aside, made me feel pretty cool.

I gave the guy my why are you trying to steal my chain look and he immediately couldn’t speak anymore English. I told him I knew he tried to steal my necklace. He said something in Thai, then stood up and walked away to join his friends.

I wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it and he had four friends with him, so easy come easy go.

It was after the acid kicked in events became challenging.

An hour later I was pleasantly drunk, on acid, Lily and I danced.

My lips smiled into her eyes as we moved to the rhythm of the music. I stared up into trees at fluorescent man-made butterflies, giant mushrooms glowing against large leaves, and felt connected to the night sky above, hugging the edges of belief.

I stared into the stars with a large smile on my face and a sense Lily and I had made it, I could relax, we were dancing in a jungle on acid on New Year’s Eve, we had been apart and reunited, been divided by ocean and land, and overcome the laws of man to be one again.

Nothing could stop us; nobody could take away our bliss in; one more year behind us and a lifetime of years ahead.

The stars were so beautiful above me, so bright and glimmering; I wanted to show them to Lily so I moved my grinning face away from the galaxy, away from the stars and directed my gaze back to her, so I could explain with words what my eyes were describing to me, but Lily was already standing close and staring back at me upset visibly.

I knew instinctively this look was out of the ordinary and something serious had happened because Lily looked vulnerable, and in all our years together I had never seen her look vulnerable.

“The man, the one who tried to take your necklace. He touched me.”

It was raining on her face but the sky was dry.

Lily looked down and indicated the area violated was her lady kingdom.

She looked up and I heard her words loud and clear:

“Do something.”

My mind raced a hundred thoughts in half a second before I gave Lily my response. To Lily, there was no pause, but in my mind I took five years to answer her words, and in that time I had trained naked up a snow covered mountain to become a warrior.

What am I going to do?

I have to do something but, I can’t fight the guy. I mean, shit. Maybe I will have to fight the guy but he’s with at least four tough looking friends and I’m wasted on acid.

What if he knows Thai fighting?

What if he knows any kind of fighting?

Think…think.

You have to do something or your girlfriend is going to think you less of a man, but you also don’t want to get killed.

Shit.

You are on acid, you idiot. What are you going to do? Hug them all to death?

Talk philosophical nonsense about the nature of violence?

You need to answer Lily before her look turns into her storming off and New Years Eve is ruined.

Speak Colossus, say words:

“Let’s go.”

I took Lily’s hand and we walked from the dance floor up to the bar.

As we walked I had no idea what I was going to do; this was my John Wayne moment only I wasn’t a cowboy, a fighter or anything like John Wayne.

I was about to take on five men in what could become a violent altercation on acid knowing if I got punched once in the face I would cry.

As we entered the clearing and the bar area my last thought was simply I had been beaten up before, and from what I remembered it wasn’t that bad.

The bar was busy with chatter, but typically there was a clear and unobstructed view from where Lily and I stood all the way to the bench where this guy sat and laughed with four friends.

There was no escaping this moment.

I had to do something.

I walked toward the men and they stared at me; as I walked the man who touched Lily pointed at me, they all laughed in a clear declaration of war.

Think.

I stopped in the middle of the busy bar area and got the attention of every single person by screaming at the top of my voice:

“Ladies, Gentleman, hippies and festival goers! I have something I need to say to everyone here and it’s very important.”

A crowd of over three hundred people, at various levels of inebriation, stopped what they were doing and stared straight at me.

They waited for me to speak.

That was easy.

I walked up to the man sitting with his group of friends and I pointed straight at him:

“This man does not belong here. He is not part of the party. This man has just sexually assaulted my girlfriend on the dance-floor. This man is not one of us. This man does not belong here, this man is negative energy and if you see him please be on guard!”

The Thai guys sitting on the bench stopped laughing and their smiles turned to looks of horror.

They looked to the floor.

Tried to hide their faces.

They stood from the bench and stormed at speed toward me.

I was going to get hit in the face, probably lots of times.

The crowd, remarkably, jeered them.

The Thai men stopped, surrounded by many; not so sure what to do.

The fight was no longer five on one; this was five against hundreds.

The few people who hadn’t noticed the commotion stopped, turned and watched, not just the bar full of people, but the chill-out area, the people working behind the shops, and the people buying bracelets to remember the night with; they all watched.

Everyone booed the men; the men stared at the crowd, then back at me with wild cuckoo clock eyes.

I stood in a large circle made from friendly faces, with the guy who touched Lily and his angry faced friends.

At least four hundred people joined the circle and booed the men.

A woman screamed for the men to get lost and go away.

Another shouted they weren’t wanted.

A guy screamed you have no place!

Another guy shouted leave the jungle!

I had created an angry mob, made from hippies missing pitchforks.

The men ran.

The circle parted, the men ran out of the circle, down the path, away from the bar, the shops, and the chill out area; into the jungle like cowards.

The man who touched Lily stumbled, as he did the crowd cheered.

Lily squeezed my hand.

“That’s why I love you.”

She said.

We kissed and the crowd cheered; I was a hero, I was brave, I used fists of peace to beat the Thai guys around the heads without using my hands.

We stopped kissing and the crowd applauded me, Lily squeezed my hand and, for a moment, I was king of a little jungle somewhere in Thailand.

Men and women asked Lily if she was okay and congratulated me on how I handled the situation, though the truth was the situation handled me.

Sometimes taking the only option we have, makes us appear to have chosen the right option.

I was glad to not be unconscious on the jungle floor with blood pouring from my ears, but five Thai guys still roamed the jungle, five men waiting for the right time to punch me in the face.

There was no way I could relax.

Not on acid, certainly.

Security guys asked if Lily was okay and she said she was fine and the people who ran the festival checked she was okay, they thought I handled the situation in the best way.

Little did anyone know my brain was a twitching paranoid mess, fearful of retribution for publically embarrassing the festivals equivalent to Biff from Back to The Future.

I was the heel of Achilles. A general; but of the Light Brigade. Samson’s hair removed.

The burnt wings of Icarus.

A fat fish in a thin barrel leaking water, my time running out.

The music turned back on, I realised the DJ had stopped playing music so my words could be heard.

People separated into their own fractions; the party began again.

A beer was handed to me and I tried to relax; tried to forget.

On the stroke of midnight as I kissed Lily and hugged random people my guard dropped and in that one moment, distracted by a year ending and a new one beginning, Thai Biff took his revenge.

A guy smiled at me to the backdrop of wild midnight cheers; we hugged and shouted Happy New Year.

He was smoking and asked if I wanted some, I asked him what it was and he said a spliff.

I gave him some beer and shared some of his spliff.

The second I breathed in I knew it wasn’t a spliff; this tasted of death.

Cold, dead, nothingness. The edges of space.

A child waiting too long outside school gates, unable to see the car crash around the corner.

A dog washed up on shore, drowned by children bored of Playstations.

A bitter taste, flat darkness.

I handed it back and asked him if he was sure it was weed and he laughed and pointed out of the dance floor, to the start of the jungle, to a tree where Thai Biff waved and smiled at me.

I fought an urge to be sick; the jungle span like I was witnessing the party from inside a washing machine, the joy of the acid overpowered; my first steps into unknown footprints.

The guy grabbed my shoulder, his face suddenly right in mine, so close.

No escape.

“Heroin, frieeeend…Herooooinnnn!”

My head fell onto Lily’s shoulder and I muttered weakly take me back to the tent, told her I smoked a spliff and was spinning out; Lily laughed, got me back to our tent, unaware of the incident.

There was little point in worrying her; I just needed to collapse and ride the journey out.

I sat down inside the tent, my brain rushed faster than I could understand what thought to follow, Lily wanted to go back and dance so she returned to the jungle; I was alone inside our tent staring up at the ceiling convincing myself I wasn’t a rabbit.

I had a book and thought if I read the words they might distract my mind from breaking, by putting a dam composed of someone else’s words between my brain and the torrent of rabbits desperately trying to turn me into one of them.

The book was Man and Boy by Tony Parsons and the read saved my life, I read from half past midnight right through till five in the morning, and as each hour past my mind filtered back into my brain, and the rabbits withdrew to some place they’ve stayed ever since.

I was so messed up, but able to focus on one thing exceptionally; once I read the book for the first time I had no memory of what I had read, but I knew I enjoyed the experience immensely and the words kept my mind on beautiful things.

Lily came back to the tent to sleep and as she rested on a pillow a rabbit popped its head over the dam, I stared at the cover of the book and thought I should read it again.

Lily slept, I read the book again, and by the time I finished I was almost feeling normal.

All the rabbits subsided, and my mental dam was plugged with enough carrots to get me well into old age.

Jorge Mario Bergoglio: New Pope. Same Shit Beliefs.

The ancient Cardinal Protodeacon, dressed in a red bathrobe mumbles into a microphone, reminding me of my Dad trying to knit alphabet spaghetti in a cupboard after several bottles of wine.

The Cardinals voice, an exhausted moth caught up in the path of a lawnmower.

Nobody in the crowd, or on any television in the world, can hear a word the Cardinal is saying. Suddenly, and without warning, he stops mumbling, and everybody expects him to finish his sentence.

There is a pause.

Any second now he will announce the name of the new pope.

Turns out, he just had.

The news reporters around the word immediately launch a counter story explaining the crowd are stunned into silence because they’ve not heard of the new pope. Quite right, but the reason they’ve not heard of the new pope, is because they can’t hear the Cardinal, because the Cardinal has a tongue made from mashed potato and the worst nightmares of manipulated children.

The pope waddles slowly toward the edge of the balcony, like all popes walk, like his feet are flippers and his eyes face backwards.

I hear a guy on Sky News saying he met Jorge Mario Bergoglio once and felt the pope had only pure love in his heart. Pure Love: so that confirms it, this is complete nonsense.

I flick over to the BBC, and listen to more emotional rhetoric treating the new pope like he’s God before he’s said or done anything.

And then I realise, I’m watching an advertisement, paid for by the church.

The television cameras show me images of impressionable people let down by life sobbing into the night, everyone holds a candle, and the Vatican looks from above like a Dragon has sneezed mid fart over the ground beneath.

The crowd is completely silent, the kind of silence that starts in the mouth but lives in the eyes.

Somebody say something, because this is more awkward than buying condoms in a supermarket.

As he looks like he’s about to speak, my mind isn’t buying any of it, and starts to wander…

The UK media, the world media even, love to hate a paedophile. They cannot get enough of hating a paedophile. Pretending to protect children buys them love, which keeps their papers in business. Just look at Jimmy Saville, and how that story continues to run. So where is all the constant noise in our media against the catholic church for the systematic raping of young boys? Three billion dollars in compensation has been paid out to the families of boys bum-fucked by sweaty priests in just fifty years. And that is only in America.

That’s not my opinion. That’s fact. The actual number is probably far higher, these are only the recorded figures, dating back to 1950. Before 1950, catholic priests were still putting their dicks into young boys.

I’m sitting on my couch, knowing I’m not very good at maths. Pretty terrible actually, but I wonder if I can get a rough idea of how many kids have been raped in a day by priests in America. Not in the world. Just America, in the last 50 years.

If I say each victim received 50k payout, which, seems fair because the “recorded” abuses go back to 1950, when payments would have been far less. Also, the raping likely goes all the way back to the start of the church. So if I total up all of those abuses and what they should have cost, then add all the unrecorded payouts, then all the payouts that should have happened but never did…Then I think I’m probably being rather lenient.

So, $3billion divided into $50,000 equates to 60,000 children.

60,000 raped children. In fifty years. In America alone.

Now I divide 60,000 raped children (that’s small children, with adult dicks inserted into their arse) by fifty years. Actually, I’ll divide it into the days. Why not?

So there are 18,262 days in fifty years.

Now I divide the number of days in fifty years by the number of innocent children forced into daily situations with true evil disguised as guidance.

Which means, since 1950, in America alone, just over three young boys a day, have had the hands of an old grey wrinkled priest all over their body.

Three boys a day, lives destroyed. Trust in adults gone. Division from parents a probably certainty.

A lot of these boys might only see their catholic priest once a week. So how many boys were being raped every Sunday?

And, of course, that statistic is shocking enough, but it’s completely misleading. Because it doesn’t take into account all of the children who never came forward, nor does it take into account the amount repeat rapes (likely all of them) nor does it take into account the amount of money paid in private never recorded. Nor does it take into account the catholic churches in America that couldn’t pay out because they declared bankruptcy, nor does it take into account any abuse outside of America.

In other countries, where the legal system is not as set, the financial record is harder to trace, if there is one at all.

The old man, this new pope, he’s standing on this balcony now and he’s about to speak. And I realise something, he is the head of the biggest and most “successful” paedophile ring of all time. And just like the police and the media went along with Jimmy Savile in the seventies, they are going along with exactly the same crime today, for exactly the same reasons.

Because it pays well, because the catholic church “does a lot for charity.”

Because the pope, and everyone associated with the catholic church dresses like a twat.

And I realise, the catholic church is just a massive Jimmy Savile.

I stop thinking and focus back on the television, I decide to wait. I should hear what the new pope has to say. Maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe he will use his introduction speech to set down a new vision with one aim, to apologise and start again.

Maybe he will lead us out of these ridiculously stupid times and enlighten us all with a new way of thinking. Take the church from the dark ages and into some sort of relevant place.

The crowd finally roar, waking up to the idea they’ve only been let into the grounds to make the old man look like a God.

He has to say something amazing now, to cover up the most embarrassing entrance by a man with lots of people waiting for him ever.

He would have received a better reception if he’d wandered along the moors at midnight and wandered into a pub called The Slaughtered Lamb. Taken his hat off, and called every drinker in the pub a worthless Yorkshire cunt.

The new pope finally speaks, and the news channels whisper hush, hush planet earth, and everyone listens.

A football match in Germany is delayed.

Everyone is playing along.

Millions of people worship (actually worship!) this old man who leads other old men who all believe God loves only some of his people.

I’m finding this all massively creepy.

I watch as the women in the audience weep at the sight of him. Actually weep.

The same women, who are not allowed to become priests, who seem to have, at no point, stopped to question whether or not that seems a tad pre 1928.

The same women who cannot fall accidentally pregnant.

The same women who are not allowed to use contraception.

Here’s a thought, if the first condom was made in 1920, how could Jesus have said anything against them in the year 313?

Jorge Mario Bergoglio says hello, and the sky news commentator interviews a man who explains the new pope is against gay marriage, but he is an extraordinary voice of conscience. He says it with a completely straight face, and suddenly, one of the best investigative journalists around has become a puppy, and simply nods his head and says how wonderful.

But how can somebody be an extraordinary voice of conscience, if what they believe in condemns so many people?

He’s not an extraordinary anything, he is an old man, carrying old views onto younger people who should be questioning what they are worshipping, rather than bowing their heads because their parents failed to win their own battle against their parents beliefs.

Everyone has, or has had a racist Granddad. Most Granddads have dated views. And understandably, that generation fought in wars. They are two generations old. I understand I will never change that age demographics political stance when it comes to race, women and homophobia, but that doesn’t mean I agree with it. That doesn’t mean I would elect them. Nor would I put them in charge of an operation that influences some of the poorest people in this world to continue hitting the self destruct button…And the last thing I would do, is worship them!

The new pope says thank you for coming, and says he is going now.

That’s it.

He came out. Said hello. Waved. Mumbled. Then said he has to go.

Now he’s gone.

What? Did he have something better to do?

If that was a Justin Bieber concert the entire Vatican would be pulled down, set on fire, and the pope would have to Tweet later that his short appearance would never happen again.

Parents would scream it was a school night, and they let their kids stay up late – angry that all they got was a few minutes of pope time in exchange.

These people queued all day to hear the new pope say he is going inside, and nobody complains.

When a religious body can do no wrong in the eyes of their devoted following, then that religious body can do only wrong and nobody notices.

Two women leaving are asked what they thought of the new pope, and they respond by saying they have no idea who has been elected, because they couldn’t see or hear anything from where they stood.

I wonder if they even went to see the new pope, or if they went to reaffirm to themselves they are good people. Perhaps they wanted to be seen by their neighbours as the same. Perhaps they want to fit in, and be loved.

They have no idea what is going on, Hitler could have been embalmed and put in front of them as the new pope, and they would have kept nodding, smiling and agreeing.

I would rather be hated for booing the biggest paedophile ring of all time, than loved for worshipping it.

I can’t be alone on this.

I don’t hate religion, and I do have faith. I’m not sure what in, but that’s the point about faith, in faiths true form it has to exist without knowing what it’s in. Because that’s what faith is. But for some reason we need to quantify belief, put it in a house, and put a man in a silly hat in front of the house so we can all pretend we can see it.

We need to go out at night, light candles, hold hands, and all pretend we have exactly the same type of faith.

But we can’t see faith, and if we think we can faith isn’t really faith.

Catholics may read this and decide because I’m speaking out against the catholic church I am born from the devil, a faithless creature who will destroy the world.

Most likely, they won’t read this or even care.

I’m not like that. I just don’t agree with young boys being raped. I’m not saying anything against catholics, I am talking strictly about the institution of the church.

I can’t believe everyone knows about the abuse, yet the last thirty popes aren’t in jail serving life sentences.

I am just some bloke, sitting here in his pants, and I know about the abuse. So how come the pope has never been held accountable for what goes on under his roof?

Arresting the priests one at a time is like the police arresting young punks for dealing weed, when they could just follow the weed and find the biggest heroin dealer on the planet.

How does it make any sense?

If I was the head of a business, and all my employees had been raping young boys for hundreds of years, I would be taken to court and my business would be closed down.

Then, in its place something entirely more positive might grow from the lessons.

Instead, we keep putting cherries on top of raped children, hoping one day the children will turn into cakes and the problems will all go away.

No baby is born with an instinctive awareness of God; which I think says a lot.

We are born more scientists than religious.

Why is it people either have faith or they don’t? That is such a bullshit pressure for a religious person to live under.

It’s not that simple. It’s not that black and white.

If you don’t agree with raping children, you don’t have to question your faith in God, you just have to question your faith in the people raping children.

You could say, I have faith, I just haven’t found the right place to put it yet, but I’m hopeful. I mean, as far as I can see, that’s roughly about where billions of people should be about now, because nobody can really say the catholic church is a place for open minded people full of only love in their hearts.

We live in a world where many horrific acts of man boil down to the blind, who claim to see, leading the meek; who give their eyes to blind beliefs.

Common sense has a weakness, it needs approval by the masses before it’s regarded as common sense. But, logic dictates the people waiting for common sense cannot state for themselves what common sense is because the information would be inherently biased. And so because people doubt they can know what common sense is, they sit back and wait to be instructed what it is, so they can all behave accordingly.

And if that someone happens to wear a hat, be called the pope, and carries around an ancient document to back him up, then all the better.

What becomes common sense to the individual is, therefore, all too often something implanted by an outside source.

Which is madness.

The catholic church is against contraception.

The new pope himself does not believe in condoms. He says, God says, condoms should not be used.

Now, that is an old way of thinking.

Have faith you say.

I do have faith, it’s just my faith doesn’t need approval.

Here is another fact:

Over 170 million Africans are now catholic, over 16% of the entire population.

In 2009 72% of the people in the world who died from AIDS were from Africa.

AIDS is spread through having unprotected sex.

Do the math.

The new pope, the old pope, and the catholic church tell Africans God doesn’t want them to use contraception.

But, it’s okay, because the new pope was photographed kissing the feet of people dying from AIDS.

And the world press reported on this, like it was an act to be applauded; when the truth is the catholic church are in a position to influence positive change to save lives, but they do nothing, and kiss the feet of the bodies piling up on their doorstep.

Be religious if it brings you peace, love God if it makes you happy, but don’t worship the pope; because change won’t ever come from the few people holding the power, change comes from the people who make the few powerful.

Wasn’t Jesus meant to be a simple carpenter? What would he think of the opulence of The Vatican?

And as for the world media – shame on you.

The fawning of every news channel over the new pope being elected, is proof, the church has thrown massive amounts of money at all the right people behind the scenes to guarantee positive press, and to stop us remembering that the catholic church, at his highest possible level – is sexist, homophobic, hypocritical, rapes children and encourages AIDS.

How HOW are we worshipping this? Just look away. Worship something else if you have to worship.  Who we choose to bow down to reflects who we are, so what does it say about how far we have really come if at the top of our pyramid are politicians who steal and a church that rapes children?

A church that can pay out 3 billion dollars in compensation to its victims is a business.

And it’s a business that can afford to buy good press, the love of those around them, and a big fat blind eye from anyone who could stand up and say “I’m not worshipping this.”

If religion and God fill your heart with love for your fellow man, then bravo, I am truly happy for you, but I say faith doesn’t need a home, the catholic church, or another fuckwit pope.

Titanic II: fun takes a new direction.

Hilarious billionaire Clive Palmer, has announced he is re-enacting the maiden voyage of the Titanic. His love for the movie has led him to recreating an exact replica of the ship. Tickets will be sold for up to, and over, one million dollars.

Costumes will be handed to passengers, and poor people are being allowed on board, to live below deck.

Clive is cutting no corners, and driven by his desire for accuracy, he is flying rats in from all over Ireland. He’s starving these rats down to their correct “acting” weight, for their role in the lower decks of his re-enactment.

The poor will be provided with bags of potatoes, exactly half the food they require to resist disease, and plenty of alcohol to keep them so drunk they’ll believe they are having a better time than those dining in true opulence above.

To the poor allowed on board who resist alcohol, and seem capable of developing an awareness of the bigger picture, bibles will be provided. Religion will stop the poor from killing the rich.

Clive Palmer says he will allow a larger number of poor on board than he originally intended “to make the rich feel richer.”

Because of this, the poor tickets for the lower decks of Titanic II are available free via a national lottery.

Clive quoted “there are millions of people desperate to be passengers on the lower decks. And why wouldn’t they? They are allowed all the musical instruments they can carry, and I am personally paying for enough alcohol for the party on the lower decks to never stop.”

Clive continued to state he is paying for an iceberg to crash into the Titanic II in the dead of the night.

An iceberg he has named “Iceberg II.”

Clive stated as Titanic II reaches the half way stage of the voyage, Iceberg II will destroy Titanic II.

When asked how this is possible, Clive revealed Iceberg II will be piloted by man, and hinted he will be the lucky guy behind the wheel.

Once Iceberg II hits, guests will be thrown overboard; plummeting into the icy sea beneath.

“Sure, to pull off the complete authentic experience, this is going to be expensive. But, this isn’t about cost. I don’t want to talk about money. This is about recreating the most authentic Titanic movie experience possible.”

Once in the sea, the blood of all guests will turn blue.

Loved ones will be ripped from frozen fingers.

“As per the terms of the contract.” Stated Palmer.

There will be enough lifeboats on board, to comply with modern safety regulations, but Clive has an agreement in place: at the time of the crash half of the lifeboats will be dropped into the sea too early, rendering them useless.

“For authenticity.”

At this point in the press conference, Clive smiled, and the reporters applauded his vision.

He trended worldwide on Twitter and spread across Facebook.

Every news channel devoured his story and promoted his idea.

This great man, this billionaire; starting a voyage all of his own.

Taking fun in a new direction for everyone.

Clive went on “I hope there will not be enough lifeboats for all of the children.”

The applause in the room grew. Clive explained further.

Dead babies will float head down on the cold surface of the dark vast ocean.

One lucky millionaire will stay on board as the ship breaks up, as the captain, because he has paid extra for the privilege.

The poor will remain locked and crushed in the lower decks, the rats will run the same way they originally did.

There are to be no screams twelve minutes after the Titanic II has sunk.

No power.

Just silence.

All passengers and crew will plunge into lethally cold water with a temperature of only 28 °F (−2 °C).

Almost all of the people will die in the water from hypothermia, cardiac arrest, or drowning.

All of this, Clive says, will “really help you pretend you are in the movie.”

The reporters stood now, a standing applause for this great man.

Clive put his hands up, palms facing his audience, and asked for calm.

He wasn’t a great man, he laughed, just a brilliant one.

He went on to say he will not be onboard for the exciting repeat of the biggest movie event of 1997.

He will, regretfully, have to escape in Iceberg II, once he has observed the deaths of all of those on board.

Clive, rubbing his hands, went on to state to the dribbling press he will be running future authentic movie re-enactments for the rich; and the rich people of the world should book as soon as possible to avoid disappointment.

His next movie re-enactment will be The World Trade Centre movie, released in 2006, and he intends to put millionaires in a building and fly a plane into the side, so everyone can truly understand what it must be like to be an actor in an event that never took the lives of real people.

After that, Clive says, he is going to mix it up a bit.

He smiled down the cameras, and told the world press, for his last event, he will re-enact the movie “The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas.”

He said, for this event, he will only take the children of millionaires.

The children will be dressed in rags and starved for months, before being marched into gas chambers and buried in thousands of unmarked ditches like animals.

“It will really help you pretend you are in the movie,” said Palmer.

Try Hard. Please. Somebody just shoot McClane. In the back if you have to.

Die Hard 5: John is 85 and in a retirement home. The OAP with the eye-patch and foreign name has hatched a plan to steal more mash potato. The nurse is asleep.

McClane is back.

McClane watches Wolfgang Nudel wheel himself slowly across the brown carpet; new spit and old carrot dry together on the chin of Wolfgang.

Evil intention flickers from his working left eye. A bad war memory he can never forget, but not quite recall, sits between face and eye patch.

The combination of carrot and mash potato has driven Wolfgang over the edge of senility, and into a world full of empty cupboards screaming for skeletons.

Wolfgang has tasted the good life, and cares not for who suffers at the expense of tasting more.

Wolfgang shuffles toward the silver counter for extra carrot; double portions. He walks slowly, his neck higher than his head, his toes suffering from all kinds of arthritis.

Wolfgang’s toes point in so many directions he can’t wear shoes, and the last time he kicked a football it exploded from taking on too much information at once.

McClane disagrees with the philosophy of Wolfgang.

McClane thinks the overall carrot consumption of the individual resident in the home must be governed by a higher power who believes balanced carrot consumption for all, is better than one individual consuming too many carrots.

McClane looks around the quiet room, three old men stare at the television; an old action movie flogged too many times draws their attention. A good film once, now the victim of turning something brilliant into a family franchise.

The elderly audience, three old men with their wise days long behind them, victims now too; everyone caught up in the machine sacrificing original scripts for talent.

Wolfgang is at the counter now, looking down at the carrot and potato mix.

McClane thinks Wolfgang is thinking he’s made it, that nobody is around to stop him alter the harmonious balance of food distribution.

McClane knows he can’t stop Wolfgang on foot or in his current wheelchair.

He won’t get to Wolfgang in time.

McClane needs to take a risk, needs to take the pensioner equivalent of jumping off a skyscraper attached to a hosepipe; needs to jump from a bridge onto a moving boat.

McClane’s pacemaker kicks in.

This is it, his latest action scene.

He thought these days were over.

And, by God, they should have been.

McClane lifts himself up, his old arms wobble; he unsteadily shifts himself from his own chair into the motorized wheelchair next to him.

He’s out of breath, his hands shake, and for a moment he forgets his own name.

McClane, he whispers, McClane.

He should call for backup, but nobody is around.

Nobody ever is. Even the nurses have disappeared.

He remembers some kid telling him that’s what makes him the guy he is; he does the things nobody else would do.

But he thinks the kid was talking about returning a library book.

McClane watches Wolfgang raise his head from the pile of mash potato and carrots.

Wolfgang smiles.

Thinking about his belly. Thinking about himself and nobody else.

McClane shakes his head, snaps a muscle in his neck as he does, angry all the mash potato and carrots are now contaminated with Wolfgang DNA.

McClane starts the motorized wheelchair and drives toward Wolfgang.

McClane splutters forward.

A bit further.

A bit further still.

He nudges a table.

He moves left.

Then right.

Then turns the chair back so he’s facing Wolfgang.

Wolfgang picks a piece of carrot from his knee and brings it to his mouth, but because of his poor depth perception, he doesn’t move the carrot far enough toward him and chomps at air.

McClane moves forward and hits a chair.

The chair wobbles and falls, but everybody within earshot is wearing shot ears.

McClane can’t drive over the fallen chair.

He turns right.

Moves forward.

Turns left.

Moves forward.

Turns left.

Moves forward.

Turns right.

Faces Wolfgang, the chair now behind him.

He watches Wolfgang bring his fingers to his face for a second time, only this time Wolfgang over compensates the distance between his mouth and carrot, gets his line all wrong, and pushes the small square piece of carrot into his eyeball.

McClane moves forward.

The tiny noise of a motor whirring spreads across the room.

McClane arrives in his chair behind the standing Wolfgang and reaches up to grab the back of Wolfgang’s neck, but misses, and knocks over a cup of tea which falls into his lap.

Wolfgang looks up, as if sensing something is happening, but is deaf and lacking the mobility to properly check.

McClane reverses, and aims his chair at Wolfgang.

This is McClane’s moment.

He shouts his catchphrase, the phrase he used to shout at terrorists, but can’t quite remember what it is.

So he shouts what he thinks it might have been.

“London night bus!”

Something about the words feel wrong.

McClane moves forward at full speed, but his hands are shaking and he veers off to the right, and into the open door of the staff room.

He tries reversing back out of the room, but hits the edge of the door.

He moves forward slowly.

Turns his chair to the right.

Reverses.

Hits the door.

Move forward again.

Turns his chair to the left.

Reverses.

Hits the door.

Wolfgang finishes the last carrot and dollop of mash potato.

Wolfgang turns and shuffles to the nearest chair, he lowers himself in and closes his eyes.

He falls into a big sleep, like an audience member forced to watch a classic action movie stripped of everything that made it what it was, that was then sold onto Walt Disney for parts.

McClane moves forward and stops.

He can’t remember what he’s doing.

He remembers throwing his wife across a hotel room by her hair, and biting a lump out of his own daughters cheek when he was suffering from his third bought of post-traumatic stress disorder.

He blinks.

He looks down and sees the stain in his lap.

He’s pissed himself, he thinks.

Not again.

Accidentally turned into the staff room instead of the toilet.

For the third time this week.

A shape kneels down in front of him, the nurse, he’s certain.

He remembers Wolfgang, she can help him, help him stop the enemy.

“Nurse, he’s stealing mash. And carrots.”

The nurse leans in and smiles. Puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then whispers:

“Remember what we told you, look inside your wallet when suffering delusions.”

There is a tone in the ladies voice he trusts, a genie from a lamp he never rubbed; he moves a yellow hand into his jean pockets and pulls out an old driving license.

The nurse asks him to read the name on the license.

McClane looks a little confused, but does as she asks.

He remembers a light bulb flashing, and signing his name repeatedly across paper.

He looks at the nurse, holds his open wallet in his hand.

He looks down and reads the stranger’s name on the driving licence.

McClane is confused, the excitement has made him breathless.

He looks back into her eyes and asks:

“Nurse, who the hell is Bruce Willis?”

The Oxymoron of American Gun Control.

There is no gun control. There are guns. There is the illusion of control.

We are emotionally led beings; the beauty of being alive is we have free will, and brains, that sometimes rage. 

And we are adults, we have it easy; the waves of self control and emotionally led actions are far greater in those being led by hormones and the fear of being invisible.

The kids, who have to go to school.

Not many people in human history have mastered the art of control. None I’ve met, and we are the most evolved people in our history to have lived so far.

So this is it people, this is as evolved as we can be right now, and we do not have control of ourselves.

None of us do.  We all lose control.

Buddha might have mastered control, but I never met him. And I’m pretty sure even Buddha had times when he thought understanding the point was pointless.

Times when he thought, fuck this, someone else can be wise; for a moment, I want to go crazy. Get drunk. Paint a picture of me having sex with a glove puppet.

Self-control is an illusion; control itself is an illusion, designed to make us feel as safe as possible, whilst sustaining a profitable gun business.

What does gun control even mean?

More paperwork. Longer documents to sign. Photographs.

A check on your criminal history.

Big wow.

Paperwork can be faked, and a criminal history can’t be revealed if this is a person’s first and last crime.

How does a government control an event that cannot be predicted?

By taking away the possibility of it happening. Period.

By taking away the chance anyone has of ever being a victim to it.

And that means making all guns illegal.

If we can’t control ourselves, how can we say, with straight faces, gun control is a reasonable response to the latest horrors in American schools?

The bullet in any gun has a future all of it’s own.

The future of every bullet in this world, from the deserts of Iraq, the locked gun cabinet in the house, the sidearm on the belt of the cop…The future of every bullet fired from a gun, is to cause death to one; but tears and loss to many more.

The consequences of a bullet entering another human are wildly out of control. The ripple effect of tears and loss, the tiny boxes for tiny bodies, the long empty paths of lives not walked.

Small footprints in the snow, no child coming home to finish building their first snowman.

We like to think of ourselves as an evolved society, but how can we be, when all of the worst medieval weapons rolled into one, sit in the home of so many Americans?

Feeling we need violence to protect us from violence is a philosophy so full of fear and hate, I don’t know where to begin.

The victims of this philosophy are those thinking it, but the reason they’re thinking it, is because it’s been implanted into their thought process by a system set up to control them; and when adult citizens feel they are so controlled they cannot breathe, they fight with their wife, then drive too fast to a pub and drink a shit load of beer.

Nobody gets hurt, except for the occasional liver.

But when children have those same emotions, without the rationality that comes with age and experience, without truly understanding the world around them or their role within it…

…When children feel so controlled, invisible and angry. (Anger being one of the first emotions, the sense of being controlled the first sign of a child wishing for independence. The sense of being invisible, designed to implement the notion of accomplishment.)

They pick up a gun. Because they are available.

The fast food way to obtain power. The idiots guide to being someone.

They believe a gun equates to power and status, but the opposite is true.

The person who thinks they need a gun, has lost control of their own self. They are disagreeing with the logical reasoning we are born with, using other ideas put into their head to hide behind.

They have moved from love to fellow man, toward desperation to be noticed by anyone.

In England, when kids are young, but old enough to be the dumbest they are ever going to be, kids go crazy too. They do it all over the world. In England kids drop bricks off bridges to see if they can cause car crashes, and fight each other with fists.

Sometimes fights go too far and people are stabbed.

This is youth, this is growing up.

Like wild animals, some don’t make it through.

Lots of kids around sixteen get smashed on alcohol from a young age in the UK, that’s because booze is on every shelf and our kids are told not to go near it.

In America, that fascination is exactly the same as in any kid in the UK, only kids aren’t looking up at strong alcohol desperate to get pissed, they are looking at guns and fantasizing about shooting bullets.

Now take the troubled kids in Britain, a smaller percentage, but a percentage; the young adults going out carrying knives with the intention of using them.

The one’s who don’t really know what they’re doing.

And imagine for a moment those kids are in America.

In America, the same small percentage of young adults are dreaming about shooting their class, and they know in their Dad’s bedroom sit the guns they can fire.

These young adults should be locked away in their bedrooms, masturbating six times a day…dreaming of sex like their parents did at the same age.

But not in America, where the bible bashing masses make sex and masturbation a sin.

The only release a young guy has at that age is to ejaculate into a sock, but no, he can’t have that either.

God has taken it away.

Now, that’s madness.

That is abuse.

But America can change the dream their sixteen year old kids are having, by simply taking the guns away.

And letting them wank a bit.

If guns and alcohol were available in the same shops in the UK, we would have the same problem the USA are having now.

America has a choice; take away the guns, or take away the children.

Instead, the powers that be say the answer is more control.

But ask any parent to what extent they can control their children.

Now ask yourself how important that gun really is to you.

But, the constitution; that’s what some Americans use to justify guns. A word starting with con, has tit in the middle, and holds a lesson to be learnt but nobody is getting it.

The word almost ends in tuition, but it’s missing I.

The constitution reflected it’s day, but to truly be free, America needs to have the balls to face up to a piece of paper, rip it up and start again.

Why do the peaceful masses bow down to those who wrote history? Why do we follow old rules which were relevant to violent times, but only serve to sustain violence today?

The rules of the cave should not be governing our moral structure of today.

The people who wrote the American Constitution didn’t even have electricity! They washed once a week and thought taking a bath caused sickness! These people are still telling Americans how to live?!

Oh, your child is dead – sorry, but it’s in the constitution; the people who thought big white wigs looked cool put it in. 

Gather around your constitution America and tell me what it really means; because I can’t see the signature on your precious piece of paper because it’s covered in the blood of your children.

Rip up the American constitution; it’s time to accept the old way of thinking is causing a problem and not solving anything.

Burn it and start again.

It’s just a piece of paper with some ideas on, no matter what you’ve been encouraged to believe.

Your real weapon isn’t a gun, it’s your brain. And a constitution stating you have a right to carry a gun doesn’t generate an environment of intellect, it serves to turn young men who could have been someone, into young men carrying weapons.

Ironic, Charlton Heston supported the NRA, a man who travelled to the future to live in a world his old philosophy on weapons would have created.

If those people who wrote the American constitution could see the dead bodies of our children being buried today, they would rip up the constitution themselves and start again.

But not us, because the people in charge use old paperwork to define who we are, and this old paperwork happens to support exactly what they want.

But, at the same time, how can we blame the people of a country when the people are learning from their own government?

We live in a world where the US Government has a stockpile of nuclear weapons, and so do many other countries, including the UK; and every government says they need to have these weapons to protect themselves from potential attack.

They say if everyone has a nuclear weapon, then the consequence, is ever lasting peace.

Does that justification sound familiar?

Except, of course, for the one time it goes wrong, and everybody dies.

A government’s nuclear weapon is the individual’s handgun.

Obama can stand up and say weapons should be removed, but we all know the American president is controlled by the senate, and has no actual powers to do anything.

So it comes down to this; are the people of America able to set an example for the American government rather than the other way around?

Can those led, set an example for their leaders; can mice become men?

I say yes. 

I say when a government is acting continuously against the wishes of common sense, and the President, then it’s time for the individual parent to start setting their own example of what love and life really means.

Time to set the right example for their children.

Time for the individual American to stand up and say they don’t need a gun to feel safe, because there’s no monster in their cupboard.

Despite Fox News telling them there is.

The government doesn’t have to make guns unavailable, the government doesn’t have to outlaw guns…and with corporations ruling America, the government most likely won’t.

But when our leaders don’t stand up for the right decision, people can stand up for themselves.

We live in a world and a time we don’t have to wait for the people in power to do the right thing, social media means we all have a voice.

And if we all decided, if we all agreed to act, the corrupt leaders of today picking retirement funds over the right decisions to make, become obsolete.

Whatever you’re told about guns being for peace, and being safe in a controlled environment; the information is wrong.

If your brain tells you guns are for peace, if your brains tell you safety is in the eye of your shotgun, your thoughts are wrong. Inserted into your head by your environment.

But if you could swap for a moment, live in the heart of a parent mourning their murdered child for a second, then you would fall to your knees and apologise for wandering so far from the path of good intention.

You can make a difference. If you are an American reading this and you have a gun in your house, go and get it, take it out and bury it in your garden.

You can do your little bit for peace.

Bury it deep, because the deeper you bury your gun in your own garden, the closer you carry peace to the surface for all of us to walk on.

If no bullet leaves your gun in your life, you will leave only footprints when you die.

And maybe when the people of America show their will by putting down the guns so easy to get hold of, maybe one day the government and the senate will look around and notice the money they’re making has disappeared.

Because when people stop buying guns, when the industry isn’t a billion dollar business, gun shops will close; and gun violence will end. 

How can we be creating a world where books shops are closing, but gun shops are booming?

You might believe the gun in your house is safe because it’s locked inside a gun cabinet, but how many adults who have a gun cabinet know for sure their children don’t know where the key is?

Children keep secrets, and parents don’t know when they do.

No gun is safe, every accident is a lost life waiting to happen.

Make a change, go and bury your gun in your garden and tell everyone on Facebook, Twitter and your blog what you have done, and explain why.

Do your own little bit to bring peace to this world.

You can go to bed at night and not have to worry where the key is to your guns, or if your child is going to be the next kid to appear on the news.

And maybe one day, our television screens will stop flooding our front rooms with images of American children shot and dying from violence, and the American government will stop perpetuating this myth guns are for peace.

Guns aren’t cool, peace is.

Maybe the leaders of America will never stop being producers of weapons, but it won’t matter, if the people take matters into their own hands; instead of a gun.

As the old saying goes, what would happen if they had a war and nobody came?

Well, what will happen when the US Government continue to make guns, but the people of America refuse to pick them up, and bury the ones they have in a peaceful act against violence?

Horsemeat: shut up and eat it.

Sky News: “What should people do if they have purchased frozen meat, since found out it contains horse, but have already spent their food budget for the month?”

That was an actual question asked an hour ago by a Sky News reporter; as ever, the UK media doing it’s best to make every day stories sound like we are all going to die in a minute.

Well, I guess there is only one thing for it Sky News:

Gather the children around the kitchen table.

Pull the curtains.

Unplug the phone line.

Crush poison into their toast.

Then into your own.

Tell your children it will all be okay as you watch them eat.

Hug them close.

Tell them you love them.

Spread a little more butter on.

Because, holy fuck, killing them has to be more humane than facing the reality they may or may not have, at some point, digested horse meat.

So much attention is being paid to the “horse” nobody is noticing the “meat.”

Tracy is picking her nose and wiping the contents of her brain under the table. Her children are swearing, and one of them has a slice of pickle sliding down his forehead.

Tracy read The Sun this morning, or at least read the front page headline, and Tracy is angry.

Tracy is sitting in McDonald’s.

She tells her friend she can’t believe the rubbish turning up in food these days, as they eagerly shove their second box of chicken nuggets down their throat with a coke.

But we know; chicken nuggets are less chicken, more bits of brain, leg, bone and skin.

Dress a human in a full suit or armor and get them to lay in a bath of coke for three months, and they’ll be eaten away until all that remains is an eyeball.

But we don’t care about any of that, because we all know McDonald’s is bad for you.

So it’s not really a question of taste, people are getting upset about being lied to.

The sophisticated posh folk are disgusted too, understandably; Rupert recently gifted her daughter a horse, and she’s named it and rides him before school.

The horse that is, not Rupert.

Rupert sits with his family as they enjoy their meal, and he tells his wife how people can’t even trust what’s inside their food.

He says to eat horse is a sign of the times, and sighs, and says one day humans will eat each other. Mark my words he says, this isn’t over.

He says this is the start of a slippery slope, and if you look around, there is no rope.

Rupert’s wife nods her head, because she’s been watching the news, and cannot believe what the world’s coming to.

Their daughter Princess, cannot speak, but looks up from the table covered in grease.

She swallows her meal, and looks up from her plate;

“Daddy, this Pate Foie Gras is great.”

We are meat eaters.

There is no nice way of being a meat eater.

We harvest happy go lucky animals, trap them in cages, lop of their heads, and eat everything from their skin, to their testicles and bones.

That’s what we do; that’s humanity.

To say it’s okay to eat a cow, and not a horse, is hypocritical.

To us, it’s all food.

The proof is in the pudding, because nobody knew; nobody stopped eating because they were choking on hoof.

Horse meat tastes good, or at least must taste the same as cow meat; otherwise people would have stopped eating the food.

What will Tracy think when they put the beef back in, and the price of her weekly shop increases, to a price she can’t afford, because her meat no longer has horse in?

Will Sky News ask that Question?

How long until she asks for the horse to come back, and apologises for the nature of her current attack?

Yes, what’s on the packaging should be what’s inside the food, but should is a massive word.

Now we know what’s on the packaging is not the truth, instead of panicking and running around like these are our last minutes on earth…

Instead of replacing all of the meat, and shutting down factories and launching expensive legal procedures, which will turn into expensive criminal trials…

I’ve got an idea, we should probably enforce…

Let’s change the packaging to include the word “horse.”

Equal Marriage: The Idiocy of the Few, Oppressing the Sense of the Masses.

The present is a gift, that’s what we say, but it’s a gift we return before opening on a daily basis.

The present is called the present because it presents us with a chance, every day, to make positive change.

To take steps facing a better direction.

The opportunity every day to do right, to put down bigotry, racism and fear, is the most powerful presence there is.

That’s how we are here.

Yet the few who lead us resist the evolution of society, whenever the evolution of the masses disagrees with the fear inside them.

Oppression occurs on a regular basis; every day leaders all over the world choose the option which makes the least sense, at least when looking through the filter of common respect.

They open a dusty book, titled “Don’t Think for Yourself, Copy the Past.”

They read the words inside, heads nodding, and wear the chapters like headphones to block out the cries of what do we need to do to be heard?

They wish they could make sense, but they’re really sorry, they have to copy and paste the mistakes of the people who came before them.

Now tell me, how is that leading?

The way things should be done is now a blind response to justify what we are doing, and who we have become.

Our leaders move around, avoid eye contact, answer direct questions without their own opinion, because that would be madness, and respond by saying they have a bigger picture they have to consider.

What with them being leaders.

A history to respect, even if that means bringing the worst of us up repeatedly; still thinking you can only make an omelet by cracking a few eggs, never stopping to look around at the rest of the menu.

The big picture is a convenient excuse for people to do what they want; because the big picture is so big nobody can find the edges to bring it down from the wall to study it properly.

The big picture is used as justification to make broader strokes, and so the individual, no matter where they are, stare on baffled by leaders who grow ever more distant.

If we fixed the smaller pictures, the parts we can see, then the bigger picture would take care of itself.

Power is kept by leaders who resist practicing the art of taking complex thoughts and thinking them small for everyone else, so we can all understand them.

Which brings me to gay marriage, which isn’t about being gay at all; but the right to take back the right from others, who believe they have a right to say they cannot.

I’m not sure the debate is even about marriage, because marriage means something different in the eyes of each of our hearts.

This is about love; at least I thought that’s why people marry, but maybe love beats smaller in the hearts of the rich.

When a smaller group of people unaffected by the issues directly, believe they have a right to dictate to the masses what they can or can’t do with their lives, then we are stepping on territory nobody likes.

Men who have never been on the outside looking in, who have never had to fight for acceptance, who are privately educated and speak with accents we are told indicate intelligence; who think they understand justice, but haven’t felt the frustration of having it used against them.

These men, born free, are walking around telling others they were born differently.

These men believe the gold band around their finger, telling the stranger in the coffee shop their hearts belong to another, is a freedom of expression they have the right to, because they were born in a time the law happens to suit them.

What? Excuse me good Sir, but kindly fuck off.

Did you really get into politics to serve only yourself?

What happened to the bigger picture, the excuse you used when trying to shut down parts of the NHS? Suddenly the bigger picture is not as important as the mandate, or the one line in an old book.

No wonder we are all so confused.

I watched a Sky News reporter ask a conservative politician why he handed a letter to no10 Downing Street, petitioning against gay marriage.

The old Tory politician simmered with rage; the kind of rage only people who think the world is against them can feel.

The kind of rage that deep down, is directed at himself, at his anger for becoming old, and no longer relevant.

At his exposure on national television, at having to explain himself to someone at all, when back at home what he says goes.

Who is this reporter? I bet he never served in the army.

Who is he to question me? I’ve paid more in tax already than he’ll pay in his entire life.

Doesn’t he get it? I’VE BOUGHT THE RIGHT TO GET MY WAY.

Oh dear. Welcome to life outside Parliament.

He has a free bus pass, but only travels by chauffer driven car.

His tinted windows stop people seeing in, and him seeing out.

He answered no mandate, and I chuckled, because he sounded like a caveman saying “No Man Date.”

Ug.

The reporter was too kind, and didn’t ask him directly, what he would do if his son bought his boyfriend home, and announced he was gay.

The Tory would have ended the interview and walked away, mumbling to himself about the state of society today.

Forget the church, and our insistence on hiding bigotry behind history.

Forget the mandate, and inferior arguments avoiding the fear inside brains.

Marriage should not be a weapon at the table of the already married; it should not be ours to vote for or against.

Imagine not being able to get down on one knee, and live the fairytale for a moment at least.

A crying shame, and a reminder of how far we haven’t come as a race, that we are even having the debate.

We are talking about refusing people a way to express love.

We can even fight over this?

Ignorance is weakest when heard by the masses, and unfortunately for the Tory party, their houses still look good, but the general public are fast learning the wood beneath is rotten.

Perhaps people should stop getting married, after all, getting married when some people can’t, is starting to feel like paying money to travel by bus back in the time when black people were told they had to sit at the back.

The present is a gift, that’s what we say.

Yet some people hold all the presents; the same kids who thought they were special after rigged pass the parcel games.

Tory politicians have the chance to pass on the gift of the freedom of marriage; and if they don’t, and they fail, then how can the present be a gift, an act of giving, when the only example we have is our leaders taking?

Selling your daughter: the ridiculous obsessions of the Kindle Author.

I have met friends through the world of Indie publishing and there are many great authors in the world of Kindle. Many great talents, who work hard, write well and receive honest reviews.

To these people I hand a box of chocolates, say thanks for your thought processes, invite to a day of hang-gliding followed by late night fridge raiding.

This is not about you.

This is about a general feeling I have, a thought in the background to my head; a sensation of warm fading away, born from the rising bombardment on Facebook of writers I don’t know asking me to write them fake Amazon reviews, in exchange for fake reviews of my own.

Messages asking to join the latest “I will like your book if you like mine” Facebook group.

I can’t stand fake reviews. I can’t stand fake Amazon “likes” and this is why…

Before I begin if any of this offends you, get over yourself. You are not twelve. Nobody cares about your tantrums. You are a burden to your environment. You should be offended by all the people dying in Africa from AIDS, you should be offended by our governments turning a blind eye to the genocide in Syria we all know is going on today, you should be offended by false wars and priests raping children.

This is just a blog.  Rhymes with frog.

My intention is to make thoughts hop, instead of thoughts sitting by a sign reading “not today.”

*

What have we done?! No, what have you done? Sitting in your home, at your desk, arms like eels sliming ego over your keyboard. The keyboard your feeder, encouraging you to keep tapping away because the next message you receive might make you feel alive again.

A single piece of toast rests on your cheek, curiously blending in with the rest of your buttery skin.

The sun blazes through the window of the room; the kids are asking where you have gone.

Daddy will be there in a minute, he’s just got to finish joining another Facebook group for independent writers, so he can pretend they are his friends, so they can all pretend to be his, so everyone can have wonderful five star reviews, so people who don’t know what’s going on will end up buying his books.

He’s just got to tell them he loves them, again, and laugh at their terrible puns, again, and agree he loves the cover of another terrible cover, again, and pretend to care about the so called struggle of another writer asking help from others about what she should name the characters in her book, again.

He knows she doesn’t really want his advice, because naming characters is a personal thing, but he joins in anyway, because he wants to play the game; because this is the game where every writer wins.

But, whisper it; literature is losing.

And so are the children.

And so he throws names at the writer who needs help with something she doesn’t need help for; because if she can’t name her own characters what kind of writer is she? And the writer rubs her hands at all the Facebook comments, from the father and others; because the thing is, she thinks, she’s already named her characters, but this conversation is free advertisement.

And everybody wins.

But, whisper it; literature is finding it hard to breathe.

And so are the children.

I will be there in a minute kids, Dad says, not much longer; I’m just making friends.

But you said that last time, they say, but Dad isn’t really listening; because Daddy has lost his mind to the game.

He knows the other writer is asking for help for characters she’s already named, but he joins in. He thinks her cover is terrible, and doesn’t like the idea for her book either.

Not another one of those types of books, he thinks, just what the world needs; more love stories set in Victorian fucking England.

She knows he’s not the type of guy she would chat with normally, he voted for Romney and she loves Obama.

His books are all about guns and violence, what good will they do to the world, she believes; the world needs more romance, not tanks, and children and fairies and occasionally cakes that grant wishes.

But they say nothing about who they really are; they keep the truth away from each other because they having nothing in common, other than their desperate fear of not being noticed; of being like everyone else is.

They sustain false friendships online at the expense of real life friends, because they fear if they rock the applecart, their online persona as a writer will fade.

They’ll be forced back to their families and life outside of their PC.

OH NO? What then…

The sun on their faces, real conversations with real people who disagree and argue with them; but they’ve become so embroiled in the fake life of desperately needing to be loved on-line, everything in the real world is starting to feel a little too real.

A little too cynical.

The truth sometimes has an ugly face, but inside the bubble where everything’s fake, nothing changes. Everything is beautiful, and it doesn’t matter it’s not real, because when your head is in the trough with others, you can’t see the pig you’ve become.

“How dare you disagree with me? Don’t you know who I am?”

Is a phrase uttered by people who have no idea who they are, lost people avoiding truth.

So the writers go back on-line to vent their anger about their real life, and he said she said you said, and their pretend friends type “hugs” into the comment section without much of a thought, and slowly the world of writers becomes all about everything that isn’t real.

And then tell me, what will we write about?

Cats, probably.

The pretend friends type “hugs” at problems they have no right to know about, and the person spilling their personal beans types back kisses that can never be felt.

And all because down the road, at some time in the future, the pretend friends will be there for each other; as long as they pretend to be pretend friends forever.

And it’s okay, because everyone wins.

But, whisper it: literature is dead.

The children are playing with cars.

And Dad will be outside in just a minute.

There are terrible writers and good writers, some fantastic books, and some terrible books.

That’s the beauty of Kindle.

So what is it with all these five star reviews?

Some books are terrible, I’ve read some of them, but the reviews state repeatedly this is the best book I’ve ever read.

So what’s going on? Who is changing the rules?

Not the reader, readers have been around since the beginning; the people changing the rules are the people who should be governed by them…a percentage of the new dawn of Kindle authors.

Adults wrapped in tin foil sitting on top of donkeys, preparing to fight a dragon, waiting to be called heroes.

But the dragon is just a broom handle covered in socks puppets.

Some Kindle authors are rigging the game; acting as friends, but only for themselves, because the friendships aren’t real like everything else.

Demented jockeys too fat to ride horses; going out and shooting every four-legged animal in sight so nobody else can get on. Leaving one horse standing, and every unknown writer in the world clambering on.

But the line between pretend friends and real enemies who get under the skin is fine, the laughter fake, but the anger real. The moment a writer fails to return the favour of a fake review or Amazon “like” is the moment all hell breaks loose.

The mask slips, and the selfish, egotistical, obsessed writer who will stop at anything to reach the top, revealed.

A dog barking madness, chewing their own arm off to break the chains of the life they’ve wrapped around them.

I’ll explain…

We had a chance to create a world so amazing the publishing industry would change their approach to literature. We had a chance of building a city built from truth, a land where the best books get great reviews because the best books are simply the best books.

But, you fuckers, some of you have ruined it.

Instead we built a world where the books with the best people marketing them win, where the simple process of the amount of time someone can spend at a PC directly equates to how many books they sell.

What has that got to do with writing, with the words on the page, with the substance and imagination and skill of the writer?

Nothing, is the answer.

And so the place we are travelling toward is drifting away from a place where we celebrate great literature and authors, the idealistic place I wanted to be; and we head instead to a street we get handed a set of free steak knives from a bloke acting friendly, with perfect hair and white teeth, who turns up at your door, selling immaterial material, to someone who welcomes them in.

And everything, every brick in this house, is made from cheese.

The doormat, the doorbell, the road outside, the sun in the sky, the water running from the taps, the electricity passing through the walls, the pet dog in the other room, the salesman and the homeowner; down to the garden, flowers and bees…All made of cheese.

The person sits him down, and makes a coffee for both with goats milk in; which tastes mostly like Boursin.

The homeowner buys the strangers book, then says he can keep his steak knives, if he’ll buy the book the homeowner is selling too.

And he does, and they shake hands and he goes.

And they are both happy, but what does the exchange mean if everyone is passing their books around in one big circle, but nobody’s reading them?

Up the Amazon rankings books soar, but nobody is reading the words on the page.

And nobody cares, as long as the rankings tell others they’re more special than most.

What happened to artists? What happened to writing words that mean something? When did everything become about the Amazon ranking? What happened to not caring about reviews, about not caring what others think because the words mean something to you?

What happened to waking up, and seeing the person you love, instead of reaching for your phone in hope your book has moved up in an irrelevant and easily fixed digital ranking?

Nice one, take a bow. Dip your hand deep into a bowl of grapes and pull out your soul. Put your soul through a blender, put it back into an idiot without integrity, zip the suit up at the back, and get on with being who you’ve become.

Writing the best book you could, and allowing readers the freedom to judge without the fear of reprisal or judgement, was all we had to do.

The more pretend friends an independent author has, the less chance of a completely impartial review, because the more pretend friends, the more pretend friend reviews.

Thousands of independent authors spend more time promoting than they do writing.

People started with good intention, but now the market is flooded with terrible words, plastered over storylines we’ve all read a million times; quantity has replaced quality.

Books with over a thousand reviews, surely these have to be good?

And then after page ten, you realise; you are one of millions of people who have bought into shit.

Bad writing is now acceptable.

Books literally copying and pasting other books, with terrible titles, shoved under our noses to see if we sniff.

And if we do, we smell faecal matter, and pass out immediately from over expanding brain cells struggling to find a safe place to vomit.

Or books have a great title and cover, and then when you look inside your eyes start bleeding and your brain turns around in your skull, and shuts down your central nervous system as a defence mechanism.

With indie publishing I thought we would get away from the bullshit of doing anything to get ahead; but this isn’t just cut throat, people are cutting their own throats for the appearance of success.

I thought we found a light in the shadow of polished shoes, and once turned on the powerful people in publishing would stop the war against original books, take off their clothes, slap each other with olive branches and rub doves in their faces.

I thought publishers would start publishing original books, and discover the dip in sales had nothing to do with the Kindle, and everything to do with their continuous insulting of the imagination of their audience.

I was wrong.

Instead, many of the books with the most reviews on Amazon today are often a reflection of the amount of time people have spent at their PC.

We have become the promoters, the marketers, and the fake reviewers; we have become the article in The Guardian praising a book, which turns out to be the worst book you’ve ever read.

We are the reporters in the pockets of publishers, and the publishers in the pocket of fear.

We are the collaborators of the demise of the platform we sought for years, because a fake review is nothing more than a sabre tooth tiger with his teeth removed, his tiger passport taken away, chained to a wall by penguins. Told if he doesn’t dance like a monkey and pretend to like fish, he will be shot and his body moved to the back end of an elephant.

And a rumour spread, after death, he enjoyed inserting his penis into the bum-ring of giants.

When did everything become guaranteed awesome? Every book is awesome, every author is awesome, every review is awesome, every cover is awesome, every book title is awesome, gumball machines are awesome, being fake is awesome, lies are awesome, war is awesome.

Actually, gumball machines might be awesome.

Greed has found a home in the world of indie publishing. Hoards of people come across like they’re out to help others, when only out for themselves.

The books selling the most are not the best books, the writers climbing the charts are not even the best writers; some of them are not even good writers.

If you know the name of every reviewer they aren’t reviewing your book, they are reviewing your friendship with them. And they are only reviewing you, so you review them too.

This doesn’t have a happy ending. This ends with people turning away from Kindle because the reviews can’t be trusted; this ends with people not reading books because they think they are rubbish before they begin.

This ends with your five star reviews drying up and you wondering why. Unable to contemplate it’s because you used up all your credit with people who have given you fake reviews, and to get more fake reviews you need to sell yourself to more people needing fake reviews too.

The process sounds exhausting.

And it doesn’t mean anything.

The community is a circle, but the circle is hollow; a duck flapping around inside a library reading a book about what bread tastes like, instead of going out and trying some for himself.

And when every book at the top of the charts is rigged, and the material inside them boring and dull, and our children grow up with poor quality literature like Fifty Shades of Grey, and the children of the future are dumber than the ones coming through; we will only have ourselves to blame.

Authors should be sick of talking about themselves, yet this historically shy creature suddenly can’t seem to shut-up.

I receive at least four messages a day on Facebook to join a group. Some are legitimate, authors talking to authors, about life etc. Wonderful.

But most of the groups state if I join the group and like the thousands of books in the group, the thousands of authors in the group will like my book back.

And that act, of exchanging like for like, and don’t fool yourselves; completely fixes the Amazon ratings. You know it artificially increases your Amazon ranking.

And you happily fix the Amazon ratings to give your book a higher ranking than the content deserves to make money and to become known; all under the weak guise of making friends with other writers and “being awesome.”

The other Facebook messages are born from the same philosophy, but for actual reviews.

Here, hold this, it’s ringing.

Excuse me if I don’t join your groups, and instead complain about you.

If you continue to give fake reviews in return for fake reviews, eventually the only way to spot a good book will be because it has no reviews.

I wrote a terrible book when I was starting out, and gave it to someone, and they said it was terrible and laughed in my face. That’s how it should be.

I shouldn’t have killed that person afterwards, but I served my time.

I can’t go into specifics for legal reasons.

Now a writer starting out can write something terrible and manipulate the people around them to tell the world their terrible book is in fact amazing. If that were the case when I started out, today I would be a bloated carcass washed up onto the shore of my own ego. With my mum cradling my face telling me I’m beautiful; as sailors run toward me screaming for her to let go of the jellymonster, so they can shoot me dead before I drag her away to the depths of the ocean.

It doesn’t matter if you start writing at ten, twenty, thirty, forty of seventy. Criticism is not a bad thing if it’s honest, and if you think criticism is never honest, you need to take a closer look at what you think honesty is.

Terrible books climb the charts, new people picking up a Kindle for the first time are reading books they expect to be good based on reviews and sales, and discovering what they’re reading is actually a human poo, crapped into their own hands by an army of authors so desperate to get a pat on the back they will put one in your palm.

They’ll tell you it’s not poo it’s chocolate mud cake, encourage you to eat it, and you won’t think of complaining because so many people are telling you how nice it is.

The more pretend friends, the bigger the hollow circle, the more guaranteed plastic pats on the back at the end of each book released. The more books, the more pretend friends, the more pretend friends the more biased reviews, the more biased reviews the more success, the more success the more pretend friends.

But, whisper it; the book is shit and the writing terrible.

And it’s not success; we are taking about failure, redefined.

And it gets worse…

Readers are influenced by other 5 star reviews, so if they don’t like a book universally liked, they fear they aren’t getting the obvious, they must be missing something. Something is wrong with them.

People don’t stand up against groups, majority rules; but stupid thrives best in collectives.

I call this The Tree of Life syndrome: applauding something terrible in the hope of appearing intelligent.

The Tree of Life is a two and a half hour perfume commercial packaged to idiots as a film.

The director has an ego out of control, he literally lost the plot before he started filming, producing a film composed of close ups of leaves falling to the ground against the backdrop of waves crashing into cinema takings.

That film won awards.

People stood up and applauded. Look at me, I get this, I’m crying when I’ve been told to, I must be just like the people on the screen. I’m talented, me.

Nobody stood up and screamed it was a pile of shit, because everybody wanted to look like an artist.

Literature is still up it’s own arse. Generally speaking authors are perceived to be intelligent, either by others or by themselves. Readers can be psychologically uncertain in this environment; some think being the first person to write a one star review will make them look like an arse; we might all be adults, but few of us want to be the first to put their hands up in class.

Some authors are now afraid to speak out, because to openly criticise a book and give it a low review on Amazon means confronting a potential bullying herd of spiteful authors who gleefully start hate campaigns against the truth.

Leave an honest one star review as an author, and live in fear one star reviews will start appearing on your books.

The drive to succeed has driven us mad, the illusion of becoming a household name has taken the smile off the journey and turned it upside down.

And don’t become too successful, because that upsets the crowd just as much as writing an honest review.

Become too successful and some won’t believe you made it on the strength of your work.

You must have cheated, because that’s what they are doing.

Nothing to do with being an original writer; you must know something they don’t. What’s your trick? Tell us so we can all be the same.

Indie writers help other indie writers until one becomes a success, and then the success is derailed at any possible opportunity by some of the same people who got them there.

Keep a lid on honesty, before it boils over and burns the eyes from the lie.

Promote your book, put your words under as many noses as you can; as writers we have the right to do that.

As writers we do not have the right to manipulate how and when people read our work. We do not, or we should not, have the power to influence people into “liking” our book on Amazon before that person has read the first page.

We should all be turning our backs on Amazon reviews exchanged for Amazon reviews.

Nobody is the judge either. I am not naming specific books or reviews on here.

There is no way anyone can truly know if a review is fake or real.

The self appointed Kindle author police, the sad old bastards who spend all day on the Kindle publishing forum because they have nothing better to do, are just as deluded in their pursuit of justice as some Kindle authors are in their pursuit of success.

The fake Amazon reviews are born from fear, the self appointed Kindle police are born from jealousy.

They scan Amazon seeking writers to bully, to pull down and torment.

If you are an author with fake reviews I don’t agree with them, or you.

But nor would I actively pursue you personally believing I have a right to judge; I’m just writing about what annoys me a bit, about what disappoints me more.

The cracks I see in the walls of our upbringing.

People who get offended by authors simply informing them of their book are the type of people who could pick a fight with themselves in an empty room. When they aren’t even in the room.

And it’s hypocritical to get annoyed with a writer for simply talking about their book, or telling people about their book, regardless of the form the message is in; unless you throw your television set out of the window every time it shows you an advert you didn’t ask or want to see.

Reviews are meant to enhance quality. The whole point of a review is to make authors think they can’t release any old nonsense because strangers are going to read their books and review them honestly. That is quality control.

If the review system is rigged, if most writers pretend to be best friends with most other writers; then we live in a world when a writer can release a photograph of their left testicle, or vaginal flap, and receive great reviews.

Eventually all books will be filled with a single photograph of a testicle or vaginal flap.

If you want that world, and some do, and to be honest now I’ve spelt it out it doesn’t sound like the worst place; if you want that world…then keep going.

We are outnumbered by weak books selling in masses because the game is now rigged; reviews are lobotomised, the truth a headless chicken, bok bok bokaarrking around, heading towards a salivating wolf it can’t see or hear.

In the majority of author forums on Facebook writers post their books in the hope someone will notice them, in response to people talking about their books, and everyone is all very nice and acts like they’re having conversations; when they’re engaging in self-serving monologues.

Kindle publishing is the real life Emperors clothes.

Some books are shit. Get over it.

Put that on buses.

A person has to expect criticism, has to take criticism to learn how to stop being offended at any little thing that disagrees with them; a writer won’t grow as a writer, won’t become the potential great writer they dreamt of being if they receive only five star reviews for a two star book.

We all remember being at school, and working hard for a sticker.

At school you couldn’t walk up to the teacher and tell her she looked beautiful, pass her an orange, and walk back to your chair without being laughed at by the classroom, and bullied for the rest of your days in education.

The teacher wouldn’t give you a gold star for sucking up to her, instead she would tell your parents you might grow up to be a sex pest.

On Kindle, some writers are bullying and laughing at the other writers who don’t get up and give oranges.

The writers not blowing smoke up the arses of strangers to get smoke blown up their own have become the Loch Ness Monsters of this new environment.

The teacher is leaning across the desk in her underwear, shooting oranges from somewhere beneath her skirt, and everyone is clapping for more.

And the only people who make sense are escaping, because sense is now on the outside looking in.

According to the five star reviews we have created a world allegedly full of brilliant authors, but come on! Statistically that’s not possible.

The fear of bad reviews is what drives some authors to beg for reviews, to act fake to gain pretend friends, but why are we so afraid of the truth?

What’s wrong with the truth?

What happened to our sense of humour?

Why are we so afraid of leaving a bad review for someone to read?

Why are we so scared of offending each other?

The world has become Facebook, and the words we speak our edited family friendly status.

There is a connection between how readers are expected to review and how hard it is to get reviews.

Readers are afraid to say what they really think.

What happened to lots of reviews, with some people saying they like a book and others hating it; a debate with people divided: life, born from a book?

What happened to real conversation, controversy, passion, confusion, laughter, and truth?

Instead of getting all of the wonderful dialogue and thought processes books are intended to create, we get a head on a chair in a sterile waiting room waiting to be lobotomised.

Plastic flowers sit on the table, and magazines rest under the shadow of the plants edited by the church, with all the swear words and passion removed; fear ruling our roots. This is a place where people hear I love you from strangers, when what they mean is I want you to love me.

So, if you are a reader stop being led by expectation, and speak your mind.

Fuck the easily offended writer in the brain with the truth.

And thanks for being a reader.

If you are one of the authors sitting at your PC all day begging other authors to leave a fake review in exchange for a fake review: stop.

Stop asking for likes in exchange for likes, stop saying I’ll buy your book if you buy mine; because you are personally responsible for the death of indie publishing before it begins.

Promote your book, but don’t sell yourself.

Remember when you had a life? When you wanted to write a book and release it for you? To see what fate had in store?

When did you start taking yourself so seriously? When was the last time you went outside in the day, instead of sitting at your PC trying to generate fake reviews for your books?

Well done, you wrote a book. You released it.

Now keep your head high. Don’t get down in the gutter to look up at the stars, you don’t need to, they look brighter with your family and friends around you.

Don’t become one of the authors changing what Kindle could still be. Resist the temptation to generate fake reviews because our brave new world of indie publishing is slowly becoming a world full of quite nice, educated, manipulating cowards; lying to themselves and others.

And only you can save it.

Kindle hasn’t increased our chances of a book deal because a publisher isn’t going to say yes to Amazon reviews, a publisher is going to say yes to your book; to your material.

Publishers print books, not the reviews of pretend friend groups; two hundred Amazon reviews and no publishing deal is the wooden spoon. Success is no longer what it appears to be.

The person you love is tired of going to sleep alone, because you’ve been duped into believing one more Amazon review moves you closer to achieving your dreams.

For all the millions of us, very few make it to the other side; to that place our words appear on paper, paid for by somebody else.

I’m one of them trying, but not at the expense of my life or integrity.

Children who once told parents to go away because parents are boring and ruining their game are now used to hearing just another minute, almost finished.

For all your drive, passion and obsessional hours spent at your PC, don’t forget to balance all of that with what you had before.

Your life.

Because your life might not wait forever for you to go back to it, and if it goes, all you’ll be left with is the pretend friends inside your machine.

And a book, in the Amazon charts, with a handful of biased reviews, and old memories of who you used to be.