Lucky Heather

Heather was so lucky,
a hit with all the boys.
“They all just want to fuck me
and I never make a noise”

Now she’s on her own,
don’t you think that it’s a shame?
But she won’t take the bullets
and she can’t take the blame.

Feeding off the scraps,
impervious to guilt.
Dead behind the eyes,
to fuck she’s custom built.

Heather was so lucky,
a hit with all the world.
A lonely fucked up woman,
a lonely fucked up girl.

Acumen

Walk like a champion,
don’t let them grind you down.
The World is full of fuckers,
who’ll beat you to the ground.

Move on, and rise above them,
leave them trailing in your wake.
The last laugh will be yours friend,
as you watch them crack and break.

So keep walking like a Champion,
for a Champion you are.
The World is full of love,
when you’ve worked out where you are.

The Coppers Revenge

Outline in chalk,
senescence overtaken;
white noise,
shallow breath.

Probing eyes peer
into the blood curdling scene.
Peaceful;
sacrosanct you.

Mimicking rest,
static eyes open and late.
Annulled;
forever gone.

Body bag set,
residue hidden within.
Tonight
you wont go cold;

but you’ll probably
go unsolved.

First published in the Mudhutter Football Express Issue 22, March 2009

Beatles Day - A Celebration

Article by special guest writer Roy "Carpenter" Smythe

Well it had to happen didn’t it? A day dedicated to the four young lads who shook the world. So on the morning of the inaugural day to celebrate the genius of The Beatles I awoke determined to embrace the concept of Scouseness and Beatleness in it’s entirety.

To start with I imagined how I would feel if I was suffering intolerable heroin withdrawal symptoms. What better way to understand a Scouser? I reasoned that I would be tremulous, experiencing terrible gastro intestinal disturbances, my nose would be running like a bastard tap, my levels of irritability would be intense and that my pupils would be pinned to fuck. Scouse as you like eh?

This didn’t really feel authentic enough though, so I got dressed and left the house and headed into Liverpool on the train. Fortunately I had forward planned the attire part of the day to perfection. So it was on with the Lacoste shell suit and sovereign rings and away I went. All was going well as I hid in the train bogs drinking my white lightening cider from a polystyrene cup and avoiding paying my fare. That was until I got to Lime Street that is, and then the stewards got me. Luckily I said that “I ownleee gorron a Edgggge Hkkkkill whaccckkkk” and so only had to pay a single. As I swaggered off the station pleased as punch with myself I headed to the Liverpool Echo head office in Old Hall Street to buy my “mop top wig” which was retailing for just £5. How could anyone doubt my belonging to the town now the mop top wig was in tow?

It was at this point that I realised that I needed to up the stakes if I was really going to get down with the Scousers and the Beatle fans, to celebrate. So I took the last swig of cider from my cup and then placed it on the ground. Within 30 minutes I’d collected over £6 and I’d made contact with a local unemployed smack head who assured me that he could cut me in on a £10 bag. So, full of smack I wandered the Liverpool streets looking for Beatles devotees whilst feeling like a proper Scouser.

So much so that I initiated the next ingredient of my assimilation plan, I mugged an old lady. That’s right, I slapped the old duffer across the face and snatched her purse, well when in Rome eh? Would you believe it, another £10 bag in the old dears purse and the works to complete the mission. No fucking money in it though, just a bus pass and a love letter from 1945 that I used to dab the blood up after I’d dug for a vein. I never knew being a Scouser could be such fun.

As I staggered further into the city, onto Williamson Square, I came across a mass of people. Surely these are the devotees that I travelled so far to be with. Alas no, and I ended up spending the rest of the afternoon sat with the members of the Williamson Square Jobcentre Plus crew in the Beluga Bar. Not exactly Beatles, but very Scouse, and seeing Ricky Tomlinson on the telly with the same wig at least validated my decision. There was no need for the tribute band on the ferry though, fucking gash.

Shortly after I blacked out and sometime later I woke up being dragged into the back of a Police van naked and with come running down the back of my legs. Internally I didn’t feel too uncomfortable and the flashbacks since would suggest I was complicit.

So there you go, being a Scouser and a Beatles fan is indeed “boss” and I look forward to celebrating the day again next year.

Words hand crafted by adopted Scouser,

Roy “Carpenter” Smythe

Damascus

This road to Damascus
paved with ambivalence and doubt.
Left me staring at the ceiling
and the walls that moves in time.

Throw a shekel in your dead sea,
do I float or I do I drown?
Sirens calling me to prayer,
but I'm waiting to be found.

The Wailing Wall heaved and sagged and groaned,
leaving me unmoved, moving on alone

and Damascus is a long way from home.

Friends (not so) Reunited

Yes. . . I know.

I’m aware I said in the first MFE of the 2008/09 season that I would be much more serene since my summer wedding. However, something happened the other week that ended all that. The wife has lost her wedding ring! Since the big day she’s been leaving it lying at her arse and I’ve been picking it up at the back of her and scolding her. “You’ll fucking lose this”, I kept telling her, and alas she did. Worst of all is that she hasn’t got a fucking clue how.

Of course I’ve had the piss ripped out of me, with friends and colleagues telling me she must have left it on someone’s bedside table. Or that it must have slipped off her finger and slid between the grills, as Bobby from Vision World scuttled her over the bonnet of his Cortina. By and large I’ve laughed these suggestions off. To be honest if you had seen the wife you’d laugh it off too. People that have witnessed her say she’s got a lovely personality, you know, proper bubbly.

Anyway, seeing as the fat jolly bastard had stuck a wedge the size of China between our new-found happy marriage I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time on-line. There’s a few things on the wonderful world of the web I’ve always wondered about, mainly because I can’t get my head around them. They’re the Friends Reunited, Facebook, etc shite. The whole idea behind them flummoxes me.

If these so called friends that you profess to want to be reunited with meant so much then why did you lose contact in the first place? I’ve never lost contact with anyone I didn’t want to, friend or no friend. Anyway, for the purpose of research I centred my efforts on Facebook and what an inspired choice that was.

What a set of fucking prize whoppers who post on this old pile of bollocks. First of all you get an “invite” to be a friend of whoever has wasted precious seconds of their life looking for you. This is in the form of a little message when you log on to Facebook or via your e-mail. Now there’s two ways they could have found you. Number 1 - Type the name of the person you’re looking for and plough through the hundreds of wankers who share the same name as you. Fine if your name is Cecil Pillsbury, but you’re up shit creak if it’s John Smith. Or, Number 2 - Tap in the name of your friend complete with e-mail address of said friend and invite them to join you.

What the fuck are you doing inviting someone to be your friend online if you have their e-mail address? Surely if you have this amount of information you could e-mail them and ask for their mobile number to invite them to meet you in the real world for a pint? Come to think about it, if you have their e-mail address you probably got it off them when you spoke to them on the phone or in person. In fact you’re probably already their friend. It makes no sense at all??

The fun doesn’t stop there though readers. There’s so much fun that can be had as a Facebooker! You can join loads of exciting groups like “Boycott X Factor until the judges get a grip” or “Viva Ash Vegas”, oh the fucking mirth. These groups don’t actually do anything other than give a platform for shit houses everywhere to say how great it is to get absolutely hammered in their local town. That leads me onto the photo section were our eccentric Kings and Queens of comedy post picture upon picture of themselves in various states of pose with hilarious captions like “u go girl” or “I didn’t realise I was so small”.

Invariably most of the photos are in the pub and are dreadfully unflattering. Even worse though are the photos that people put up of their holidays or their kids birthdays. If you’re reading this and have been guilty of the aforementioned crime then let me spell it out for you. NO-ONE GIVES A SHIT and because you’re not forcing it into their faces, like you would if you actually sat in the same room as them, then no-one is looking at them. Be honest, how fucking dull and inconvenient is it having to feign interest in some other bastards snaps? It’s beyond tedious and the thrill factor doesn’t increase because it’s on-line.

Then there’s the friends suggestion facility. I’m thirty bastard one, why the fuck would I need someone to suggest who I could be friends with? My personal favourite is the “Status Update” were our quirky cyber heroes can share spleen rupturing moments like “I’m growing a beard and thinking of God”. PLEASE FUCKING DIE or at least get disconnected.

A final mention to the Facebooker über alles. The sad wanker who you never liked, you were never friends with because they were in the lunchtime chess club and you wouldn’t even piss on if they were on fire. The ones whom only reason for being on Facebook, Friends Reunited etc is to tell you how well they are doing for themselves. The type of sad bastard who writes comments in their “Status Update” like “Mike is thinking 2 long haul trips in a week may be a bit excessive after all.”

Oh do fuck off , if life was so great you would have no need to post a message to Facebook via your mobile telling all of your 792 friends who don’t fucking care that you’ve been on a aeroplane.

Facebook and it‘s inhabitants. . . . . . . I’ve shit ‘em.


Dirrrrty “I’m just off to post pictures of myself and my family via my blackberry in a bar on Bondi beach whilst getting horribly pissed” Oldman

First published in the Mudhutter Football Express Issue 21. February 2009

High life.

Living the high life,
self-appointed King in a vertical concrete ghetto.
It’s there that all the decisions are made
undisturbed by the street level drifters.
Entry; strictly verboten to the outside world.

Peering through cigarette stained fingers
at the inhabitants below. Insignificant;
neither subjects nor enemies.
Creations of a repugnant existence,
urchins of the lowland terrain.

But you forget old friend,
I know you far too well, having stood
on the 22nd floor of your inner sanctum.
Paranoia breeds amongst the empty beer cans,
discarded spoons and magazine cuttings.

Leaving your shopping at the door
I catch a glimpse of you through the letterbox.
How did it come to this?
A shell of a man I once loved and knew,
sweet brother John, are you ever coming back?