Tag: Britain

Kingdom of the Sunak

Rishi Sunak outside Number Ten, his waving arm dissected by a Covid positive lateral flow test.

 

In the miserable year that the Tories regained power, a humble investment banker from Southampton joined a hedge fund called Theleme, which would go on to invest in Moderna. Yes, that Moderna.

Dishy Rishi Sunak became a Conservative MP in 2015, rising up the party ranks until, as Chancellor of the Exchequer during the COVID-19 pandemic, he brought in hedge fund partner, John Sheridan, as an advisor. Goodness knows whose advice he was taking when he axed the £20-a-week increase in Universal Credit but it was our first proper indicator of his compassion for the poors. Continue reading “Kingdom of the Sunak” →

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Eight Stories in an Evening

I asked friends to give me a word each so I could build a story from three. It just seemed like a good idea because wine and I’m not saying these wee tales are any good but they made me feel good writing them and that was lovely, thank you. Written in six hours or so, so go easy.

 

SLUG SUGAR SWEAT

They called it a slug, you know, that round that goes in the gun or whatever. I called it a bullet and they all sniggered, sniggered at how I held it, how the sweat poured down my face as I aimed the cursed thing.

One thing’s for damned sure – ain’t no one gonna be callin’ me sugar no more.

 

Continue reading “Eight Stories in an Evening” →

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Tinder. A Sociopathic Short Story.

The photo showed a woman whose make-up struggled to cover the years, let alone the rest. She clung proudly to a rough looking teen I assumed was her son. The little treasure himself wore a glare that said, ‘Don’t you dare even think about fucking my mum.’

I swiped right.

Game on, ladies.

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50/50 share in proceeds for Northern lass and Southern lad able to match mouth noises to written symbols

Red Roger Red Hat's White House
The colour of Roger Red-hat’s hat is not a trick question but with no mention of his face, I coloured that red too – thinking outside the box, you see, means sometimes colouring outside the lines. On the next page, my teacher used my pencil to write in large letters that Roger lives in a white house then watched as I traced over each letter with my red felt-tip pen. Pleased, she moved on to another child in the class and left me to draw Roger’s house. Once satisfied, I put down my pencil and picked up my red crayon. As Pollock described it, ‘When I am in my painting, I’m not aware of what I’m doing.’ There is no hesitation in those crayon strokes, just the determination of a willful boy with none of the doubt that would come to define him as a man. While I am incredibly fortunate to have this piece as a testament to an innocence once truly free, there does remain, however, one nagging concern with regard to the difficulty Red headed Roger Red-hat’s wife would have faced whenever looking for him in that red house. In retrospect, my mother clearly wasn’t hitting me hard or often enough.

How’s your reading? Does it give you headaches? Perhaps you need glasses. Do your lips move? Doesn’t matter, because I need a couple of people who can match the noises coming out of their mouths with the corresponding symbols on the pages of a book, just like back when books were thrilling accounts of all manner of adventures  which people in coloured hats were having. Continue reading “50/50 share in proceeds for Northern lass and Southern lad able to match mouth noises to written symbols” →

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Without Form and Void

wfav blog lrg

Here we go again.

What began as All But One of Those Lights in the Sky are Dead and very nearly became Fucking Danish Girls sorted itself out once I’d started pretending to be an unhinged lesbian living in the future. I hope it’s as enjoyable to read as it was to write.

Paperback out now; eBook too (with dodgy looking preview—cheers, Amazon.)

Thanks for reading xX

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