I really thought I’d witnessed something miraculous this morning. In my own kitchen.
I like my coffee hot and the one I had made earlier had just begun to cool a little. It was still pretty hot but needed 20 seconds in the microwave, just to get it right. I popped it in, set the dial and waited for the ping. When I took the coffee out, it was stone cold. Well, not stone cold, but room temperature and a lot colder than it was when I’d put it in.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. I know enough about physics and how microwaves work to know that what I’d just seen was simply not possible. I pinched myself, not asleep. I tasted the coffee again, still cold. My heart started to race as my mind tried to figure out what had happened.
I peered into the oven, unsure of what I was looking for, when it struck me. At the back was a mug of coffee that I had placed in there last night to heat up and had then forgotten about. During the 20 seconds, the turntable had revolved by half a revolution and the two mugs had changed places.
“This play is really boring.”
“They can’t hear us.”
“Shush! It’ll be over soon.”
“I don’t know what’s going on.”
“It’s your line.”
thanks to cowards for this
God has a lot of names: God, Allah, Jehovah, Brahma, Waheguru and Akumba, to name just a few.
Personally, I think that there are 7,058,953,712 names for god, at least there were when I last checked.
I don’t normally do book reviews but ‘In Her Own Words’ (part of the ‘Soul Destruction’ series) by Ruth Jacobs is such a moving and honest account of the sex industry that I simply had to give it a shout out.
Ruth studied prostitution in the late 1990s, which sparked her interest in the subject. Her novels dispel the ‘happy hooker’ myth and expose the dark world and the harsh reality of life as a call girl. She draws on her research and the women she interviewed for inspiration. She also has first-hand experience of some of the topics she writes about, such as post traumatic stress disorder and drug and alcohol addiction.)
Ruth explains what her work is about far better than I could:
In Her Own Words… Interview with a London Call Girl is the unedited transcript from an interview I undertook with a London call girl in the late 1990s. It is an enlightening and moving, first-hand account of a woman’s life affected by prostitution, exposing the emotional, psychological and social effects of living that existence. All royalties from this publication are being donated to Beyond the Streets, a charity helping women exit prostitution.
This charity publication and the cause is very close to my heart, partly because the woman I
interviewed was a very dear friend, a wonderful person, and who had a terribly sad life, with
childhood sexual abuse and then being pimped on the streets from the age of fifteen. As
she is no longer alive, this is the reason I wanted the royalties to be donated to Beyond the
The stigma a significant section of society has against prostitutes and prostitution is mainly
due to lack of knowledge. 75% of prostitutes have been sexually and physically abused as
children, 70% have experienced multiple rapes, and 67% meet the criteria for posttraumatic
stress disorder, which is a major cause of suicide.
With this publication, I hope to show the reality of life for women working in prostitution,
the effects it has on them psychologically, emotionally, in relationships with men, how they
are viewed and how they feel they are viewed by society as outsiders and outcasts, often
judged and looked down on. Seeing them as real people, with real feelings, and acquiring
an insight into their tormented childhoods and painful present lives, allows people who are
not in that life to gain an informed perception of who these women really are, and with that
knowledge, are less likely to judge but instead develop compassion.
Extract from “In Her Own Words… Interview with a London Call Girl”
From a young age, from like being fifteen, I’ve been hardened to it. The first…when I first
started doing it, I cried my eyes out every day and just scrubbed myself in bleach and…I felt
like I’d been raped. It was just…it really screwed my mind up. And there’s this feeling when
you get…when you’re with a client and it’s like sometimes when you feel like…you grab your
fists and it’s like, “Get off me! Get off me!” And it’s like…you know you can’t push them off
you, right? Because you know you’re getting paid for it. So it’s basically allowing yourself to.
be raped, right? But you can’t even fight them back or say, “Get off me.” It’s like…and you
cry while it’s happening and all this shit, and you go home and you cry yourself to sleep after
all that shit, and it happens to you a lot of times until eventually that feeling goes away,
and that feeling…you don’t get that feeling anymore. It gets less and less and less. And you
become hardened in your like…your heart and your soul to it, and this is when you get the
hatred for the men.
To find out more about Ruth Jacobs and her Soul Destruction series of novels visit
The entire city of London, it would seem, has become obsessed by the Olympics. Now, while I’m delighted by team GB’s successes, I gotta admit that I have been more absorbed by an alternative sporting event, the Cunnilympics, which is held every four years in the Twat and Merkin pub, down the Old Bent Road. Like the original Ancient Greek version, Cunnilympic events are performed naked, although, unlike the originals, they consist mostly of contestants performing athletic, and sometimes dangerous, sexual acts. There are parallel bar events and ring events and several kinds of marathon. There are sprints and shooting and a very interesting variation on weight lifting, and this year synchronised masturbation was included in this venerable (venereal surely: ED) sporting line up. The Cunnilympic version of the pole vault is probably the most dangerous event and, after table tennis, was always my favourite, until this year that is, when I was able to get tickets to the men’s relay final and the heavyweight cock wrestling.
Four teams of strapping, naked and erect young men, from America, Russia, Great Britain and China, stand in the centre of the arena, in front of an audience of mostly women and gay men and wait for the starting gun, all of them stiff and twitching in anticipation. The idea of the competition is for each athlete to grasp their neighbour’s ‘baton’ and bring them to orgasm, at which point the neighbour grabs his neighbour’s cock and so on until all four contestants have come, the first team to have all their athletes blow their loads, being declared the winners.
The instant the starting pistol fires, four powerful hands grasp four pulsing pricks and start furiously pumping them up and down. The Chinese get off to a flying start with How Hee Cum squirting a thick streak of jiz over the back of the Russian reigning champion, Boris Jerkov in just under 20 seconds. Next to come is the American Mark Spurtz, who, despite his nine inch member has been training hard for up to eight hours a day, and as he comes into his partners face he shouts “God bless America!” and turns expertly to grab Joe Spunks twitching prick. The British are in a close third place and catching up fast as Bradley Cummings lighting fast fist coaxes several hot, thick squirts of cum from Robin Bellend’s tiny but potent shaft. Then disaster strikes as Paul Bollokov slips in a puddle of Karl Kumova’s semen and drops his baton, earning the Russians instant disqualification. After one minute forty-eight seconds the Americans and Chinese are neck, and neck and Cum So Fa and Dick Seaman start to shoot their goo together. Its going to take a careful examination of the slo-motion replay to decide this one, and as they both grunt and jerk their way to conclusion and glory, the crowd cheer “Come on Britian!” and they do.
Still sticky with sweat and each other’s juces, the team captains mount the podium, erect with pride, as the queen herself hangs their medals on their throbbing members. The crowd go wild and get ready for the heavyweight cock wrestling, where two amazingly well endowed athletes will clash cocks until one of them becomes flaccid.
Now, I’ve voted Labour all me life, jus’ like my old man did. I mean, its the party of the workin’ class, ain’t it? Can’t stand them Tory cunts, all posh an’ that. So, you can imagine my fucking ‘orror then, when this posh cunt turns up at my fuckin’ door, tellin’ me ‘e’s my Labour member of fuckin’ parliamnent. I mean, this cunt’s more middle-classed than the fuckin’ queen, the cunt. Know what I mean?
An’ ‘e’s all bangin’ on about them air-to-surface missiles the army got up on our roof for the ‘lympics an’ that, an’ ‘ow that makes us a target for terrorist attacks, an’ ‘ow that violates our ‘uman rights and shit. Now Mickey’s on the Wii an’ everyfin’, but ‘e knows that if ‘e ‘ears me screamin’ the word ‘cunt’ for more than a coupla minutes at some mother-fucker, then ‘is attendance is required. ‘e ‘splains to this little wank stain just ‘ow much ‘e loves ‘avin’ our brave boys on the roof, an’ ‘ow ‘e loves to take ‘is youngest up there to look at all them uniforms and guns and stuff, ‘ow proud ‘e feels. I keep me mouf shut about ‘ow we’ve been floggin’ them boys with the S-to-A crack and ice and acid and let Mickey just tell ‘im that no tree-huggin’, bi-fuckin-sexual like ‘im can ever represent the workin’ man. Know what I mean?
Any’ow this ‘omo Cambridge cunt comes out with all this “…but even if we did intercept a genuine terrorist threat, the plane those chaps shot down would still, nevertheless, crash into a residential area, killing hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent people.”
“Yeah,” I point out, “poor people though, not dignitaries or celebrities, but people what don’t matter!” and while I’m wondering just what it is they teach these cunts at uni-fuckin-versity, i catch Mickey, out of the corner of me eye, searchin’ ‘is pockets for a blade. Now, I don’t wanna see some politician sliced up on me own doorway, that just ain’t democratic, if you know what I mean. So I send Mickey back to the console and deal with the situation meself.
I coulda been a good politician, I reckon. I only had to dangle that cunt over the balcony, by his ankles for 8.5 seconds before ‘e done what politicians call a U-turn. That’s faster than what Usain Bolt run the 100 metres. Know what I mean?
Customer service is not really something we do well in Britain, its not something we do at all, if I’m honest. Often you can purchase items from a store without a single word being shared with the cashier. The girl in my local store is permanently on her phone and the only contact we share is the angry glare she will shoot at me for having attempted to interrupt her.
I imagine that this is something that would infuriate a lot of Americans, it infuriates a lot of Brits too but not me. I think its funny and very British. I hear that outside of London things are different (I try to avoid leaving London, if I can at all help it), but here, that’s how we do things: I buy my shit, you sell me it, there’s no need to suck each other’s dicks on the way.
Sometimes, on the rare occasions that some chirpy little dicksplash behind a till, grins at me and says “Good morning Sir! How are you today?” I like to fuck with his, or her, head and respond with something like,
“Well, my dog died and my wife left me and I’ve been diagnosed with bollock cancer, and I lost my job and am on my way to my best friend’s funeral. How are you?”
The other day I was smoking a joint with a friend on the canal tow path when a tourist laden barge chugged past us. Two beaming children were waving at everybody from their window seats. My friend and I didn’t even have to look at each other to know what to do, and with what must have looked like choreographed synchronisity, we flipped them off.
Sometimes though, we do have our moments, times when customer and cashier connect and share a little something. I experienced two such moments today. The air vent in my living room window was broken. I had no idea what I should ask for or what size I needed, so I unscrewed it and took it to the hardware store with me. “Do you sell these?” I asked the old guy behind the counter, plonking it down.
“Dirty, broken ones?” he replied, “I’m afraid not Sir.”
After purchasing my shiny new window vent, I popped into the pub on the way home and ordered a Virgin Mary. The barmaid wanted to know if I wanted Worcester sauce with it. I did, and as she held this gigantic bottle of sauce over my glass and shook it, to tease a drop or two into my drink, the top popped off and Worcester sauce flooded my glass and gushed all over the bar, pouring over the edge and onto the sawdust coated floor. She looked at me, smiled and asked “That enough?”