he's alive

The coast guard found him yesterday two miles off the coast of Ibiza. The poor sod had drifted 62 miles before they caught up with him. He was in a bit of a state apparently, suffering from 3rd degree burns and shock. He had a touch of the old starvation too on account of not having anything to eat for 8 days. He’d had nothing to drink either which only added to his troubles. He should be dead by all accounts. No way to spend your holiday is it? Poor sod. Still, at least he’s safe, that’s the main thing. It could have been a lot worse if you ask me.
They took him to the burns unit in Alcoy. Apart from his dopey bemuda shorts he’d not had on any protection from the sun. Always get factored up, that’s my motto, especially when you're out at sea. It’s a hard lesson to learn.
He’s refusing to see me at the moment, which I think is a bit harsh but he'll come round. Mark's spoken to him. I do not understand that at all - agreeing to see Mark and not me. That miserable face is the last thing I'd want to see if i'd just come round after 10 hours of reconstructive surgery. (It had been necessary for the surgeons to operate straight away to save what they could of Frasers face. According to Mark they'd had to use bits of Fraser’s arse to make him a new nose).
Marky boy – I've personally seen that miserable fucker in a new light since we've been on holiday. The bloke’s a lost cause. All he does is mope about all day reading self-help books. Have a lager for fucks sake. Lighten up. Anyone would think it was him that got burnt. Imagine how Fraser feels mate. Have some fucking compassion why don't you. Those books he reads? The first one he read was just after Christmas. His cousin got it for him. It was called ‘The Tree of Happiness.” He liked that so much he went and bought the next book in the series … “Climbing up the Tree of Happiness.” Apparently that’s better than the first one. Now he’s reading another one. This one’s got an even longer name than the first. “Making yourself at home at the top of the fucking tree of Happiness” or something like that. From what I can tell he’s spent £40 odd quid on the tree of happiness books and is more miserable now than ever. Oh well … as long as he’s happy!

the clarksons

Fraser’s mum and dad got here about midday. Fraser’s brother Clive was with ‘em. Clive is a bald version of Fraser. He’s never had any luck on the hair front Clive. He was born ginger which is always annoying but then to top it all he went completely bald at the age of 22 the poor sod. It’s like … fucking hell … leave me alone.
It was obvious to me straight away that Clive was here on a freeman’s. Him and Fraser couldn’t stand the fucking sight of each other so you knew he wasn’t here out of brotherly love. He was here for the booze and the duty free. And it didn’t take a breath test to see that he was already 4 sheets to the fucking wind.
Fraser’s dad Roger is a small gnome headed bloke who’s always got a fucking tale to tell. He’s had more adventures than Baron Munchausen that cunt. Anything you’ve done you can guarantee that he’s done it and done it a lot more times than you have. I mean the famous people he’s met would put Michael Parkinson to shame. According to Roger he was actually the first person on the scene when Douglas Bader crashed his plane. A remarkable feat considering he was still 2 years short of being born at the time. Also, he loves the fact that he’s the only one alive who knows where Lord Lucan is due to the fact that he was privy, via a cross line, to a conversation the old etonian had on the phone with someone a few days before he vanished.
The mum’s a sweet old girl, one of them Pauline Fowler type of a lady. Probably a bit of a looker in her day to be fair.
The interesting thing here is that neither of ‘em have ginger hair. This is a bit disturbing when you think that both Fraser and Clive are carrot tops. What is fucking even more remarkable is the pictures on the wall at their house. The evidence is there for all to see. A big old family portrait dominates one wall of their living room. There’s about 17 people in the picture and guess what … there’s only 3 ginger people amongst them. There’s Fraser … Clive of course… and … dad’s brother … Uncle Dave. I mean this jolly old ginger-nut makes Patsie Palmer look blonde. I once said to Fraser, for a laugh, here Fraze, how come you look the spitting image of your uncle Dave?
“I don’t.” He said.
“You fucking do mate, take it from me,” I said back.
I remember the conversation well because we were down the grapes at the time and Fraser went off home with the hump. They can’t take a fucking joke my mates. None of em.

still missing

Fraser's mum and and Dad are on their way over this morning. i phoned them last night. In fact they'll probably be here any minute. I told them to hold off for a bit but they weren't having any of it. They blame me I can tell.
I shouldn't have phoned them really, but I was pissed up, got a bit emotional and that, saw the phone in the reception at the hotel, and before I knew it I was dialing the number.
"You're a bastard mate," said Mark when I told him back at the hotel.
"What's the matter with you miserable bollocks?" I said.
"I can't believe you went and told Fraser's mum that you think he's drowned."
"I didn't say 'I think he fucking drowned' you clown."
"What did you say to her then?"
"Eh?"
"What did you say to her?"
"Well, I told her he took his lilo out for a paddle this afternoon and nobody's seen him since."
"Oh you told them the truth then?"
"Oh why don't you turn over fart yourself to sleep."
"He didn't take his lilo out though did he Marshal? ."
"What are you saying?"
"You fucking dragged him out on it when he was having a sleep."
"For a joke, yeah … "
"Well it's a joke that has backfired pal wouldn't you say."
"It's not my fucking fault."
"Well whose fault is it exactly."
"Eh? I don't know. It's nobody's fault. Any normal bod would have woke up - bobbing about in the fucking waves and that."
"Oh, so it's Fraser's fault."
"You said that not me."
"I give up."
"Give up? I couldn't give a luke and matt goss what you fucking think to be honest."
We stared at eachother for a few minutes before Mark turned over and faced the wall. I was fucking fuming. There's no way I was fucking kipping here with this fucking twonk. I got up and went and slept by the pool. I don't know why it was me that had to fucking well sleep outside though. It was that cunt what started it. He's lucky I'm fucking tired or I'd have had him is all I can say.

Lost at Sea

House of Fraser vanished today. Lost at sea. I blame myself which is hardly surprising seeing as it was my fault.
We had a few liveners this morning in ‘the Scotsman bar’ (renowned in benidorm for its huge collection of signed Jockey Wilson photographs) and then headed off to the beach for a siesta before tonight’s fun and games. Fraser went off to the shop and I was the only one awake when he came strolling back with a red and white striped blow-up sun-bed under his arm. I made-out I was asleep. I did this partly because I was worried that if he saw I was awake he’d want a chat and people would know we were together, (I’d already suffered enough embarrassment for one holiday) and also because I could feel a prank coming on.
I had one eye open as he plonked the inflatable under an umbrella and settled down for a kip. It was just too good an opportunity to miss, an itch that just had to be scratched. I waited until I was sure he was asleep, (didn’t take long – he was pissed) then I got up, had a bit of a stretch, grabbed hold of the end of his Lilo and dragged it and Fraser down to the water.
I dipped my foot in. It was cold but I braved it and actually went in as far as my balls before I handed him over to the gods.
I made my way back to dry-land and I’d no sooner sat down than these two Swedish stunners cat-walked past. Fuck me, they were gorgeous – tall and graceful, golden hair flowing behind them in that dreamy way like it does in them shampoo ads, skin as smooth as the head on a pint of Boddingtons. Lovely. Like a couple of mermaids.
I gave a whistle, couldn’t help it, and low and be-fucking-hold one of them only smiled back at me. At least I think it was a smile. It might have been a grimace to be fair – the sun was in my eyes so I couldn’t see properly. Who the fuck cares? My point is that they were a distraction and when I turned back to start enjoying Fraser’s misfortune he was nowhere to be fucking seen.
Shit!
If this was a scene from a film it’d be that one in Jaws where old Chief Brody’s on the beach and the camera whooshes toward him and he’s got a look on his face like he’s just seen a shark eating a little kid, which he has to be fair.
I always felt for the old chief in that scene. It weren’t his fucking fault the kid had been eaten. It was that fucking major the money-grabbing bastard.
It was about this time that I woke up the lads, told them what I’d done, they started fucking have a go, calling me a cunt and that. I told them all to fuck off and if they wanted it I’d take the fucking lot of them at once. Mark said we should pull together and leave the arguing to after we’d found Fraser.
“Any time … any fucking place,” I tells him.
There was a huge pier of rock down the beach a bit. It went out about 200 meters. I thought that maybe Fraser was hiding behind that, attempting a wind-up or something. I wouldn’t put it past that cunt. Anyway, I sent Souness out there to have a look.
I was starting to get nervous. For starters, Fraser can’t swim. I know because he accidentally let it slip yesterday when me and John were about to throw him in the deep end of the swimming pool at the hotel.
Souness reached the end of the pier looking as ridiculous as ever even from that far out with his silly perm and what-have-you. He looked like a lollypop for fucks sake. He shook his head. Fraser wasn’t there. Shit!.
We’ve looked fucking everywhere for him. I thought at one stage that maybe he’d cottoned on to my prank early and was winding me up. Maybe he’d managed to get back to dry-land whilst I was distracted by them two birds. Maybe he’s headed off to a bar or back to the hotel or something. But it's been about 4 hours and there’s still no sign of him. It’s getting late now and I’m totally worried. I think I’ll pop down the Scotsman, see if he’s in there. I’ll have to bell his mum and dad sooner or later - let them know the worst. Then again I don’t want to worry them. It’s a tricky fucking situation this. I mean, what do you say to them … “Oh I don’t want worry you Mrs Clarkson but you I think your son Fraser might have drowned.”

Fucking hell.

That daft Souness is still at the beach looking for him. What can you do?

Breakfast

Just went for something to eat in the cantina. What a shit-hole. I might as well have been having breakfast in Alcatraz. There was a hundred or so punters in there, mulling over plates of paella, Yes ... paella for breakfast. I had porridge. (to keep in the spirit of the place). I've never tasted food like it. The thing is i can't afford to eat anywhere else. I've only got about £350 and that's for me beer.

The Hotel

Bring to mind the worst place you've ever been to in your life.
Got it? Good. Because I’d just like to set the scene a little by saying that the place you’re thinking of is paradise compared to the Hotel Orange in Benidorm.
I slept during the flight out. I always do. I hate flying. I hate being off the ground for any length of time at all to be fair. I don’t even like going upstairs at home. Besides, flying from Liverpool I couldn’t help but fear the worst – that there might be a scally-pilot at the helm; this in itself was never going to be the incentive needed for my staying awake.
We made it through customs with minimal fuss and boarded the coach at Alicante in pretty good mood. I sat besides Mark. He was waffling on about how good he felt getting out of England, how this was just the sort of change of scene he needed to get himself out of himself, should have done it ages ago, and all that bollocks. Wishful thinking I thought. You’re just kidding yourself mate. Anybody could tell just by looking at him that Mark was as suicidal as ever and two weeks in benny-dorm was hardly likely to change things. Probably the reverse when you think of the downer he was certain to cop at end of a fortnight on the piss with me.
None of us knew exactly where in Benidorm our hotel was situated. Neither had we seen a picture of it. All we knew was that it was called the Orange Hotel.
Usually I’m pissed off because I always end up in ‘the last to be dropped off’ group of bods, one of the twats at the back, stopping at one hotel after another, wondering if the next one’s going to be yours, wondering if they’re even aware you’re on the fucking coach at all.
This time I wasn’t one of the last. I was one of the first.
When our Hotel come into view the first thing I thought was … ‘No’.
The second thing I thought was ‘Oh god … please no’.
Like I said I hadn’t seen a picture of our hotel. I hadn't thought to ask for one. But I knew straight away this was where we were staying. How did I know that?
It was probably because it was shaped like a huge fucking Orange?
I actually wanted to die in that moment. I mean it. I wanted to fucking die.
As we pulled up outside our fellow travellers were busy pointing at the absurd orange monstrosity that was our new home and saying things like … "Look at that horrible fucking big orange thing." and "Thank god I'm not staying there."
The rest of the passengers were laughing so much that they couldn't say anything.
On top of that we were sitting at the back of the coach (out of habit) so it wasn't even as if we could sneak out undetected.
"Hotel Orange!" said the rep.
"That's us," shouted Souness, without a fucking care in the world.
Cunt!
All eyes turned our way. I thought I'd smile but when I tried my face didn’t respond. I felt like the world had just told a joke and I was the fucking punch-line.
Giggles and sniggers followed us down the aisle.
Souness led the way, or rather his ‘tache did, drawing attention to us like an hairy spot on a page-three bird. It was just as he was stepping off the coach that the daft scally tripped, tumbled forward and landed head first on the pavement outside. There was a horrible cracking sound as his face hit the concrete.
But even that didn't cheer me up.
I stepped over him and hurried into reception where I was greeted by what I can only describe as the ugliest looking Pedro in Spain. Imagine a prune. Now picture it with eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Now if you can envision that moving and breathing you will have some idea of what this bloke’s better looking brother would look like.
The place stunk of stale farts, damp towels, and cheap coffee. Off in the corner a hairy bloke in a greasy pair of union Jack shorts was feeding coins into an ‘Only Fools & Horses’ fruit-machine. Every four or five goes the machine would say ‘lovely jubbly’ at which time the bloke would kick the machine and tell it to fuck off.
I could hear laughing from somewhere and I looked outside to see several old codgers of all shapes and sizes sitting round a swimming pool watching as two high-spirited fat woman with sweaty faces had hold of a skinny old sod of about seventy and were about to lob him in the deep-end. They’d dragged him to pool-side, one holding his feet, the other holding his head. He was shouting something unintelligible (if I had to guess I’d say it was probably the words ‘help me’) and was looked seriously petrified. There was a third woman, fatter even than the first two and equally as sweaty, who was holding a pint glass in one hand and what I can only think must have been the old boys pants in the other.
Suddenly they started the countdown. 1 and 2 and 3. On 3, ignoring his shouts of “I can’t swim,” they slung the poor old duffer in the deep end and mooched off toward the dubious looking bar for some refreshments. God knows what happened to that old guy. I ain’t seen him around the place since. Maybe he’s at the bottom of the pool. Fuck knows. I ain’t ventured out there and to be honest I’m not likely too.
Mark and Carl brought Souness in between them, blood spilling from his nose, down his shirt-front and onto the floor. They plonked him down on a dusty old armchair next to a sofa where two old boys were playing dominoes or something that resembled it. Something small scurried out from under the chair, shot across the moth-eaten carpet and disappeared behind a pair of brown tattered curtains.
I looked at Souness sitting there behind a mess of blood and moustache. It was souness's sister who booked us in here. I should have fucking known better. When you're looking forward to having a good time you can always count on a fucking scouser to spoil things.
Eventually we were shown up to our rooms. I was sharing with House of Fraser, Mark and John. Souness, Carl and Lamps were in the room next door.
I dropped my case and went and locked myself in toilet where I comforted myself with a hefty shit and a cry.

Today's the day

Today's the day then. Benidorm here we come. Lock up your daughters that's what I say. I'm meeting the lads in an hour at the station. It's my first holiday for years. Stan's still got the arsehole because of the windows and that but i could not give a sterling fucking moss. He should count himself lucky he can still breathe after a fall like that. You'd think he'd be savouring every minute of life considering he should be dead, but no, not that miserable bastard. Sod him. I'm going to spain and i'm going to have it fucking large! I've got about monkey (£500) spending money which I'm not sure is going to last but I'll just have to play it by ear. I had to borrow £400 off my mum. I was a bit surprised when I checked my savings last night and discovered I only had a ton to take with me. I thought for sure I'd saved more than that. Still, I'm a virgin to this saving money lark, and a ton's not bad for starters I reckon.

My old man's doing my head in. Then again, when is he not doing people's heads in the miserable old fucker.

Last night, we're sitting in the front room with Ham, Egg & Chips when the old cunt decides he's got something to say ...

"So when do you plan on paying that money back?" says Dad, splling egg all down his chin.
"What's it got to do with you?" I says.
"It's my house, that's what it's got to do with me."
"Not it's not."
"Yes it is."
"It's not. It's the councils."
"Same thing."
"How is it?"
"It's my fucking house!"
"Well it's my house as well then?"
"It's not your fucking house."
"I'm living here."
"Yeah, don't I fucking no it."
"I pay part of the rent."
"What £10 a week."
"It's all I can afford at the moment."
"You are having a fucking laugh boy" he says but by then I've had enough of the old bastard. Always spoiling things he is. I head off to the kitchen, finish my dinner, then fuck off down down the pub for a shandy.

Benidorm!

We're all of to benidorm for a fortnight. Have it! Me, Mark, Carl, John, House of Fraser, Souness and Lamps. We had to let that dummy head souness come on account of it's his sister who got us the cheapo flights. She works for some travel agent in hubcap-land and she's sorted us out tickets at £50 sovs a pop each return. Which can't be bad. The only thing is we have to get the flight from John Lennon airport in Liverpool which is a killer. We fly out Saturday. It's a bit sudden but I'm looking forward to it. I'll try and keep the site updated whilst I'm there but I wouldn't hold your breath. I can't wait.

Stan's a bit pissed off because nobody'll be doing the windows. He's only just give me my job back after the ladder incident so he's not best pleased.
"I need a break Stan. I reckon i've earned it," i tell him
"you've only been working a fortnight," he says.
There must be a point he's trying to make somewhere but I can't fucking well see it.

poor uncle stan

My Uncle Stan's in hospital. Fell 2 floors on to solid concrete. I blame myself. Which is not surprising seeing as it was me that pulled the ladder away. It was just meant to be a joke though, a practical joke, but it backfired on me. They do sometimes practical jokes. I'm gutted though. But he's going to be alright so there's no major harm done. That's what the quack said anyway. Uncle Stan won't see me. Reckons I'm sacked. I think he's going a bit overboard there, I mean, you'd think at his age he'd at least know how to take a joke. It could have been worse at the end of the day. He could have broke both of his legs and all of his ribs. Should count himself lucky in some ways. I blame the drink. I'd have thought twice if I'd have been sober but it was Friday lunchtime, he'd just weighed me out with my wages, and I'd popped in the grapes for a few. Ended up getting a bit carried away and doing 5 pints of stella in an hour. When I got back I was brimming with it. Stan didn't notice because he was already back to work and up the ladder. Or rather, he'd stepped off the ladder and was standing on a window ledge 2 floors up. It was then I pulled it away. I thought he'd notice and the most that'd happen was that he'd get a little riled. He didn't notice. He just stepped blindly out into space with nothing but a 40 ft drop for the poor sod to look forward too. I tried to whip the ladder back under him but it was too late. All I succeeded in doing was lumping the poor sod in the head with it, just adding to his injuries. He hit the concrete like a sack of lead. He didn't move for ages and I thought he was a goner. They brought him round in the ambulance and like I said … he's doing alright now.

on a happier note ... it's grabba granny tonight down at the beta club. looking forward to that. always a nice few painted ladies in there who are up for a waltz. whey hey!

pised up

i#m as pised and afufcking cunt. the lunchtime blues whey hey. now arh im,ean.
whey heyyyyyyyyyyy! leth em fuckign ehavit.

it's not as bad as it loks mind.

i jthnk this will look good tommorwo ehtn i'm sober all fu kin gartistic and tgat.
narti imean.

whjeyyyyyyyyyyy hey!

me mate mark's blog

me mate mark (the depressed one) has now got his own blog. copying me really, to be fair, but I'm all for sharing so here's a link to it
http://markduggan.blogspot.com

creature

this window cleaning lark's alright. i can see it being a bit of a killer in winter mind.
stan's a funny old sod. keeps repeating himself all the time. i think he's short terms memory is going though. still, he's a demon with a shammy leather. and he's runs up and down them ladders like a demented chimp. he's fucking fearless. where i'll do a window up top and have to come down and move my ladder to get to the next window across, stan'll just fucking grab onto the guttering or a drain pipe and swing across like a mad creature. holding on with one hand. and he looks like a mad creature too. he's got long shaggy white hair, long fingernails, big red lips, chalky white skin, a tatty old rugby top that he reckons brings him good luck, three quarter length shorts and national health specs. from a distance he looks like some sort of demonic scarecrow. then there's his eating and drinking habits. all he does is drink coke and eat mars bars all day long. i said to him the other day, "you want to watch all that coke you drink stan, it'll rot your teeth." he just smiled, revealing the ugliest decayed set of canines I'd ever seen.

own goal

Is it me or are all my mates a french-frie short of a happy meal? I know I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, I do, honestly, but just listen to this … i was bored shitless yesterday so I went and watched my mate dazza play football for his pub side. Now dazza's not your run of the mill idiot, he's more sort of subtly daft if you get my drift, or at least that was what I thought until yesterday when there was plainly zero subtleness to his actions. The daz-man is someone I don't see that often. He used to live local but had it on his toes to canvey island about 3 years back. He called me Saturday night out the blue and told me he was playing nearby the next day and I was welcome to pop by and cheer him on. I said no because to be honest I couldn’t be fucked. Then he told me there was a cheap bar at the ground so realising how selfish I was being I had no option but to change my mind and say yes. I wish I hadn't. And I wish he hadn't introduced me to his team-mates before the game either. After what he done I felt daft for just knowing him. To be fair to him … he left it late on before bungling things up. with the score at 3-3 late in the second half, dazza's team - 'the Royal Oak', - were just starting to get into their stride, pile on a bit of pressure, when the opposition, 'the swan', broke through on the counter attack. They sent a long ball souring over the heads of the two centre backs leaving the left back, which just so happened to be the daz-meister, as the only remaining defender. Dazza seemed to read the pass well and he pounced on the striker who panicked and quickly tried to lob the keeper from distance. The bloke miss-hit completely and the ball floated up in the air harmlessly for dazza to head to safety. Dazza though had other plans and for reasons known only to himself he decided that that would be a good time to head the ball over his own goalkeepers head. But even then it appeared the gods were smiling and had decided to give dazza a reprieve, a chance to save himself and his team from certain defeat because as the ball floated over the keepers head it was quickly apparent that it was going to fall a few feet short of goal. And seeing as dazza, aka billy whizz, had the striker beat for pace by about a yard it looked a cert he'd reach the ball and blast it to safety. But why play things simple when you can make a total cunt of yourself. Blast the ball to safety? Not me thinks the dazster and with a dopey jump he stumbled and headed the ball into the roof of his own net. me, his stunned team mates and the touchline spectators looked on in disbelief. After 10 mins we realised jeremy beadle wasn’t going to show up and this wasn’t a laugh. I don't know if dazza went to the pub after. he probably did knowing him. I didn't.

ok. it's only a football match i hear you say, and not even an important one at that, but that's besides the point. the point i'm trying to make here is that this is not a one off event. It’s not. i've been looking closely at my life in the past few weeks and what might seem an insignificant and trivial event to the likes of you is, to me, painfully further indication that all of my friends are arseholes.

job

I've got a start! window cleaning with my mums brother, uncle Stan. things are looking up. I start today. can't believe i'm up this early though, 5am. it's the middle of the night for fuck sake. stan's picking me up at 5:40. he's alright stan. in his late 50's. bit quiet, into himself and that, but he's alright. £30 a day cash in hand which can't be bad. I need to keep my head down for a bit, keep out the pubs and that, save a few quid for a rent deposit and get myself out of this daft house.

time to grow up!

me old fellow

I'm back living with mum and dad. jesus, I've lived in more homes than Oliver Twist. Me sister and Graham have slung me out for digging up his mum. How the fuck was I to know they'd sprinkled her ashes under the apple tree in the back garden? [see short story link "groundforce" below for a full account of events].
The thing is ... I don't know how long I can live under the same roof as my old fellow. The bloke drives me round the fucking bend. It'll end up either he'll kill me with his nagging or I'll kill him with a sharp sabatier kitchen knife. the moment I set a foot in the door he's on me. It was alright when I was a kid because he was never there. Now, all he does is disagree with everything I say. The bloke is always right about everything … always. He just nags nags nags. and there's never a break from him. he's always in the house. he never goes out with his mates anymore because he hasn't got any mates anymore. he just sits there, disagreeing with everything everyone says.

the scariest thing of all though is ... I can see myself in the old bastard.

Ground-Force

(spankin' new short story ... "Ground-Force"... click here)