Back!

So that's me back in blighty then. Nothing much has changed as far as i can tell. Everyone's still fucking moaning. I'm stopping with me mum and dad for a while till i suss things out on the old neighbour front, i.e. is anybody talking to me yet. Am i forgiven and all that? It's not like i actually killed them on purpose isit? Just a series of unfortunate events. Accidents. Still. People round here interpret things however they fucking want to so we'll just have to wait and see.

i've been living in spain for the past few months

working in a bar. benidorm. sun sea and sangria. i love it out here. the owner, stan, a ringer for chas out of chas & dave. Or it might be dave he looks like. i can't tell the difference. he's an old mate of me dads from years back. i've got him to invest in a kareoke machine and we do 3 evenings a week. i love it. i generally get the ball rolling with a few numbers while people build up the courage to get up. do a few more here and there thoughtout the night. i love singing. i was born to sing. the punters love it. at least they've never told me they don't. sometimes i think of back home, of the lads, of fraser, souness, mark, carl, john and the others but i not often. sometimes i wake up in the night. bad dreams and that. fraser, floating on a flying lilo, burnt to a fucking crisp. but i can live with it. so yeah, i've got me memorys. i phone the boy once a week. said he can come and visit me in his school holidays but he don't seem that bothered. it's her, putting fucking things in his head. thinks i'm living the life of fucking riley out here's she does. thinks i'm pissing it up every night. yeah i drink most days, and i do have a few at night, and sometimes i do go over the top during the week and at weekend but for fucks sake ... it's lonely out here.

So Long Red Rick

Red Rick's had it away on his toes, gone and formed his own band, without lee, so that's just me and Lee at the squat.

I knew Lee was totally put out by this when he woke me up this morning at Nine fucking AM. (this is pretty much the middle of the night as far as Lee's sleepy patterns are usually concerned). So he wakes me up and then proceeds to let me know in no uncertain terms that he is going out to do a bit of busking.

"Do what, i says," shocked into a semi consious state. "It's nine oclock in the morning."
"I know, i know, it's just,i'm feeling a bit restless. I thought i'd chance my arm at Covent Garden."
"What's brought this on?" i said.

But of course i knew only too fucking well what had brought this on: Red Rick had fucked off and formed his own band without telling Lee he was doing it. I mean, I know that Lee had this secret hope in which he and Red-man became the Simon & Garfunkel of Barking and no amount of piss-taking by me had ever managed to topple him from this absurd wall of fantasy he was perched upon. Then, out of the blue ... overnight, literally, Red Rick, had shot through and formed his own band.

I found this out yesterday when i bumped into Ricks brother Lorry in the bookies. (this was a bit unfortunate as i owed him a ten spot). Anyway, he tells me that Rick and his band, (Red Rick and the Roosters) already had 2 gigs lined up. One at the Robin Hood pub in Dagenham and one, in Camden, at the Bull and Gate.

Camden Town. The home of fucking rock no less. (i might have to pop along. give em some moral). The Bull & Gate? Didn't Radiohead once play there?

All of the above, as you can imagine, must of come as a bit of a shock to Lee, who'd spent every waking hour, for the last god knows how long, in the company of Red Rick. The pair of em used to sit there all day strumming their guitars and reinforcing each others delusions. The pair of em rarely ventured out the front door.

So he wakes me up. Now the thing is, i do feel for the bloke and all that, but why the fuck is he waking me up to tell me he's going busking.

"Why the fuck are you waking me up?" I says.
"I just thought i should let you know?" he says.
Is he on drugs?
"are you on drugs?" i says.
"No. I can't afford them," he says. He pauses, standing their like a spare cock at an orgy. Then he says ... "I'll tell you how i got on later shall I?"
"If you must mate," i say. I'll fucking look forward to that. Then he's off and i'm trying to get back to sleep.

souness

you know when you've hit rock bottom when souness turns up at the squat you're squatting in and starts giving you feedback on the state of your life. i mean, this is coming from a bloke with serious problems of his own know what i mean.

between you and me i don't see much of a reason for carrying on this charade of a fucking life i'm living.

depressed his a word i used to use when talking about myself when i was happy.

souness. how can i put it. it's like ... someone's knocking at your door and even though you're expecting the worse when you open it and see who's standing there you're even more dissapointed than you thought you'd be, know what i mean.

i've never met anybody who's had to go through what i have. it's mental

bruiser!

talk about a face from the fucking past. i run into an old mate today. Stevey MacHinton, aka bruiser. we were like crocket and fucking tubbs in the old days.

it was a bit embarrasing actually. we were both at the traffic lights in leytonstone high road. he was in white transit van with MacHinton and Son builders emblazoned on the side. I was standing on the pavement with a bucket and a shammy leather about to start washing his wind-sheild. We didn't recognise eachother straight away mind.

"Want your windows cleaned mate?" I mouthed at him through the window.
He wound down the window and started shouting at me ... "fuck off you peasant!"
"Only a squid," i said hopefully.
"Bollocks! Fuck off you soapy cunt."

Then he squinted. A look of recognition and then ... "Marshal, is that you?"
"Stevey?"
"Fuck me?"
(to be continued)

Squatting and that!

It's a long time since I've written anything here on account of I've been busy. Sort of finding myself really. Starting afresh after the miserable time I had of it last year. A year of aggro, one sorrowful even after another, being constantly let down by mates and shat on by family members. I've ditched all my old mates which is handy to be fair as none of them want to speak to me anymore. I've moved into a squat with two of my old old old school mates. Lee the busker and Red Rick. A couple of bennys to be fair but beggars can't be choosers. A funny couple. They just sit there all day with their guitars trying to write songs. I think they think they're the next big thing. And they ain't that bad. But what they don't seem to realize is that you actually have to go outside the house to be discovered. I've been squatting with them for 2 months and apart from a few trips down to OJO's mini-mart for a replenishment of beans - I've never seen them out of the living room.

I jacked in the window cleaning round. I couldn't face it after what happened to Stan. It just didn't seem proper carrying on after he fell to his death from a great height so that's me fucking unemployed again.

The squat's a shit-hole of an house in barking. Poxy ain't the word. We're living off beans on toast. Well beans on bread actually. There's nowhere to toast bread. But I'm happy like I said. A new lease of life and that. Some people might say drop-out. I'd say don't knock it until you've tried it.

I see Souness occasionally. Had a beer with him a couple of days ago as it happens. We talked about fraser. The good old days and the band and that.
"Do you miss him," said Souness, slurping a mouthful of hot-chocolate.
"Who?" I said.
"Fraser."
"Fraser? Oh, Fraser. Yeah yeah yeah. All the time ... you?
"No."
"So why'd you bring it up you spud?"
"Don't know really like?"

We talked for a little while and went our separate ways.

poor uncle stan

sorry i haven't written anything for a while. but I've been having a bad few weeks. my uncle stan fell out of the cradle to his untimely death. it happened the week before last. we were working on that new office contract and were up about 9 floors.

we were about to start cleaning the windows when all of a sudden the rope on my side slipped. The cradle dropped on my side and thinking on my feet i grabbed a hold of the rope, saving myself. Stan wasn't so lucky and he fell out and landed on is head 9 floors below.

so we've just had another fucking funeral.

I asked to say a few words at the church but no cunt would let me. they seem to think it was my fault. saying i mustn't have tied the rope on properly.

talk about kick a man while he's down. i've had just about enough of family.

the cradle

first day up in the old cradle with stan. i shit myself at first i don't mind telling ya. it's one of them old creaking wooden efforts with ropes and jinny wheels. you pull on your rope and your mate's side of the cradle starts up and vice-versa. it goes without saying (if you're not stuck for a brain) that it requires both of you to pull on your ropes simultaneously. that way you move up the building in unison.

basically you're pretty much putting your life eachothers hands. i mean you're counting on him not to have a heart-attack or something half way up the building because that would be the pair of you fucked.

still, we did alright first day out. cleaned two sides of the building. we do the other two sides tomorrow. i quite enjoyed it by the end to be fair. nice view out over the thames and that.

i'm quite looking forward to tomorrow.

back on the round

Uncle stan's coming back to work tommorow. He's got us a new contract cleaning the windows of an office block in wapping. we start it next week

My apprentice Charlie's gone for good. he never bothered chatting up Uncle Stan about getting his job back after I sacked him. 2 days sat at home doing fuck all he decides that is the life for him. He's now back scrounging off the social like all the rest of his good for nothing family.

I'm totally bricking it about this new office block contract. it's 12 floors up. I fucking hate heights as you know. I'm thinking of jacking to be fair. Don't know if I can handle it up in one of them cradles blowing about all over the fucking place.

the funeral

At the funeral … things went from bad to worse.
There were six of us carrying the coffin. Me, carl, mark, John, Lamps and Clive (Fraser's brother). Souness was on the subs-bench … just in case. Our instructions were simple; lift the coffin off of the hearse, walk it slowly into the crematorium and plonk it down on the old catafalque ready for the big off.

It was just as we reached the entrance to the Crematorium that the unmistakable sound of Bob Marley’s ‘I shot the sheriff started up from inside. House of Fraser had been an avid Marley fan so I suppose his mum and dad thought the song appropriate. Maybe it was. Who was I too say? All I know is that it took me totally unaware …

… and I started laughing uncontrollable.

It was just so fucking loud.

I shot the sheriff
But I didn’t shoot no deputy, oh no! oh!

“SHHHH!” said Mark … “Have some bloody respect!”
Me and Mark had been put shoulder to shoulder much to the depressed punters annoyance.
“I can’t … I can’t help it,” I spluttered.
We traipsed on, entering the crematorium itself, I tried and tried to think of unfunny things but nothing fucking worked. I was gone, just totally fucking pissing myself.

Yeah! all around in my home town,
They’re trying’ to track me down;

The crematorium was packed. Luckily, I was being shielded from the mourners by the coffin and the song was drowning out the ludicrous sounds I was making.

They say they want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy,

We kept moving. I knew that in a few moments we’d be plonking the coffin down and everyone here would be able to see me in hysterics. I was actually in fucking pain with it all. You know what it’s like … the more you struggle to keep a straight face, the worse it becomes. You’ve all been there. It’s just my luck it had to happen at a fucking funeral. Then I found myself picturing the coffin lid opening, Fraser sitting bolt upright and guitar in hand start jamming along to the song …
Sheriff john brown always hated me,
For what, I don’t know:

Oh Shit oh Shit! Fuck fuck fuck!

I have to stop laughing. Have to stop, have to stop, have to stop, have to stop, shit, shit shit.

With one big bollock of an effort I did indeed, finally, manage to stop laughing. At least on the outside. Inside I was a fucking wreck and I knew it wouldn’t take much to set me off again.

We placed the coffin on the catafalque and stood back. There were no seats left, the place was jammed, (weird because he wasn’t that popular when he was alive) so we stood against a wall facing everything.

Reflexes had got the better of me(here I go. Shit. Oh go!)
And what is to be must be:
(Don’t … Hold it)
Every day the bucket a-go a well,
(breathe)
One day the bottom a-go drop out,(think boring … news at 10 news at 10, … think, I’m henry the 8th I am henry the 8th … shoes shoes lookatme shoes, shoes shoes! Oh god )

One day the bottom a-go drop out.
It was then that the vicar walked in. The moment I clocked this prune I knew straight away that there just had to be a god. I knew this because It could only be a prankster like him that, at the very moment I’d gained some control over my hysterics, would send in a vicar who was a total ringer for Tommy Cooper. The second I saw him I totally lost it.

I had to be escorted from the fucking church.

dead

Fraser’s only gone and fucking died. Last week it happened. It’s his funeral today. His mum found him on the floor in his bedroom. Apparently he’d tripped on a rug and broken his neck. What a way to go. You survive 8 days at sea without food or water and you end up dying an idiots death. It’s typical of my friends.
Mark phoned me last night. He said he’d just spoke to Fraser’s parents and they want all of his closest friends to carry the coffin.
“For some reason they want you to be there,” he said.
“Why shouldn’t I be there?”
“It’s your fault he’s dead that’s why.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” I said, though to be fair he had a point.
“Well, if it was up to me you definitely wouldn’t be going.”
“Well it’s a good job it’s not up to you then ain’t it … Mr Happy.”
Silence now with Mark obviously annoyed and anxious that I’ve been invited to the funeral and me helping myself to a huge serving of pleasure from his discomfort.
“What’s happening after?” I said finally.
“After what?” he said.
“After the funeral? Are we going to the grapes or back to Fraser’s mum and dads house?”
“Why are you asking this?”
“I reckon they should use the grapes. Whack a few quid behind the bar.”
“I don’t believe you. Fraser’s dead and all you can think about is fucking free beer. You are a joke.”
“I’m concerned for Fraser’s mum and dad. The last thing they’re going to want to do is clean up after a party.”
“It’s not a party Marshal, it’s a funeral.”
“Oh why don’t you go and boil your fucking head,” I said before hanging up on the miserable bastard. You can always count on that cunt to try and put the mockers on things.

fraser's window

Oh I am a window cleaner
A decent honest man
With my ladder on my shoulder
And my shammy in my hand.

Back on the round then ...
Uncle Stan’s loving it. He’s still off sick. Stringing it out if you want my opinion on the matter. He’s got me an apprentice called Charlie who is a nephew on his wife’s side. Another berk to add to my collection. Charlie’s a movie nut, keeps quoting scenes from his favourite films, knows all the directors and the writers and everything. It was funny at first but he’s gone to far now.

Anyway, I was dreading going out this morning because House of Fraser’s house is on our round and things were still a bit dicey between us. Word is he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me ever again. Can you see my dilemma? He’s only been back from Spain a couple of days as well. They flew him back first class which I thought was nice. He was still in a bit of a state according to Souness who came round to see me at my mums last night. Souness is still the only one who’s talking to me so I reluctantly let him in for a chat.

“Ee’s got all bloody bandages on him and that la,” Souness said, from somewhere behind his moulting moustache.
“Who has?” I said.
“House of Fraser like.”
“Oh right.”
“Yeah, Ee looks a bloody state Marsh you know what I mean?”
“Right.”
“Looks a bit like that invisible man one.”
“Right.” I got up to make a cup of tea but thought better of it. Instead I went into the hallway and dialled my mobile phone.
“Ya mobbie’s ringing Marsh.”
“Thanks.” I said walking into the living room. I answered the phone and started talking to myself. “Yeah … yeah … yeah … right … fuck me … right … give me 5 minutes.” I hung up. “Sorry mate,” I said walking to the street door and opening it. “You’re gonna have to go mate. I’ve got urgent business to attend to.”
“No worries mate,” said Souness, smiling like the gormless scouser that he was.
“See ya,” I said, shutting the door on him.

Back to today and Fraser’s bedroom window which I’d been putting off till last. I climbed up. The curtains were open. I peered in and low and be-fucking-hold there he was, lying on the bed.
Was he crying?
God he looked bad. Like a blistered strawberry. Poor sod. He had no hair either. Bald as a fucking coot the poor sod. He was moving. His bed was at the other side of the room but I could still see his eyes were open.
Then he turned around stared straight at me.

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” he screamed. “Go awwwwwwwwway!” Then he stood up. He was stark bollock and he standing there he reminded me of Frankenstein’s monster. Suddenly his face went from fear through anger and finally to complete and utter rage and before I knew it he was rushing towards the window and me. Fraser’s bedroom had polished floorboards with a rug on it. He got halfway across the room before slipping on the rug and falling arse over tit. He fell awkward and hit his head on the side of the bed.

He didn’t move.

I looked down at Charlie who was stood at the bottom of the ladder.

“You alright,” he said.

I turned and looked back in at Fraser. Still no movement. Shit. I started down the ladder slowly.
“What?” I said.
“I said are you alright?” said Charlie.
“Never better,” I said.
“You look a bit pale.”
“Yeah. Actually, I do feel a bit dicky now you mention it. I think I’ll go home.”
“Are you not going to finish that last window,” he said.
“No.”
“I’ll do it.”
“It’s fine. It’s already clean.”
“It looks dirty from down here.”
“What the fuck would you know about cleaning windows?” I said.
“I’m just saying.”
“Leave the fucking window alone.”
“There’s no need to talk to me like that.”
“You’re sacked?”
“Eh?”
“I said you’re sacked.”
“You can’t sack me. It’s my uncle Stans round. He’s my boss.”
“Bollocks. You’re sacked. Fuck off.”
“You’ll fucking pay for this mate,” said the lanky streak of piss. Then he slung his shammy in the bucket of soapy water and kicked the bucket of soapy water all over the patio floor.
Cunt!
I slung my bucket of water over him. He screamed. “You bastard.”
“Go on, fuck off!” I said. And he did.
I went home.

air-rage

we arrived back in england a few days ago. the flight back was dreadful on account of an air-rage incident involving one of the passengers.

me.

I'd hit the vodka the moment we got to the airport and by the time I got on the plane I was wholeheartedly cabbaged. still, i would have been fine if it hadn't of been for old cheerless mark giving me filthy looks at every given opportunity.

i tried to ignore him but it was difficult as i was sitting right next to the cunt. eventually i’d had enough. i stood up to go to the toilet and accidentally elbowed the fool right in the middle of his gloomy looking boat

"you bastard … !" he said, holding his nose in a hopeless attempt to stop the blood from reaching his DaZ white chinos.

it was then i really lost it and accidentally punched him in the head about 15 times.

suddenly it all kicked off. there was lots of shouting and scuffling and before i knew what was happening i was dragged back out of my seat, up toward the front of the plane, and put in to a pair of fucking handcuffs.

i was screaming by now, calling everyone cunts, making sure they knew i was suing the fucking airline.

"I'M GONNA HAVE YOUR FUCKING JOBS!" i screamed.

i don't think they give a shit to be fair and the next thing i knew was being lifted up off the floor and plonked into a seat. i struggled to get up but my hands were cuffed behind me and once they put the seatbelt on that was me fucked.

We’d no sooner landed at heathrow than these two airport plod came storming up the aisle to escort me off the plane. i had to pass all the lads on the way to the exit: john, carl, souness, lamps and mark. all of them had their heads down. ashamed i suppose - at their betrayal of me. only souness had the courage to look up.
"do you want me to wait for you marsh?" he said.

i just ignored the potato.

i was slung in the cells to sober up. eventually a plod came in, spent about 5 minutes walking up and down, all important, like one of them inspector jack frost type of a cunts, before charging me with disorderly conduct.

"you're lucky," he said.
"am i?" i said back.
"Yes. lucky the plane wasn't diverted. you'd have copped for diversion costs as well as a fine. Still, the fine will be pretty substantial i would imagine ... "
"what would have happened if the plane had crashed?"
"i'm not sure, you'd probably have been charged ... are you taking the piss lad?"

eventually he slung me back in the cells for another hour before letting me out.

they brought me luggage over which was a touch but all-in-all i was pissed off with how the day had gone to be fair.

i just wanted to get home for a kip because i tell you one thing ... i fucking well deserved it.

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)

a chat

We have some great conversations us fellows. I just saw fraser in the chip-shop ...

me: alright?
fraser: yeah, you?
me: yeah, not bad.
fraser: good weekend?
me: yeah it was alright. you?
fraser: Yeah it was alright, yeah.
me: short week this week.
fraser: yeah. i keep forgetting it's tuesday today
me: yeah, soon be friday.
fraser: yeah.
me: See ya.
fraser: yeah, see ya.

… and that was one of our more interesting get-togethers.

and ...

there was tons of carl's family at the party, people you only see at weddings and funerals, and only then if there's a free drink in it for 'em. All of 'em standing around telling each other lies about how good they think each other looks. And they don't. none of 'em. There wasn't one single person who looked 'good for their age'. Nobody ever tells the fucking truth. Why don't they just come out and say it. "you look like you're dying uncle bill." It's all bullshit! Carl's granddad was there and at one point Carl's nan actually leant over the table to feel his pulse to see if he was still with us. What a way to live. Shove him in a home for god's sake. do yourself a favour. he won't mind. he probably won't know anything about it. you have to be cruel to be kind in my book. Then there's the obligatory taking down of phone numbers and saying, "I'll call you next week, let's not leave it another 5 years." and you actually put the fucking number in your phone, both of you, standing there, squinting through the disco lights, trying to put each others numbers in, making sure you get the last digit wrong by accident. It's a con. You know it. feel the guilt as you read this. that's because you know i'm telling the truth. we're cowards that's why. We like the idea that we're good relatives when if truth be told we couldn't give a fuck. Maybe I'm wrong but I know I'm not.

fancy dress 6

i went as clint eastwood. everyone kept coming up to me and doing john wayne impressions all fuckin' night long so i weren't happy. i felt a bit of a spud anyway as a lot of people had forked out top dollar for their costumes. i'd made me own as you know.I'd meant to spend a bit of time on it but i couldn't on account of i was out on the piss on saturday night. spent most of sunday in bed. woke up about 6:30 pm. the party started at 7:00pm so i only had about 25 minutes to put it together. On top of that; no one told me it was a fairy's and wizards theme. so i stood out a bit in my poncho and stetson.

fancy dress 5

it's a shame i'm not still friends with souness. i could borrow some of his clothes and go as a twat!

fancy dress 4

I'm making me own costume no two ways about it. no way I'm forking out twenny sovs for a costume for that twonks party. It's typical of carl and his family to make things difficult for ya. Nothing is ever straightforward with that lot. Why does it have t' be a fancy dress do anyway that's what I want to know? they have to make a big fuss of everything the self important cunts. Grow up! It's not even like it's an important birthday. Not like a 21st or 30th know what I mean. It's a 34th. What's the point of celebrating that? Still … better do something. Jesus.

I've been down the old charity shops. Got some old clothes and that. Must be able to come up with summit. At the end of the day it's me who's going out me way. I'm having to make my own costume. Forking out money for one's easy when you think about it. I'm being creative when all said and done.

fancy dress 3 (and other stuff)

i've decided to go to this fancy dress do. i need a night out. and the bar's free which is a turn up where carl's lot are concerned. i've never known a man as tight as carl's dad. he only breathes in.

souness hasn't been seen since you know what? which is lucky for him because he's due a kick-in as far as i'm concerned. i'm still coming to terms with that one.

what's it all about? life i mean. you do your best and you get walked all over. all i ever wanted was a few quid in my bin, nice family life, couple of kids an' that. it's not too much to ask for is it? i mean what have i got? who am i come to that? little more than a fuckin' drop out that's what. haven't even got a place to kip permanently since the misses chucked us out. that was a big mistake, putting her name only on the rent book to dodge the social. i don't know how long i can hold out here at my sisters. graham's on the moan again. i wish he'd just die to be fair. i've thought of it you know. doing him over and that. it wouldn't be that hard in all honestly. i've worked out a few methods. i'll play it by ear. i'm getting desperate i'm telling you.

the only good thing to come out of my life is my boy, john, and he hates me. well, maybe not, but he's always fuckin' busy when i bell him up and that. probably ashamed of me.

and that's the fucking good news.

fancy dress 2

fancy dress shop in wapping want £22 fucking quid to hire a suit. it's a fucking take-on. someone's earning out of it. think i'll go as the invisible man and not turn up. see how they like that.

sometimes i wonder why i have friends. I mean, they're just fucking aggro. i don't even like any of 'em much to be fair.

fancy dress

carl's having a fancy dress do this week for his 34th. it's his mum & dad's idea. i fucking hate fancy dress. i'd rather just not go but you can't can ya, you'd never live it down with these cunts. jesus. who'd have my life. i hate it. it's constant fucking aggro!

scouser Q&A

Q: Why does the River Mersey run through Liverpool?
A: Because if it walked it would be mugged.

Q: What do you say to a scouser on a bike?
A: Stop Thief!

Q: What do you call a scouser in a White Shellsuit ?
A: The Bride

Q: What's the difference between a Scouser and a coconut?
A: One's thick and hairy, and the other's a coconut.

Q. If you see a Scouser on a bicycle, why should you never swerve to hit him?
A: It might be your bicycle

MARSHAL’S SCOUSE DICTIONARY

scally (aka scouser or person from Liverpool)

a low life loser who lacks the basic education to string together sentences of more than five words. This prevents them from taking up the only job they are qualified for as they cannot say "Do you want fries with that ?"

a person who seems to be going jogging, until you see that they are weighed down by half thier parent's wages in gold.

and wears mobile phone round his neck

on ya bike!

Souness came to see me last night on his push-bike. (well, when I say "his bike" I’m speaking figuratively of course - souness is a scouser so it could be anyone’s bike).
I open the door and the scally is in a right old state of it. it's bollocking it down with rain so his perm's springing about all over the gaff, his shell-suit is absolutely drenched and plastered to his skin and he's got the sort of look on his face that mark gets when he's having them suicidal thoughts of his.
"alright marsh?’" he shouts through the downpour.
"what's up?" I shout back wanting to keep things brief. me sister and graham were out and I was just about to put on a bluey and make a night of it.
"I was wondering if I could have a word?" he says.
"Was you?" I say, irritated. Though I have to say I'm a little bit intrigued. the scally has obviously got something on his mind. and that don't happen often. My intrigue is getting the better of me and I know I’m going to have to invite him in here which is a little bit of a shame because I'm quite enjoying the soaking he's getting.
"Can I come in?" he says.
We go into the kitchen. I’m not letting him in the front-room. It’s my experience that when a sofa and a scouser’s arse come together it’s very difficult to pry them apart. I make him a cup of tea (must be going soft) and try to summon up the sort of look I imagine someone who gives a fuck would adopt.
“What’s up mate?” I say.
“I don’t know how to put this Marsh like’,” he says, all cagey though that’s nothing new as far this slippery scrounger is concerned.
“Go on.”
“I’ve started … shit … this is tough”
“For fucks sake what is it?”
“I’ve been seeing someone.”
“What … a women you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, nice one mate, i knew you had it in ya, give her one for me mate, now I don’t mean to hurry you and that but …”
“It’s your ex wife.“

commence shutdown! re-fucking boot!

whoosh! breathe! in-out-in-out-in-out!
Error! Error! Scouser alert! Scouser alert! Commence!

What did he just say? I was cold, ice fucking cold. cold to the root of my soul. This couldn’t be happening.

... AND DON'T COME BACK YOU 'ORRIBLE SCOUSE CUNT! I'm screaming, 30 seconds later, as I chase the ugly scouse bastard out and into the road. “FUCKING JUDAS!” I scream after him.
”IT JUST HAPPENED!” he’s shouting, barely dodging the milk-bottle I chuck at him.

I lose the scabby bastard in the estate and head back to my sisters.
Fuck!
This needed serious thinking about. If the lads got wind of this I was fucking done for. A scouser shagging ya wife? And not any old scouser at that. This was the fucking ‘Eddie the Eagle of scousers. And he calls himself a mate.
Bastard!
I turn off the telly (once i've knocked one out to ‘Dirty Angus Spritz’, [goes without saying]), and head of to bed to think things through. You can’t trust anybody these days.

Dog

(A short story "Dog"... click here)

ugly dog

Dazza came in the Grapes last night trying to flog us all this ugly little dog. i mean this thing had to be seen to be believed (that's why i nipped across to the shop a bit lively and got one of them cheapo cameras to take its picture). it was just the ugliest looking mutt i've ever seen in my life - a fucking freak of nature as far as i could tell: a cross between a poodle, that belonged to the daz-mans aunt dorice, and some ugly bulldog it met when they took it to Great Yarmouth for its hols.

Dazza looked embarrassed to be fair - the daft looking thing was just sitting there staring up at him the whole time. i just sat there, rubbing salt in the poor sods wounds.

Dazza's always getting himself into this sort of a mess. It's standard procedure for the boy and if there was ever a case for someone not learning by their mistakes it's the daz-meister. he's been in more adventures than indiana jones.

(more on this later)

the dagenham gig

the dagenham gig was bad. I'm struggling with writing this as I don't even want to think about it to be fair. I've quit the band, that goes without saying, I can't live with the embarrassment of it all. the 'shed's' are no more.

Fraser didn't even argue with me. he knows disaster when it kicks him in the bollocks. he reckons he's going solo. i told him good luck buti his chances are slim to poor if you want my opinion. he's a good guitar player and that but he's lacking something. i think it's charisma though i could be wrong.

lamps starts crying after the gig. the four of us were stood at the bar waiting to get served. this was taking a while on account of the old duffer serving us had alzhiemers and kept forgetting that it wasn't 1950 and he wasn't boxing tea-bags for tetleys. 

"it the end of an era," says lamps, shaking his head slowly.
"what are you on about you benny?" i says, "you've only played one fucking gig with us"
"i thought we had something together," he says, big scary freaky eyes woggling about all over the place. What a twat! what a complete and utter fucking twonk!

i call a cab. take me away from this place for fucks sake! 

The cab arrives and me and souness get in. (don't ask ... the cunt followed me out).

The journey home was just more bollocks - souness trying to sell me a pair of nikey trainers he bought down the lane.
i smell a rat.
then i realise it's just souness the soapy cunt.
"why the fuck did you buy them for if you didn't want them?" i says.
"no i like em like," he says, "it's just they're too big for me feet". 
"what size are they?"
"Size 12 like."
"what size feet are you then?"
"8."
"so you're a size 8 and you bought a size fucking 12? how did that happen you spanner?"
"i know," says souness nodding his stupid permed head in acknowledgement of something that he was thinking. "they took old souness by surprise mate. caught me off guard like know what i mean like?"
" right so you didn't try them on. Well i'll ... "
"... yeah I tried them on but i was in a hurry know what I mean?"
I'm not speechless. I wish I was. I wish I could have been surprised by the stupidity of this moron but I wasn't because you see: that's the sort of twats i hang about with. what that says about me I don't know and to be honest ... i don't even really care that much. 

I don't even bother to say goodbye to souness. the cab pulls up outside my sisters and I get out and, just about remembering to forget to pay my share of the fair, make my way inside.
"see you marsh'" whines a toxic scouse voice from behind me.
i feel like crying. i open the front door and head off up to bed and sleep and non existence.

lamps

me and the band - 'the sheds" (don't ... it was fraser's idea) have got a gig tonight in Dagenham. i'm dreading it. totally fucking dreading it i am. the line-up for tonight’s performance is me as lead singer, 'house of fraser' on bass, souness on drums and some mate of carl's on guitar. it's the first time this new fellow's played with us which pretty much means it's the first time he's played with anyone. Not a bad place to start really – playing with us lot. I mean there’s only one way to look from our position on the stairway to music success and that is most definitely upward.

‘lamps'. That’s the new blokes name. i met him about an hour ago down the pub. Carl introduced us. Don’t know why they call him ‘lamps’ though it’s probably something to do with his eyes. They’re huge for want of a better word. massive protruding things. we were never the best looking bunch to begin with but now ... jesus christ. We’ll look like an ugly convention.

i'll let you know how it went on Monday

i need a hobby ...

... fishing or something. anything to relieve the boredom of life at my sisters. i mention this to her graham when he gets in from work and (as predictable as a straight fucking line) the ugly bastard says “wouldn’t you be better off getting a job?” i answered him with the look of utter contempt he deserved and went back to the watching 'big brother's little brother' on the telly.

i'll have to move out soon. don't get me wrong ... i'm grateful for them putting me up and that, it's just, it’s graham. I hate him. why? why? because he’s a cunt! I hated him the moment I laid eyes on him. the way he walks, or rather creeps, about the place like a fucking crab. The way he talks. The way he breathes. The way he keeps fucking raising his eyebrows like roger moore every time you say something he disagrees with which is pretty much everything

it's not just that though. i need a place of my own. i mean, i need me space and that. this gaffs just a little too cramped for my liking. somewhere to entertain the chaps and that. souness and carl came round last night with some cans and the old playstation. Spiderman 2 the game – have some of that. graham sticks his nose in and decides he's watching casualty which means we had to wait a fucking hour before we could plug in and get started. i reckon the cunt's just jealous because he's ain't got any mates of his own as far as I can tell. a bitter twisted billy-no-mates if ever there was one. i made sure he didn't get any of our beer though. hid them well out of that cunt's way until casualty was finished and the gormless bullock was in bed (and having horrific nightmares if there’s any fucking justice in the world)

I’ll have to give it a bit of thought – the hobby thing I mean – I’ll sleep on it.

new horizons

i'm taking on staff
it's time to spread the word,
give the journal back to the people
show 'em what they're missing

my initial brief to myself was to keep 'marsh' low profile. a kind of guerilla website for urban poets like myself but as sometimes happens things have gotten out of hand ...

hence ... the site has gone ballistic - taken on a life of its own ...

alright ... i'm a lazy bastard running out of ideas and need some support. stay tuned

tight bastard

graham reckons i should get a job. the cheek of it! you try to tap someone for a few quid and think they can start dishing out the old advice. who the fuck does he think he is? just because i'm living in your house for a few weeks don't think you own me. kick a man whilst he's fucking down why don't you. i'm fucking in the middle of a divorce mate. like you'd know what it's like. like you'd care. ugly bastard.

oh yeah, it weren't jimmy lambert in jock-land. someone who looked like him. didn't think that was possible. i pity the poor sod who looks anything like that long spaggetti legged twat!

victor and that

now that victor has been booted out of the big brother house my week nights have returned to their familiar 'waiting for friday to come round' normality. i just can't force myself to sit and watch the rest of them twats in there. all they do is comb there hair and say fucking chicken or chick every two minutes. chicken this and chicken fucking that. chicken bollocks. chicken stew! i wouldn't mind but where are the fucking chickens that's what i want to know? there used to be chickens in that house if i remember rightly. i can't even go down the pub. i'm as skint a scouser. don't know why i'm looking foward to friday. i've got not fucking money to go out. i wonder if graham (sisters old man) will do us a borrow.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!
fucked!

spotting jimmy lambert

the fucking leg-tapper has been spotted in scotland. i'm making enquiries and if it turns out he's there i'll be on the first train to jock-land. bastard. he still owes us money and if he thinks he's getting away with it he can think a-fucking-gain.

night bus

fell of the fuckin night bus last night near the bow fly-over.
foggy night all round really.
thought of a good poem though which is something.

chigwell

i'm kipping round at my sisters house in chigwell. it's nice here, i like it, comfy. there's a huge living room with all the mods. dvd, stereo, playstation the lot. they said i can stay for a few nights but i reckon i could string it out a month if the need were to arise.

i'm back

i'd like to say the reason i've been away is because i'd been doing something interesting but i can't because i haven't. the only reason i've not been keeping this site updated is because i couldn't be fucked. i've been depressed. friends and that are getting me right fucking down for starters. it's like all they ever fucking do is moan about there lives. moan moan fuckity moan the whole time the moaning bastards. i mean, they must think i'm dear deirdre or summit. do i look like the sort of punter who wants to listen to sob stories from the likes of that lot. i mean i had souness round last night. i opened the door and there he was standing behind his moustache. it's embarrassing knowing the bloke it is. he looks like terry mcdermotts long lost son. perm, lacoste tracksuit and a rat living under his nose. anyway there was nothing on telly so i let him in. i should have read a book. 30 minutes in i was nearly crying, by the time he'd been there an hour i was ready to slit my fucking wrists. in the end he went but it totally ruined an otherwise perfectly boring tuesday night.

drinks with tony

i went for a drink with an old mate of mine, Tony, last night in soho. Hadn't seen him in years and he give me a call Tuesday out the blue. Met him at some poxy bar near Berwick Street. One of them poncey gaffs that don't sell pints - just bottled lager. straight away i'm thinking i'll give it 30 minutes then i'm fucking off to the grapes - there's a quiz on tonight as well. Tony's already sitting down when i get there and he's looking well different. He's lost about 3 stone in weight and he's wearing leather fucking trousers. After about 30 minutes, me drinking bottles of some (nice as it goes) japanese beer, Tony drinking spritzers, (times have changed) , i'm bored out of my skull with Tone. to be fair he was never the kind of bloke to dazzle you with banter but it's just if anything he's gotten worse. after about an hour a couple more blokes turn up and join us at the table. one of the blokes is called Norman and he keeps rubbing Tone's leg. then it hits me. Tone's a bender. jesus. what a turn up. oh well, live and let live i suppose, but i didn't hang about. made it to the grapes for last innings. and some good news. they cancelled the quiz. it's now on tonight. lovely.

a fucking shambles

the gig was a shambles. the audience were all old age fucking pensioners. i'd never seen so many of 'em in one place in my life. it was scary on stage - a sea of zimmer-frames and false-teeth. we did 20 mins and called it a day. we would have done the full hour but the manager told us he wanted to start the bingo early because half of the old codgers were falling asleep. he paid us up and we left. a horrible, horrible day.

the soap suds

the good news is we've got our first gig. well the first gig as a new line-up. i've insisted we change the name on account of we need a fresh start. fraser's not happy. he reckons the v-necks is a top name. i tell him he's got a point but don't keep on. we're changing it and that is that. he agrees. i've decided to go a little radical. we're to be called ... wait or it ... "the soap suds".
"the soap suds?" says fraser - face on him like he's just swallowed one of bernard mannings farts.
"it's a good name," i tell him. "I like it. it's nice and simple."
"I'm not sure," he says and i can see he's not because he's looking as miserable i've seen him in 5 minutes.
"well you fucking come up with something then,"
"i already did ... the v-necks," he says. that's the thing with him, fraser - not willing to look at new possibilities. he's scared of change. if it was down to him we'd still be playing with a pensioner on bass, a drummer who keeps trying to take peoples eyes out with his sticks, and Chesney Hawkes on vocals.
"the 'v-necks' is crap."
fraser says nothing and i couldn't give a friday night with jonathan ross. we're the 'soap suds' or i'm quitting. what the fuck does he know about good band names anyway.

our first gigs at the dagenham working mans club this sunday. should get us a nice bit of publicity. get us a bit of recognition. after the auditions went tits up we decided to improvise. we're now a 3 piece band with souness on drums. souness says he's always wanted to join a band and also said his brother used to play drums back home in hub-cap land. he reckons he used to practice endlessly on his brothers kit when he was out. so i auditioned him and guess what ... he was shite. but beggars can't be choosers. (well actually, they can, especially the fucking ones working the tube round our way. they're coining it in.) but anyway ... souness is in for the time being

i'll let you know how it went on monday.

spiky hair and all that
i popped home last night - more to see john than the wife. he's enjoying himself the lad - unusually happy to be fair, which i must say riled me a bit. i mean he could have showed some indication that he was missing me not being there. anyone would think he was glad i'd fucked off. maybe he's got himself a bird. he's not a bad looking kid. takes after me there. whatever it is he's discovered hair-gel. his heads fucking caked in it, all spiked up n stiff n that. he wants to be careful he don't have her eye out.

she's tarting herself up. off out somewhere. she's looking quiet nice to be fair. she more or less ignores me though and then ... as i'm getting ready to leave ... she tells me she's filed for the big D?

"On what fucking grounds," i says.
"Adultery, mental cruelty. There's a lot to choose from Marshal, " she says.
I'm totally fucking lost for words. I mean, i may not have been the ideal husband from fucking neptune or mars or whatever it is but for god sakes ... there's worse than me.
"I can't believe you ... i tell her. Have i ever hit you?" I say, gobsmacked as i am.
"No, she says. You've never hit me. Thanks for that, "
"No, i don't mean ... you don't have to thank me," i says, and now i'm thinking she's winding me up here and i know when i'm not wanted. I tell the lad goodbye, i'll come and see him saturday, take him over to watch the hammers, and i near fucking lacerate me hand ruffling up his hair.
"Daaaaaaaad! It fu ...! It bloody took me ages doing that!"
"Sorry boy I ... oh fuck the lot of yer ..." i say, slamming the door behind me.

lunchtime blues
still no sign of lambert the thieving leg tapping bastard! we've had to down tools. not that we've got any tools: the cunt took them as well.
i'm pouring all my energy into the band. i wish i could say the same for fraser. i think he thinks that he's going to be the song writer or something. he keeps coming up with these daft lyrics. i wish he'd stick to what he's good at. what that is i'm not quite sure but i do no one thing ... it's not writing songs.

Lunchtime blues by Fraser Clarkson
I met her on a monday
by tuesday she was mine
i'd given her my number
it was only half past nine

she said her name was daphne
i told her mine was Lenny
i don't know why i lied to her
and now i feel a Benny

Do you want some news
well let me muse
i've blown a fuse
i've the lunchtime blues

Do you want to snooze
or is this a ruse
to get me out on the booze
during my lunchtime blues

Daphne told me she liked wine
and i buy her bottles all the time
she likes red and i like white
it usually ends up in a fight

eventually she turned a corner
i've been left here all alone
i'm now living on a parkbench
this parkbench is my home

Do you want some news
well let me muse
i've blown a fuse
i've the lunchtime blues

Do you want to snooze
or is this a ruse
to get me out on the blue
during my lunchtime blues
2004

grey
found a grey hair this morning. the writing's on the wall. i'll have to dye it. there's no place for grey hair in rock & roll

where's jimmy lambert?
there's no sign of him. he meant to drop off our wages off yesterday evening. i went and saw the greek bloke (jimmy's boss), and he says he weighed the leg tapper out yesterday morning. i can't get him on his mobile either. bastard! sent him about 20 messages. the lads are doing their cobblers. we're all well skint. you can't trust anybody for fucks sake.

auditions for the band last night. jesus christ - there's some desperate looking punters about.

the ad i put in the paper was for bass players and drummers with experience. nice and simple. i had to re-read the fucking ad last night when i got home just to see if i'd made a mistake and put "the dregs of society are welcome" on the bottom of the ad by mistake. i mean. you expect the odd big issue seller but this was just plain fucking awful. shite!

i'm in the v-necks.
wallop! lead singer. i told fraser they'll have to be some changes though.
The bassist is too old though to be fair i think it was a relief to the old duffer when we told him he was out.
the drummer was less pleased but the bloke's a danger to himself and everyone else so he's been sacked as well. reckons he's gonna sue.
that only leaves me and fraser. so we're auditioning this thursday in the loft above the grapes. i've already started writing some songs.

marks still in hospital. tried to kill himself on at the weekend by jumping out the window. poor sod didn't realise he was on the ground floor. just his luck.
visited him last night with carl. wouldn't even talk to us the miserable git. told him my good news about the band and he just fucking turned over and went to sleep. can you fucking believe that.

frasers band
cousin fraser's just belled me on the mobile. wants me to audition for his band the 'v-necks'. says he's sacked the vocalist. most sensible thing he's ever done. auditions tommorow night round at me aunt pegs. should be a giggle.

kipping at carl's
kipping on carl's floor. his mum and dad are not to happy, then again, to be fair, i'm not sure carl's too keen either. not that i give a sterling. the truth of it is carl should count himself lucky that i even consider him a friend. not that i do. but that's what he thinks.

i'll stop round here for a few days then sort out somewhere proper. times are hard but i'm rolling with the punches.

the wife has changed the locks on the door. i've been kipping rough the past few weeks. at least i've been sleeping round at mark's which amounts to the same thing. had enough of it round there mind. his missus don't stop fucking moaning. i don't know how the poor bloke puts up with it. maybe the hospital's not such a bad thing. probably should count his blessings. don't know where i'm gonna kip tonight though. things are going from bad to fucking worse

accident
mark's in hospital. fell off the scaffolding. fell 3 floors into a skip. poor sod. he's even more depressed than usual. the good news is that as he slipped he reached out for support and took the contracts manager along for the ride. nice one marky boy.

long jimmy lambert
start work tommorow. me, souness, john, carl and mark, working with jimmy lambert. jimmy's an old mate from school who's doing up houses for some greek bloke in Mile-end. it's not painting though. it's demolition work. musn't grumble. as long as we're getting paid. we met jimmy in the grapes last night. £40 a day cash in hand he's paying. that'll do nicely jimbo.

he's a funny bloke is jimmy. he's 6ft 10 and weights about 13 stone. bloke's a fucking bean-pole. and he can't keep still. keeps tapping his leg the whole time. whatever he's doing he's tapping his fucking leg. maybe if he stops tapping his leg he'll drop down dead or something. it's hillarous watching him play pool. takes about 10 minutes on each shot trying to keep himself still. never quite manages it. never pots a ball. he's been 7-balled more times than souness

jimmy was short at school. in fact we all used to call him shorty. then we left school and jimmy went to work up north for a year. when he came back he was tall. something to do with up north i suppose. must be all that hovis they eat

got a postcard ...
... from fraser this morning.

alright. it's me. i'm in lanzarote. 'orrible 'ere. weather 'orrible. 'orrible volcanoes … bit like being on mars. sharon can't stand it. says it's 'orrible. the worst holiday she's ever had. hotels 'orrible though I've not seen any scousers so that's summit I suppose.
weird swede woman with a big head walking about. looks fucking gormless with a cap on. 'orrible.
seen 36 volcanos. told the tour guard they should fill em in and tidy this fucking place up. told him it looks 'orrible. lather everywhere. waste of money. can't wait to come home. 'orrible place. fucking 'orrible.

all the best,

fraser

kipping at marks
i'm kipping round at marks tonight on account of the wife having slung me out again. talk about kick a man when he's down.
i can't be bothered arguing with her in fairness. this whole fiasco at the weekend's phased me good and proper.
anything for a quite life at the moment that's my motto. i need a a good rest and mark's spare room is just the place to get it.

it's a good job i'm between jobs at the
you got to thank the lord for small mercys i suppose.

on the subject of work ... i was gabbing with john on the plane home and he reckons we
should all go into business together. painting and decorating.

he's always having these ideas is john. it'll probably come to nothing.

mark's missus knocked us up a nice bit of supper tonight. nothing worse than going to bed
on an empty stomach is there. could have done with a beer to wash it down with but i
can't complain. i'm easily pleased me.

i'm lying on the put-you-up in their spare room writing this. left mark on
the sofa downstairs watching some film about a rugby team that crash their plane
into the side of a mountain. it's not long before they run out of grub and start eating
eachother. not sure mark should be watching films like that when i think about it.
not with his depression and all that.

oh well. lights out. i reckon.

marshal's dictionary

scouser
a skally shitnit from liverpool who only has one aim in life, to rob more wheels than any other skally.

wheel robbing lacoste wearer

pikey from liverpool who talks like a twat.

an irish person who can swim

nicked at knock

me and the lads have just been deported from ireland on account of that daft scaly 'souness'.

me, mark, john and carl have just spent the entire fucking weekend in a police cell at knock airport on account of that idiotic, lacoste wearing, hub-cap thieving’ scouser.

we'd had a cosy little flight over, few beers, no aggro, and were about to go through customs when toxteth's finest decides to tell them he's got a bomb in his luggage.

"it was a joke!" screams souness moments later as a team of counter terrorist plod hit us from all sides, screaming "down on the fucking floor, hands above your heads!" and all that bollocks. they drag us out back, down into the cells, and lock us up for two fucking days under the prevention of terrorist act.

eventually they have to let us go. all except souness that is who's still over their. i hope they charge him and send him to the maze via a good fucking kicking that's all i can say!

more later, i'm off for a kip

fraser and the yellow v-necks
went to see me mate fraser's band (the v-necks) last night at some toilet of a pub in dagenham. went with mark, carl, john and souness. we're all off to ireland this weekend so were all just starting to drift into warm glowing feeling that befriends you in the days leading up to a monumenal piss up.
what a night. we should have stayed indoors.
in fairness, fraser wasn't that bad. i mean, he was okay. but the rest of the band were just horrific. a bad dream. in fact if you dreamt about this lot you'd need therapy to get over it. the bassist had to be in his 90s. he bore a striking resemblance to someone who was dead. i mean, this old duffer actually looked like he'd been shovelled up for the occasion. 15 minutes into the gig the poor sod lost all bodily coodination, pissed in his pants, and had to be carried off the stage by Mary the pub bouncer. the drummer kept losing his sticks during the songs and nearly had the barmaids eye out during a rendition of 'oh boy' when the stick shot out of his hand and across the room, missing her by an inch. and then their was the vocalist. i mean this guy was an insult to bad singers. imagine the worst kareoke singer you ever saw singing a duet with the worst kareoke singer you ever imagined and you'll have some idea of the drivel we had to listen to last night. roll on dublin and some proper music.

fraser came up after and asked me what i thought.

"brilliant," i lied.
"you reckon we've got a chance then" he said.
"chance of what," i said wondering where the nearest cab firm was.
"chance of the big time."
"not a doubt in my mind old son."

ireland
off to ireland this weekend with the chaps. we fly out this friday. come back sunday night. can't wait. i love ireland. love everything about it
i think that's why i love the pogues so much
need to do a bit of shopping. need some new strides
wife's not happy about something. she'll be less happy when she knows i'm off to ireland for the weekend
bollocks to it. a man needs his space

carl's looking smug about something. he hands me a sheet of paper more or less as soon as i walk through the door.
not only that: this is a sheet of paper with words on it. bloody hell carl, things are looking up mate.
i scan the page. looks like a poem.
looks like a good poem at that.
i'm no expert but this is a decent bit of writing in anyone's book.

i read the first four lines ...

... Like burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed
Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;
Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head ...

... look up at carl, who's looking as happy as i can ever remember him looking.

i read on ...
"And, the slight lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced ..."

i stop.

"carl?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't write this did you?"
"Eh?" he frowns, appalled at my suggestion
"This poem, it's not yours is it?"
"It is."
"Who wrote this Carl?"
"i wrote it."
"carl. mate. what do you take me for? Who wrote it?"
carl visibly slumps ... "Oscar Wilde."
"I can't believe you."
"You forced my arm"

these are the people i have to deal with in my life on a daily basis.

writers block
carl's writing a book about his life. there's a little snag: carl doesn't have a life. no much of one anyway. he's still living at home with his mum and dad. I went round there last night to see how he's getting on and he tells me he's got writers block. it doesn't even occur to someone like carl that to suffer from something like writers block you really do need to have written something at some stage in your life.
"i've written stuff," he says, when i angle this little chestnut in his direction
"oh right, yeah, sorry i forgot you sent a postcard to your mum a couple of years ago when we were in Benidorm"
"look, just because you haven't seen anything i've written ... don't mean i aint written it does it. "
"well prove it then."
"alright i fucking well will" he says.
then he just sits there staring into space.
"carl, it may have passed you by but there's a little thing called life that some of us are busy living," i tap my watch "so if you don't mind ..."
"come round tomorrow night and i'll dig out some of my poetry."
this cracks me up. carl writing poetry? carl might be a friend but at the end of the day he's a potato and you know as well as i ... potatoes don't write poetry.

liverpool in europe

round at marks last night watching the footie. liverpool in europe. me, mark, carl, john and Souness. Souness is the scouser in our midst so of cause he's come dressed in full wally regalia: red hat, scarf. looking a proper spud when all said and done. it wouldn't have surprised me if he'd bought a rattle the big fucking daft tube that he is. the scousers won 2-0 which gave old gerard hollier something to woggle his beady eyes about in the post match interview.

mark was as miserable as fuck all night long. though to be fair to mark, he's always fucking miserable lately, is mark. looks like he's about to slit his wrists half the fucking time he does. i sometimes wonder about mark. like, what the fuck has he got to be miserable about. heis got his own pad, earns a decent enough wedge working for his brother on the removals and he's knocking off that bakewell from the two conkers. got it fucking made to be fair. so why is he miserable all the time? Alright so he is married, I’ll give him that, but so are a lot of blokes and I don’t see them moping the whole time. i'd try to cheer him up if i could be bothered but i can't so he can fucking stew in it for all i care.

john's irritating everyone telling us about the fight he's got coming up. we know he's got a fight coming up. he's been telling us every 10 minutes for the past fucking 3 months. it's his first fight. unlicensed boxing. he's 34 for fucks sake. it's no age to be pulling on the gloves is it, come on, i mean, most fighters are usually finishing up or making a greedy come-back by that age, not starting out. you can't tell him though. in one ear and out the fucking other with john.

carl's a difficult one to pin down. a bit of a paradox is carl. he's like gullible stupid funny and intelligent man all at the same time. it's almost like his missing bits in certain areas and has too many bits in other areas. a little off balance if you get my drift.

liverpool! liverpool! liverpool! souness is giving it large. all fucking night we have to listen to his bollocks! we're going to win the cup! we're going to win the cup!2-0. big fucking deal. it don't take much to please a scouser when all said and done. anyone would think bill shankly had risen from his grave the way souness was acting. liverpool F.C. ... once the greatest football team in europe, if not the world. now a mediocre, at best, assemblage of twinkle-toes not fit to pass wind let alone a ball. alright, maybe i'm being a bit harsh. i mean. they're still in the top 4-5 in the country. and they're winning this game, but cards on the table. they're not a shadow of the team they were. and now tonight they've got a poxy win in the uefa cup and souness is having delusions of grandeur. the uefa cup's not the respected tounament it once was anyway.

his real name's keith. souness that is. we just call him souness because he looks exactly like early eighties era graham souness. i'm talking 'tache, perm, the lot.

(souness in his prime)



oh well. they're friends ... what can you do?

divorce
the wife wants a divorce. last night she told me
i'm a good for nothing slovenly bastard apparently. her exact words
"well at least i've got my looks love," i told her
went crazy then didn't she. starts throwing things and that. good job john was out seeing her in that state. it'd disturb the little sod
who does she think she is anyway calling me slovenly? she can fucking talk. she should get a gold pen for the amount of years she's been signing on

stuck
i'm stuck on a train
this can't be happening to me
today of all fucking days
this cannot be FUCKING HAPPENING!

i've got a job interview in the city - night-watchman gig - and i'm stuck on this useless fucking tube of metal junk

AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!!!

fuck! fuck! fuck!

25 minutes i've been down here. i'm writing this on my lap-top by the way in case you were wondering

the driver's rubbing salt in the wounds. who employs these idiots that's what i want to know. every 2 minutes this twat is on the loud-speaker telling us ... we're stuck and will be moving off shortly. we know we're fucking stuck you cretin! these idiots never ceize to fucking amaze me. this bloke, that some brains of britain as deemed responsible enough to drive a train full of people, actually thinks there's other people in the world as fucking stupid as him and his mates. and what does he mean 'we'll be moving off shortly?' i don't know about you but for me shortly is not in fucking twenty five minutes time. fuckit!

this is so bad. if i lose this gig because of these fuckers i'm fucking well suing the lot of them. sorry for the language but fucking hell

uncle norman
i popped round mum and dads last night. uncle norman was there. he's a weird one my mums brother. got a funny way about him. eyes just a little bit too close together for my liking

it’s not just that though. i don't quite know what it is about him to be fair, can't put it into words exactly, it's just a feeling you get when you're in his company, it's like ... the wheel’s spinning but the hamsters dead if you know what I mean?

you won't see him from one month to the next then he'll turn up out of nowhere. open the front door and in he shuffles like charlie babbit from rain-main, straight into the living room where he’ll plonk himself down on the couch and proceed to tell you all about the wonderful adventures he’s having living in dagenham with his dog 'alan'

this'll go on for about half an hour, him not allowing you a word in edgeways, (not that i've anything i want to say to him to be fair though that's hardly the point) then he'll stand up and tell you that he's got to go now cause his bus is coming. how the hell he can see his bus coming through solid brick walls is a fucking mystery to me

i offered him a lift home last night. guess what he says? "no thanks, i'll stick to the bus, save the old legs," then ... before yer can say 'i blame the parents' he's up and shuffling out the door again

how do you deal with people like that?

it's not that he's not welcome at mum and dads though, in fact, i think mum and dad like the company to be fair, it's just, you can't have a two way conversation with the bloke. he just babbles on till his finished then fucks off. and if he’s not talking he’s playing tetris on the gameboy. this one time, mum reckoned she opened the door, he shuffled in playing gameboy, sat down playing gameboy, and left, still playing gameboy. I mean …?

wonder what his score was?

i’m telling yer, he’s one depressing punter my uncle norman. he could bring down a evangelical meeting he could. when you first meet him I wouldn’t put it past you to start watching crime-watch just to see if you could put a wanted poster to the face.

that's not beyond the realms of all possibility either - old norm’ being a mass-murderer and that. he’s definitely got the haircut. a proper charlie manson number if ever i've seen one

old mum and her sisters will be on news at ten banging on about how lovely norman was when he was a kid and all that. then his neighbours will want their say. "he was a bit of a loner was norman, kept himself to himself, but always had a smile ... and he loved his dog 'alan'"

it'll happen i'm telling yer