A Gypsy i wil be

(After watching “Big Fat Gypsy Wedding” Documentary on Channel 4 i wrote this)

See eyes a traverling gurl
an bean grabed me sell
reel ruff
rownd me nice things
wear no body cud see
behind bins
an filte durty hands
was sqeezin violet at me

But i doenut
like geting grab
an nor dont put me sell
in the ways of geting grab needa

Cuz evan i wanna
dress in di shurt skurts
an di tite tops
wi me big best bits
hungin dare
as best in show
like i fanci me sell
reel priddy an al

I am a good gurl
neva bean durty
in ani way
Nor hade no durty tourts
at al a bowt tuchin
of me anywear unda dare
not one bit

Boy haz durty tourts on di brain
wannin to rape at
gurls up walls
like they see on porno
but iv never hade a reely bad grab
like sum gurls hade
who had to go down
an suk on it
an hav it spurt durty

Cuz afta al
its a fellas world
an what they want
is more than what gurls want
they is Lord an Master
ova us wimmin
they is King

But see al i want is 1 fella
who wood luck afta me
be not sayin nastines
be not dis gustin nor ugli
be not beetin me
be me Man
for me onli as his onli
as his poor wife
to serv him
cleen and cook look
after babbies
for al ways

an its not a joke rite

i love me life an
i wood not chaing not 1 thing

I wil al ways hav me mammy
and al the gypsy gurls

so pleese whats wrong wi it

A Trojan spieks

I publshed my portfool eo on
then applieid with the job that
siut my qualificatioens

qwoit a lot as it hapens
i cando lodes of tricky tricks

like teech peaple
how to tpye
and use compuetrs
to send emales like these
that use up tuns
of other peaples
valauble time

and if they are unlucky
or guilble gorms
or proble stupild idoits
mite even steel thier
i den tittys
for a worm like me

Him & The Wife

The Two Ronnies sketch that never was. Probably cus it was too Derek & Clive.

Here’s the set-up

The Wife and HIM are in Relate Office.

Its already about 20 minutes into the session. Things are warming up nice between the contestants.

~ ~ ~

HIM: The sex life woz non eggziztn thats how it startid
The Wife: Wot due mean non eggziztn? I allis wannid it but yew diden wanna no.
HIM: Allis sum excuse there woz… “I’m too tired…I’m too this….”
The Wife: Cus yew neva made no effort that’s why. Neva even ad a bloody wash. The only time I new y’ wannid it woz wen y’ brushed y’ teef
HIM: That’s a bloody lie. I woz brushin me teef evari day back then
The Wife: Yeah – an look wot append since. Stumps is all you got nah, ardli any left in yor bleedin ead. Not attractiff
HIM: An wot about yew yew slobby gett? Yore a lardi arse yew, sat on that sofa all day long. Ardli move yor fat arse yew.
The Wife: Call me fat?! Yoo wanna look at yerself in the barfroom mirra mate.
HIM: At least I can see meself in the barfroom mirra. Yew can’t even get in the barfroom swede hard. Nor the barf.
The Wife (looking at Counsellor): I’m gonna giv Him a rite slap ina minute if he doan shutit, Mouth.

HIM lets out big belly larf.

Counsellor intervenes, conciliating. Waffles a bit for a bit.

A brief pause in proceedings.

The Wife, following Counsellors example, tries being soft.

The Wife: Why yew bein like this wiv me eh? Wots bort this mood on?
HIM: (Sighs). I ain’t in a mood. I got depresshun thats all.
The Wife: Well, thats why wees ere dip dap.
HIM: Doan cum over all squeaky clean. Its not jus me wiv the problems, we both got no self esteam
The Wife: No, I no – but its yew who as it worse. Yew frow tons of bad depresshun on everyfin wen yew can’t get yore own way

The Wife (turning to Counsellor): Especial last year he waz. E waz a dictative person, a rite piggin – if yew doan mind the langwidge – “Cunt” he waz. Frowin is wait about like The Big Man. But I wornt avin it waz I. Oh no. Not puttin up wiv that I waznt. And I woan put up it wiv it no more eiva. I ad it up to ere I av wiv this sorry situ ashun. Fings av got to improve – or i’m offski.

The Wife (turning to Him): I wan yew to agree wiv me now – if fings between us doan go up in improvement sumwat, we gotta call it a day mate. I mean that serious.
HIM(stands up yelling): You ain’t gonna leave me! You ain’t got no balls to leave me! I’ll ring yor bloody neck I will if yoo do. I’ll fackin frottle yoo yoo stewpid cow!

Counsellor looking alarmed stands up to get between, pushing hands anxiously on HIMS chest.

HIM: Hey! Hoo yoo fink yore pushin pal?! Doan tuch me. Doan facking tuch me. Yoo unerstand me?! If yew put anuvver filffy finger on me I’ll smack yoo one
The Wife (stood up now, piping): That’s yor big fing, aggressiv. Why do yew av to put violence on everyfing eh? All yew can do is fists. I ATE YEW!

And she swings a clumsy punch aimed at Him. But misses HIM. Hits Counsellor smack in the gob instead.

Counsellor crumples to the floor knocked out.

The Wife: O watt av I done?! Watt av I done?! Strike a light! O bloody bleedin nora!

The Wife: (shaking vigorously K O ed Counsellor): Yew alrite sunshine? Yew alrite? Wake up yew bleedin ponce, I ardli tuched yoo! All it waz waz a slite tap, thats all it waz waznt it?

Asking this to HIM

HIM: Thats rite. She nevva ment to strike yew pal.

Said to “pal”, laid prostrate out on the floor

HIM: Fink weed betta scarpa quick
The Wife: Fink we betta ad

She grabs coat. Giggles.

HIM (grinning): Yore a rite one yoo are. Yoo doan no yor own strenff.
The Wife: There waz nuffin to im that Cownsella fella, fell ova like a bleedin fevva he did, a rite wimp – not like yoo darl.

She starts hooting with laughter then.

They scarper out of office like a pair of clumsy bears .

2 WEEKS LATER

Back in office. Same counsellor. In neck brace.

The Wife: Since larst time fings av gone more positiv.
HIM: Yeah, we getting perfeckt nah.
The Wife: I wannid to ring his bloodyneck I did. It all cums from the past and I bubble, I cant elp it
HIM: Tella troof, trooful like, I can talk betta to yew nah. I got more onist wiv meself. This cowncillin as really elped.
The Wife:I got to stop wiv yew there.
HIM (puzzled): ??!!
The Wife: Cus wheres Leesa in all this?
HIM: Watt do yew mean – Leesa? Watt she godda do wiv anyfing?
The Wife: Well why do yew pinch over peoples bums then?
HIM: Watt, that? That’s nuffin. That’s just avin a larf that is, that doan mean nuffin, yew no that. Yew no I wooden do nuffin wiv yor little sister.
The Wife (larfin): I no – cus she’s a fat cow.
HIM: Like you!
The Wife: like me!

They both break out in loud larfs

The Counsellor looks on, baffled.

The Wife (grabbing over to HIMS neck): Cum ere Mouth!

HIM: I’m smovvered by the love I am.

She smacks a great big kisser on HIM.

The Wife: I luv yew to bits I do babe
HIM: I no yew do sweed hard. An I luv yew to deff too I do.
The Wife: I’ll nevva leave yew nah, nevva
HIM: Me neivva. Wees stuck wiv one annuvver forevva.
The Wife: Yep, its all perfeckt nah

They sit there mauling  and slobbering at one another’s fat faces.

Meanwhile, the Counsellor looks bemusedly on

Wincing inside his neck brace.

My Darling Svetlana

If you ever get hotmailed by this Russian Robber, I mean, “lady” – she is pulling on your legs. Both of them. While slipping her oily sly fingers into your trouser pocket to tickle out a Visa card (preferably platinum)

I immediately delete this kind of nonsense usually.

But my self-esteem was at a bit of a low ebb, so – y’know, – I opened it.

This is what I read

Hello dear friend

I see your structure on a site of dating fling.com

(My “structure” was never on any fling. Where did this “she” get my address from? Perturbing.)

And both decided to write to you.

(Yes. Both her and her pimp)

My name: Svetlana

(A beautiful Russian name. Means: I exist to swindle you out of every penny/kopeck you’ve got)

I want you warned. I of Russia, and I have a woman who just do not want a deception.

(This email was red flagged in freshly concocted Russian blood: WARNING. I AM OUT TO CHEAT AND CON YOU BIG TIME. Well, you wanted it darlin – and I got it)

I wish you had warned once. I search for serious attitudes. I am looking for marriage and love. I do not play games. If you want to play with me, then do not write for me.

(Thats ok then. Cus I won’t be writing for you. Unless I want to play with you. Playing the games with you you’re not playing with me)

If you are looking also for true and pure attitude then I shall wait with impatience your letter.

(True and pure attitude my arse! You’re a fucking mafia mobster. I got you taped mate)

I send you as pictures, and I hope to receive your replacement.

(That picture has been lifted from whatever the Russian equivalent of Elle magazine is. You will receive my replacement: I’ve just replaced it from out of Nuts)

I will study, so you can help me, even with what we should do.

(Basically this means: you come over here to learn English, I’ll help you speak it. You help me spend my money, I’ll be your fantasized rich English Sugar Daddy)

I hope we learn that the friend, best friend about the future.

(I reckon at least a year in a Language School is needed Svetlana my sweet. Or maybe, even better, locked up inside one of Her Majesties Special Institutions: Prison)

Overall, it was easier for us.

(Easy as in loose, or even incomprehensible. I don’t know what your bleedin going on about girl)

I am a happy person love life and desire to be happy.

(Ok, that’s good. So why not carry on being a “love life happy person” in Russia?. I’ll tell you why. Cus Russia stinks. Of prostitution and corruption)

I of Russia, the city where I live, St. Petersburg. I am very beautiful city. I do not really talk about the city.

(No, I’m not surprised you don’t want to talk about where you live. Its where certain shady ladies of the night live. Begins with B, rhymes with offal)

I hope you, I of Russia should not be confused.

(I confused. Vari mani. That sentence was designed to be sent straight to the Baffled of British Brain department)

My birthday in February, 19 1980. I anniversary.

(No, you were born about 2 hours ago. Inside the head of some Englishly-challenged, identity-thefting, cyber-hacking, racketeer)

It is very beautiful day to be happy again.

(“She’s” off a bleedin gain. Yes, and i’d be making the day even more beautiful if I come back at you panting my balls off – you’d be vari happy then)

It is pleasant for me, I wish that we continue our friends that we have not lost our interest in us.

(I have lost the total interest in Us to be honest, I have Svetlana. You’re the most boring Trojan Russian Robot I’ve ever had the misfortune not to be bamboozled by)

Dear friend, that our desire was great fun. It is nice to know we talk about a friend of a friend.

(I didn’t realise we were talking about a friend of a friend. I thought you – my sweet Svetlana succubus you – were about as close to me as a fart is to the arse that’s stunk it)

Forgive me please, but I should go. I wish you wrote for me more than I knew more about you.

(Yes, The more about me you can’t wait to get your greedy Soviet hands on: my Bank account pin number and password)

Svetlana

Dear sweet Svetlana, I was not duped . Oh no. Noooooo not me.

In fact, would any right minded, sensible, reasonably rational, grown up, adult, British male be taken in by this poo-ey pile of hooey?

Those naïve Nigels and gormless Grahams might be sucked in by sweet Svet of course. She’d strip them naked.

Of their identities.

Online. And offline.

Then fuck them right up their fat wobbly arses wallets.

Haiku Trio

1

Opening dreams door

A fridgeful of repressions

A plateful of feet

2

Everyday blisses

Commonplace beatitudes

Toes up bathtub taps

3

Bang banging hammer

Quick hand of lively feeling

Nails in the coffin

Giving of gifts

.

The dreams you have

I have to give

I bear them to you

From me born

.

Gifts of my joy

I’d like to give

Reaped from my heart

To steal and share

.

What your gift gives

Is what I’d give

If you unbroken would allow

.

I’d like to give you happiness

.

The cat that seldom comes when called.

.

The sun between my legs

.

Is scorching hot indeed

A disc of churny need

Red ready to be gleamed

.

And tomorrow when you see me

Come cream me from my body

To butter and delightly

.

Suck wholeness from me whitely

Spray sweetness off me nicely

This sun shine made divinely

mmm

Virginal Vignettes

1

Wanting to be snogged by pretty Shirley Betterley.

Who snogged boys in class sat ontop of Mr Andersons table.

Not snogging sweet either.

Tongue flicked into their mouths, dropping in spit.

She snogged out most of the lucky boys.

Except me.

2

So instead, kiss where it’s safe – under the dining room table with little 7 year old blonde cousin. As mommy and daddy.  Lips glued on together.

I was 9. This went on for 2 or 3 years more.  She liked it like me.

No fingers went anywhere underneath or between. Just the lips. No going into mouths.

Simple lips being sweet on one another, seeking affection, warmth, pleasure

3

In shuffly shuffle dance under my fat Grans sweaty armpits, squeezed ugly between her gobbler breasts.

With her gaping mouth she kissed me on the lips. Twice.

I avoided going anywhere near her after that.

4

Curly-blonde Dutch girl Annalise de Witt taking me off to the Cut and getting me to finger, gently, her little nubs of titties.

Soon my grubby hand is going up into her sweet smelling panties, not knowing where to land, lost.

Gluing thick kisses onto her small mouth. Tongueing those lips open.  Dribbling mouths together. Sucking out her tasty spit.

That’s what I wanted. I imagined. Possibly my first erotic fantasy.

5

The 2 older girls next door – Vaughans – “slappers” apparently.

Carole would call me loud out of bedroom window not dressed yet.

She’d gross over garden fence saying things to me I didn’t quite understand yet sort of understood. Sexy talk. About fannies.

But she was dirty. And probably ugly.

6

Aunt J with her black stiletto’s in the hallway, lined up high, pointy, and proud; waiting to go, to trot.

Her steepling walking in them, the sound of those clicked heels spiking hard against, spiked across.

The swishing slish of her black seamed nylon stockings

One Xmas she has lucky uncle J’s tongue down her throat, his eager hand up her short skirt. Mom – the older sister – with look of jealous disgust on.

Sat right close next to me on the bedroom floor she came, too close, with her long natural nails casually, deliberately, on my knee, provoking panic.

My little unsexed cock goes into shy spasm

Up very soon I get and scurry off to calm the embarrassment down quick.

7

The librarian woman with sharp shiny red nails, like precarious, fragile, feats of marvelous engineering.

Back at home, straight into the toilet imagining her long nails holding my willy.

I wasn’t even masturbating. Just imagining.

My todger was going up, risen hard  – “what the?…. is this?” whoosh!! – comes spurting white stuff gobbed all over library book on lap. I was 12. A fresh cock is born.

Back at that library as soon as; not out of nerdy interest in reading – but to stand shy, small, and sexual in front of her, aching to get that book stamped on by those killer nails.

(pages of book got glued together with my sticky white stuff)

8

Into the local offie for twix, a Karen Carpenter lookalike serving behind counter with long scarlet nails, black tight top on. The nails stroked long onto soft swollen bags of crisps, ready to puncture or pierce.

She was slender-thin this woman, breakable, violate-able.

Her nipples stiffening visibly once while she looked across at me, as if pointing out at my cock, asking it to, inviting me to – do something.

I couldn’’t. Still only a boy, an adolescent. (I was 19)

But she could have taught me surely?

To those kind of lessons I would have given my total unbored attention.

9

As it was, much solitary masturbatory pubescent time in toilet was furtively spent. Exploring and experimenting with myself.

There was banging on door and disdainful voice nagging suspiciously through: “What on earth are you doing in there”?

(she knew of course – my unsexy poor little mom)

I bought a lot of twix that summer.

It’s always been my chocolate of choice

mmm

Buzzizz

Running ahead for buzzizz that’s me that 9 year old.

Buzzizz making their straight way down fast main road to stop at the shops on other side. Got to get over to that other side quick.

Stop the buzzizz at the buzz stop, when they’d stopped, from taking off – without her.

Her who was struggling far behind on her special shoe.

I’m almost there, running. Then stopping to get some kids breath back. Then jogging off again.

Before it’s gonna be too late.

Got to main road. Not many cars speeding by because not many cars driven then. Only proper people who aren’t poor drive cars. Not as poor as us. Hence the buzzizz. Not that her could have driven a car because of short leg.

Crossed road and waiting on the other side at buzz stop. Straining to see if she’ll be appearing now holding little kids hand.

For all too soon it would be coming, the buzz. Could see it from far off. Already less than two stops away.

Her and little kid nowhere to be seen. Still. Hopeless they are. Will jump on that buzz and take off without the useless pair.

And now it’s here. Buzz door has opened, driver is peering out at boy me.

“Can you wait a minute, cus me spastics a mom an she’s got a special shoe an she can’t walk normal like other moms do an she’s having to tug that stupid little crying brother of mine along an if you go without her she’ll be in an even more worse mood an the whole day out at the shops will be borin cus she’ll blame me an she won’t buy me a comic or even any sweets”.

“You’re just makin all of that up to get me to feel sorry for you an let you on aren’t you sonny jim?” says buzz driver.

And before this most sad face is put on, the door has slid shut – and driver driven hopelessly off.

That buzz has long gone when she finally gets here. “It went” I’m saying whiningly. And she’ll look at me with a slap on her face for my legs. But she won’t. There are harder, slower, ways than slaps to make life bad.

Like buying no comics. And having no sweets. Then having to endlessly trudge up that steep street market, nosing about cold stalls and cold shops, searching for bits of boring this and horrible that.

Little kid will be crying all the time. He needs a smack. From me. For fingers like icicles burnt raw I’ll have. In need of warming up. On his silly snot head.

“When can we go home?” I’ll moan. “Can we go back now?” I’ll moan. And she won’t have listened. Heard but paid no heed. Until eventually, snapped, she threatens a slap that idiot dad will do to me when we get home. He won’t though.

Waiting. And waiting. And having to be waiting. For her to catch up on the leg. Or make her mind up what is cheap or cheapest to buy.

Gonna smack that brother when she’s not looking. Make him cry. Call him a bad name would be good. Get my own back. On her.

“Can we go back yet” I moan. And funny enough – we can. By waiting for more buzzizz where there’s a queue.

The buzzizz aren’t coming.

Colder and colder.

Tireder and fed upper.

Fingers like icicles frozen off.

At last a buzz. All pile on with elbows. Heave on of heavy bags of shopping. Where to sit in all this crush? Don’t want to be next to her or little him. Be better sat up close to some other mother. Without a shoe.

Nodding off. The lull of that sway. Ages to go, and more ages to get there. Waiting for it all to end.

Our stop. Coming quick up here now. That bell has to be pinged. And its me again, up to little me, to stop her buzz for her.

Will we get off in time. Will we leave anything behind. Yes, lets leave little snot faced crying brother behind. He can get lost.

So dark already. Big night has made everything small.

Wanting to race on ahead, disappear, escape, get home.

But she won’t. Won’t let me. Have to stay chained to her. Like her dog.

Be shuffling our slow shameful spastics way back.

The smallest family in the world. Only us is in the whole dark world.

Having to stay waiting to her.

Waiting to her.

Ready for her.

Waiting and ready for her.

To go away.

To get far far away from me.

A Black Cuntry Nipper

Was bawled in a hosspit on a Scumday. Then stuck in a box. Cus I was 6 weeks previous.

This was before they had telly.

Life was in black and white, with brown bits.

We lived above cows. On dirty hooks.

Up to Dumgermalean to be a wee. Triking around and around back gray garden while Her watched out the windo fed up.

Small Her had short leg. Short Him had fag breath. Both had bad teeth.

Another Unfortunate was bawled. Kneel. Got pneumonia. Unfortunately survived.

Right leg snapped like twig on ice. Two wrists snapped like twiglets twice.

Off up park to get away, to get lost, to be alone.

Loozas go to Poolaze Concentration Camp. Which was me. The Nizzshit.

“Get in your bludi box!” was smacked bitch Patch.

Piece work. Till midnight, the stitching of soft leather. Around little hard balls. To suck in a few extra paltry pennies.

The “Big Un” was born bored with acne. Joe 90 specs were unsightly.

Away on our long holidaze in spazzas car we wobbled to damp caravans.

Bingo night on Friday. Her nor Him never won nothing. Unlucky bastards. Always gonna be, always were, Looza’s.

A struggle it always was: this weary woe world full of BigHeads, Bludi BigHeads, Them Wogs and Dirty Paki’s, The Hackett’s – an Us.

Us was alone.

I was lonely.

Never mind. There’s a plan.

When big enough, is to get away from all you stupid lot.

And never come back.

Be better off then.

Be lonely on my own.

mmm