Douglas Adams and the pushy ATM part6

It was still raining and Simon was still wet. It was still confusing and Simon was still confused. Time had passed since he was told he was the time keeper and he was still, last time we checked, the time keeper. He had in his hands a small metal box that looked like any normal metal box would, except this particular metal box was vibrating. There was an energy about it that caused Simon to be excited. He was timid in his movements, frightened to awake whatever was in the box. He had no idea what was waiting for him. Fast forward to the final chapter of this book if you want to skip out the ugly bits that involve someone dying, Simon meeting a beautiful girl, Simon saving the world whilst the writer seamlessly creates a character so flawed but loveable and finally a cool-story-bro moment at the end. If you have not decided to do just that that this next bit is just to tickle your fancy.

Simon peered inside the box and found that there was a watch. The watch appeared to be perfectly normal. It had a clock face, a big hand to tell the minutes, a small hand to tell the hour and a date to tell the date. On the watch it said in fairly large letters and in red "I'm truly sorry for Mondays - Time." A little bit of humor never hurt anyone thought Simon. There seemed to be nothing wrong with its working condition as it read the correct time and date and it sounded as a watch should sound. Tick-tock and what-not. He thought that there was nothing special about the watch. It did what it was supposed to do. Although the massive control panel that popped out when he tried to touch the date did come off as rather show-offy. A small tune started playing in his head for no reason. He wasn't sure where it came from but his head bashed on with this song. When he pushed the date button again the control panel disappeared back inside the watch along with the elevator music in his head. Coincidence he thought. So he tried it again. The control panel slipped out from the watch and the music started to play again. The sound was not coming from the watch or the box but it was playing in his head. This struck Simon as slightly odd. How could a watch have a say on what goes on in his head? The song was melancholy in every note. It was the sound of impending boredom. If one had to ride the elevator to purgatory that is the song you would hear being played. He gave the song a moment to play. It was the least he could do. In his attempt to get out of the rain Simon ran towards Town Centre in search of some shelter. He ran past an ATM and it was at that precise moment that the music suddenly exploded into nothingness. It disappeared with a loud crescendo. As his movements took him away from the ATM the music started to play again. His head was too busy trying to figure out where the music was coming from that it had no space to comprehend that the ATM, the watch and Simon's impending heroism were all linked to the central plot of this story. Thankfully the writer had refilled his cup of coffee and ploughed on with this next bit.

Simon was unaware of the connection the ATM had with his watch. Thankfully he lived in a rather well-to-do area, which meant that another ATM would appear sooner rather than later. A banker popped out to meet him at the traffic lights urging him to come inside and seek shelter from the rain. At least this is the lie he told Simon. What he was actually trying to do involved time-share in Cornwall, a Gym membership and Simon handing over large sums of money for no apparent reason. Cornwall was old, Simon was slim and Simon was not rich. The utter lunacy of the banker meant that for no extra cost the banker would give him a loan of which Simon had no ways of paying the bank back. The banker explained that the loan was like a marriage, long, trustworthy, fulfilling and lasting. Simon felt quite the same, it was like a marriage, however in his eyes it meant forever, unfaithful, frustrating and after a mutual decision to part ways Simon would be left with nothing. So he respectfully told the banker to sod off. What he had not realised was the music in his head had ceased to exist ever since he had entered the bank. It was only after he exited the bank and the music came back into annoyance did Simon start connecting the dots. Much like a children’s draw-by-numbers book did Simon start to see that 1) The watch was the reason there was music in his head, 2) The music stopped whenever he was near an ATM and 3) All bankers should be shot.

He walked towards the ATM and the music started getting louder and it sounded as if it were about to go for a big finish. He stepped closer until he was standing right in front of the machine. The music was gone and Simon was intrigued. His fancy had been tickled enough to excite the hair on the back of his neck. As he stood face to face with the ATM the watch felt magnetically drawn to the ATM's control panel. He raised his hand towards to buttons and as the two made contact the ATM illuminated a bright red light. Simon did not need to insert a bank card into the machine for it to ask for a password. He looked at his watch and on the face the big hand pointed between the 4 and the 5, the small hand pointed directly just off the 3. He gambled and decided to enter the exact time it read on his watch into the ATM.

1..5..2..5..

"...Password correct...Please enter date..."

As Simon's fancy had reached an all-time score on the fancy-meter he proceeded to enter the days date. The ATM appeared to be calculating a complicated algorithm; thankfully it was a machine that had been programmed to do such a thing as Simon was no good at math. Simon once played a game of poker with his friends and declared he had a straight both ways and that he had won the pot. Unfortunately for Simon he was missing all 7 cards to achieve a consecutive up and down straight. However he managed to knock over his drink during the brawl that ensued during the argument that followed and the game was declared a forfeit. He later went on to tell his friends that the players were too intimidated by his card counting skills that they never invited him back because he was too good. The machine had finished its calculations and before you could say "all in" Simon was, in a witty twist, sucked all in, head to toe, into the machines screen. The music that had been going on and off inside his head burst back into life. However this time the sound was close. It did not seem as if the music was in his head but rather he was in the music itself.

The more the music pushed and prodded Simon the more Simon pushed and prodded back. In a cat and mouse battle it seemed Simon was neither winning nor losing. He tried to out-fox the music by pretending it did not exist. The music countered by doing the same thing and completely ignored the fact that Simon was inside itself. In a moment of pure wow-ness Simon and the music thought of the same thing at the same time. They both momentarily thought; "What the bloody hell am I doing here?" and in that brief but life changing wow-ness Simon popped out of the ATM and he was lying wet, inside a hospital ward with a bruised shin. 

Douglas Adams is late, he's late, he's very very late part5

Simon was feeling confused, he had passed out in a very untimely fashion and many a time too. All he wanted was a little bit of normality. Unfortunately normality was off on a weekend away in Spain, sipping on cocktails and reading poetry by the seaside, so it had found a replacement, sanity. Sanity however had a special brother insanity. The two were inseparable and with the one you got the other as was with most things in life. For example with beer you had a whale of a time and could court women with a whim, however you always needed a wee. A cigarette was good and made you look like you kept secrets and that you knew things about things, if you didn’t mind the cancer that is. The same could be said for people who went to gym, no matter how hard they tried to perfect their bodies and sculpt their muscles the rest of the world just thought they were knobs. Simon longed for a normal day but he knew he wasn’t going to get it.

He looked at his watch for something to focus on, something to distract him from his thoughts. He didn’t notice his watch was broken so he looked around for something else. He tried his mobile phone which coincidently was ringing with an unknown number. Simon wasn’t the type to screen his calls so he answered the phone, he also didn’t notice that the digital time display was broken too. He hoped whoever was on the other side would be able to distract him from the insanity that was tapping him on the shoulder. 

"Hello," answered Simon.

There was a long pause on the other line.

"Hello, who is this?" asked Simon, still no answer.

"I don't want to play games now either you..."

"...Mr Carter, this Alpha Foxtrot, signal not here. We peace call in," said Alpha Foxtrot.

"What can I do for you Mr Foxtrot?" replied Simon.

After a long pause and a few tongue clicks from Simon Mr Foxtrot came back to him.

"We calling from distance hope you understand English..."

"...yes well of course I do..."

"...we understand you time keeper now, be careful, responsibility lots on you. Find the map and save the memory of Earth all will familiar in your temporal lobe shortly, stand for download in 3..2.."

"Now just you wait!" demanded Simon.

There was an even longer pause on the other line except for the faint sound of laughter. It was becoming very apparent to Simon that insanity had not only been tapping him on the shoulder but was now having fun with him.

"Simon, my name is Insert Name Here, I was just pulling your leg there before, sorry I thought you had a sense of humor," said Insert.

"Sorry but I’ve lost my sense of humor completely, I think it’s off on holiday with normality sipping cocktails in Spain, look I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you better start explaining pretty soon," asked Simon

"Alright no need to get you knickers up in a bunch, tell you what, can you see the large parking lot near the train station? We'll meet me there in exactly 10 minutes 32 seconds and I'll explain everything" said Insert.
"Sounds very specific" replied Simon.

And with that the line went dead. 

Simon had no idea what had been going on lately but he knew one thing, life was a balancing act and hopefully whatever this gentleman named Insert Name Here had to say to him was probably some big reward for all the nonsense he had put up with lately. He threw caution to the wind and went for it. However the wind was in no mood to have caution thrown at it and promptly asked a cloud a favor and within a minute it started raining. 

Simon sat in the large described parking lot and waited for Insert to arrive. There was only one problem, he had never met Insert and had no idea what he looked like. He was cold and somewhat wet, serves him right for throwing a verb at the unsuspecting wind. He checked his watch again but it still read nothing. He checked the clock on the train station wall and saw that the time was 13:10pm. Finally a bit of normality he thought, he knew the time. He could now work out how long it was until afternoon tea. A man dressed in an oversized cloak walked towards him. He was carrying a small metal box. He stopped in front of Simon and handed him the box.

"This is yours Mr Carter, and can I say what a pleasure it is to see you again? It has been a very long time" said the man in the cloak.

"You can say whatever you bloody well want, just move away from me please" explained Simon.

"Mr Carter I can sense that you are confused. I spoke to you on the phone 11 minutes ago. My name is Insert Name Here" he said.

"So you are the person who has an awful sense of humor?" said Simon.

I learned from the best, sir" he said

"Well whoever gave you your sense of humor must be a complete nutter"

Insert smiled at him and offered him the metal box.
"I believe this belongs to you, I have been guarding it with my life it is now in its rightful owners hands" said Insert.

"What is this, and who do you think I am?" asked Simon

"You are Simon James Carter, and you are the time keeper"

Magoos - No Nonsense review

“You cannot make friends with the rock stars. That's what's important. If you're a rock journalist: first, you will never get paid much. But you will get free records from the record company. And they'll buy you drinks, you'll meet girls, they'll try to fly you places for free, offer you drugs... I know. It sounds great. But they are not your friends. These are people who want you to write sanctimonious stories about the genius of the rock stars, and they will ruin rock and roll and strangle everything we love about it.” *

Good. I’m trying to achieve something if I write this.

Good music has the power to move you, shit music can do the same. Thankfully this is not a story about the latter.

I am a man of rituals – borderline OCD, albeit self-diagnosed.  I have a set routine during shower-hour; body, hair, face then repeat. I brush my teeth to the clock and make sure each side receives equal treatment. I re-wrote the opening paragraph of this piece 4 times because the words didn’t add up to be an even number.  When I look at my life I can draw parallels to the condition, however there are circumstances that need not be associated with such nonsense – such nonsense. Such nonsense the condition is that I feel I will try my hardest to do justice to the vibe that is Magoos – Sunday night.

Every Saturday night in Henley, a posh little town in South Oxfordshire, is inundated with testosterone driven adolescence mixed with a comical dose of cigarettes and booze. Blithering mutton draped in lambs clothing, a common theme in a pub called The Catherine Wheel - a local Wetherspoons need I say more? A hum-drum of topofthepops music pierces the ear but not the soul. A younger less mature version of me would fall for the trickery; thankfully I have acquired a more judgmental view. Commercially driven stereo types line the streets emptying the local kebab shop and rioting outside the now defunct strip club. A lethal dose of such nonsense should be crippling to most, however I have a high tolerance for booze and bullshit. The after effects of even the mildest of binges can be felt well after a morning cup of coffee and a bacon buttie. The “what the fuck did I do last night?” question is thrown around the table and a jig saw of answers is mumbled in response. Collections of phone numbers lie on a pile of empty pizza boxes. The pair of socks that you’ve been looking for all week suddenly makes an appearance and magically the hangover disappears, all is going to be alright – and it’s not because the coffee and the now found sock, no such nonsense, it’s the looking forward to the real music coming to infect my mood soon on a pleasant Sunday evening in my favourite little pub.

Magoos is a charming little pub situated conveniently down the street from Barclays Bank. It is everything you would expect in a small town like Henley. If the overpriced drinks and sloppy service don’t annoy you the overcrowded bar most certainly will. However this is all over looked when the pretty bartender makes direct eye contact and already knows your order – two pints of lager please. The band setting up excites the ear and the first sip of the sweet barley flavoured drink tickles your palate. The stench of stale cigarettes snakes off an older lady who pinches your bottom as you walk past. With all senses aroused you sit down with your mates at your usual table in the back and your mood starts to lift. Familiarity and obsession breeds a certain sense of belonging. I’m a cog in the machine and the machine is Magoos.

Post punk-indie-rock with a small dash of extravagance, call it whatever you like, it’s modern and it is my style. The pseudo-intellectual look is popular and the jocks are starting to catch on. The nerd is no longer the underdog and the cute librarian girl has the appeal of Kiera Knightley. Thankfully Magoos is still a haven of weirdoes and there are no jocks to speak of. It’s Henley’s little treasure and it’s mine alike. Sure the band play a melody of covers from the 60’s right through to the modern renditions of Maroon 5, but their attitude towards the performance is what captures you. I’m no musician but I know my way around a set of headphones, and when these boys play you will most certainly listen too. Headed by frontman JJ – how rock star a name, the audience is taken on a journey that no one wants to end. Their routine is always on the borderline of becoming pure inspired genius or absolute nonsense. Don’t blame their talents though; I suspect it has something to do with the fact that the pub’s bathrooms are situated behind the band. Regular guests include Mr Andy Mallen, a singer song writer with as much weirdo tendencies to start a new army of weirdoes, but he knows his stuff. And I like him. And so does everyone in the place. It’s no mystery why we are all in love with him. The soulful Megan will get any man’s heart racing with her sexy and sultry voice, blasting out a cover or two then launching into her own stuff. Your heart starts to pump the liquor around your blood system and the whole mood of the pub beats to the infectious invisible force. There is something going on in that pub, and I feel a part of it. I feel as if my mere presence week after week has something to do with it, but that is indeed such nonsense, for it is the band, and their talented entertainment that infect the bar. They’re in every inhalation of smoke, they’re in every sip of beer, they’re in every pretty girl and they’re in me and without them my melancholic mood would start to affect my Mondays. Who knows, I may have to start changing my routine up a little but that’s such nonsense. 

 *Almost Famous

Erwog unnecessarily kills a young time-travelling chap who looks a little like Douglas Adams. part4.

The sun woke one morning and started its long journey west, as it got about half way, it stopped. But only for a moment. The reason why it stopped is because it got a great look up Saturn's rings.

It was during this moment of primal lust that down on earth Erwog II got a longer look at something that had caught his attention. It was just a moment long enough for his attention to be intrigued. If this had been any other ordinary day he would have carried on vandalising perfectly clean cave walls. He walked up to the thing that was causing a strange uncontrollable feeling in his head. He had no idea why, but for some reason he needed to investigate this thing that was causing a lot of nonsense. He approached what seemed to be a thinned out piece of bark. So thin, that if you had built yourself a time machine and had gone back the 20 odd million years to when Erwog II lived, you would think that the thinned out piece of bark was some sort of parchment. However, if you had done all this you would cause a massive imbalance in this story and would cause an unnecessary chapter entitled "Erwog unnecessarily kills a young time-travelling chap who looks a little like Harry Potter."

So with that in mind the piece of parchment looked like a thinned out piece of bark, for the sake of the writer's lack of inspiration.

He picked up the bark and on it were inscribed strange symbols that were very interesting to someone like him. If he squinted really hard and opened his eyes to look at the far left he could see what looked like mountains. If he did the same he would see that to the far right there seemed to be a bunch of rocks resting on one another, and near the bottom there was a large tower with a circular face, through the whole piece of bark there was also a long and winding river, but what made his mind tickle was the large symbol that indicated a place of interest, it added a finality to the whole image. Even to someone as primitive as Erwog II he knew that this bark was important, and that it was telling him to go and search for whatever the final marked destination was indicating. He knew that it was important; he knew that he was special and he knew that someone was going to die. Probably a black American guy. He wasn't sure why he thought this, but he just knew that it was true. Unfortunately for Erwog II a lightning storm brewed up fairly quickly and out of the storm appeared a man, who walked straight up to Erwog II took the map out of his hand, thanked him, smiled and turned to walk back into the storm not without giving him a set of paint brushes though.

Simon woke up. Everything was quiet. There seemed to be no one around. He opened his eyes and was suddenly blown away with all the colour hitting him from all around his perceptive vision. His ears then suddenly came to the party and picked up all sorts of sounds smashing his drums in a mish mash hash bash kind of way. He politely asked them all to give him a moment’s break but they were too busy giving him a hard time to notice his politeness. His head pounded and so did his leg. He had no idea where he was and what he was doing or why his leg was sore. Thankfully an oddly attractive girl sat down next time him and offered him a packet of crisps. She was smart; she knew what he really wanted.

"Thanks" he said.

"Ok" she said.

"What happened?" he said.

"You passed out" she said.

"Oh, right" he said."

"Enough of this he-said she-said nonsense let’s get you to a hospital and out of this rain. Peculiar day we are having here" she, err didn't say?

"Yes" wrote the writer, "that is much better. Now should we continue this story?"

"I think its best, but leave the stuff about him seeing his friend as a dog out, doesn't read well" explained the oddly attractive blonde.

"Yes, I wasn't entirely sure where I was going to go with that one, just sort of fitted the moment" he guessed.

"Yep, let’s go with something else" she replied.

Simon woke up. Everything was quite. There seemed to be no one around. He opened his eyes and everything looked fine. A lot of people seemed to be making a big fuss over him, which he didn't mind. He liked having someone make a fuss over him it made him feel wanted. He remembered passing out and he even remembered why, except for the part of the dog that was completely wiped away from his memory. It made sense to him because the writer said so.

An oddly attractive blonde was walking past the very same cafe that Simon was laying on the floor in. Her sense was hanging over her shoulder not knowing what to do with itself. The blonde had no need for sense, she was oddly attractive, and people like odd and attractive, odd and attractive do not need to be sensible because when the world is interested in your attractive oddness it can be forgiving. The blonde's sense was bored and wanted to muck about so when it saw Simon lying on the floor of a cafe looking dazed and confused it sensed it was needed. It went up to him and offered him a packet of crisps.

"Thanks" said Simon.

"No problem" she said matter of factly.

And with that she got up, winked at him and sauntered off. Simon was transfixed on a certain body part of hers that he completely blocked out what she had said as she left. Thankfully this is not one of those stories where whatever that blonde girl said as she was leaving has any bearing on the story whatsoever. In fact if you are interested in what she said, purchase a thesaurus and look up the word cool. Here you will find at least 3 to 4 different meanings on said word. What should have got Simon's attention and does have a lot of influence on the direction of this story was sitting at a table not too far from Simon and was reading a map.

Raining on Douglas Adams' parade.3

look im all emo

One morning a cloud was having a very anxious day, he had been up in the air for some time now and was very alone. He waited for other clouds to join him and hoped to be raining on some poor fool's dog sooner rather than later. You see it was only last week that he had met the most gorgeous cumulonimbus and had asked her out on a date to which she said

"Rumble."

I don’t speak cloud but I can imagine that it meant yes. He was carrying a heavy load of rain and wanted to get rid of it so that on his date he could pretend to be all mysterious like and a little transparent. Unfortunately he had been practicing his lightning strikes and had got distracted of the time and was now running a little late. He rushed over to Henley where he had told the cloud to meet him; he had said he knew a really beautiful spot out by the river. As he rushed over to meet her he was cloodling through his memory banks back to a time when he was a little cloud going to little cloud school. Unfortunately he was the class-cloud and his only memories of cloud school were when he spent time in the principle-cloud's office. If he had spent more time in cloud class he would have remembered that cumulonimbi speak in an ancient language and without getting into the linguistics of it all he would know that "rumble" contrary to misguided belief in fact means "piss off."

So by the time he arrived at the spot over the river in Henley he was once again alone and anxious. "I've blown this" he thought to himself.

He drifted around for hours, aimlessly searching for her.

As the situation seemed to dawn on him he grew increasingly frustrated, and if like me you know a little about clouds, you will know that the more frustrated a cloud feels the more rain it gathers. He looked in every direction and saw over the bridge to the north that Twyford was empty. He looked to the south and saw that Reading was empty. He glanced to the west and to the east with much the same result too. This made him feel worse and he let himself drift with the breeze who was feeling in not a dissimilar way. The breeze was rushing to the hospital to meet up with an old pal of his and the two of them were about to head out into London to cause some havoc. As the cloud reached over the hospital he gave in to the feeling in his stomach and with two middle fingers pointed firmly in every which direction proceeded to rain all over the tiny building marked "Head Trauma."

This made him feel even worse so he rained harder and threw out some lightning strikes just to prove his point.

Simon lay in his hospital bed blissfully unaware of what was going on outside. His head hurt and he was thirsty but he was still very unconscious. The nurses had tried a number of nursing techniques (including poking him in the shin repeatedly) to wake him up, but none of this seemed to work. They decided that it was probably best to leave him lying in his bed with his own dreams and that when he decided he was ready to wake up, he would. However a very distraught cloud was making a right ol’ mess outside his window and when combined with the over zealous breeze rained inside Simon's hospital ward. This had some alarming effects on Simon's state, as the wind chilled his bones and the rain sprayed his face he promptly decided that he had had enough sleeping-in and that it was probably a good idea to get out of bed. As he woke up a strange coincidence occurred; the cloud was finished with his rant and decided to move on and start a small business involving dry-cleaners. The nurses rushed in to see Simon sitting in his bed soaking wet for no immediate reason.

'Honestly Mr Carter, tut tut," they said.

'Wha, whh, aat,' Simon was having a hard time putting it all together, 'am I doing in here, and why the bloody hell am I so wet?" He asked.

The nurses informed him that he had been knocked over the head by a couple of youths who were rioting through Henley and that he had been saved by some fellow named Jay Bobsley but for the life of them could not explain the water now soaking the hospitals’ floor.

'Well that all seems rather silly, but I thank you for your patience, how long have I been unconscious for?" asked Simon.

'About three days,' replied the nurses.

'Ah, I see, (he didn't) and why, pray tell is my shin bruised?' He enquired.

'As mysterious as the water Mr Carter, if we knew we would tell you,' lied the nurses.

After checking out from the Head Trauma ward Simon decided to buy a newspaper, a cup of coffee and perhaps something to eat. He sat down at the little Italian shop and ordered a croissant from the Polish waiter.

'A French meal at an Italian shop served by a Pole,' he said out a loud, 'awfully British isn't it?'

Thankfully no one heard this and continued with their day without taking any notice of Simon's racist remarks. He gazed over the headlines of the Daily Local, Bobsley Blunders Spelling-Bee. Under this was an interesting advert on a Dry cleaner who promised absolute dryness no matter the weather. But it was the small article to the left that caught his attention. He read over the first few lines and instantly felt -

- to explain how he felt one has to look at an ordinary human being like Simon, and place him in a situation unlike today’s normal events. Lets say for example on a normal English day, rain with a little sunshine, eating a French pastry in an Italian diner, reading the local newspaper and one comes across an article so perplexing and out of the ordinary that one falls over with shock, because that is exactly what had happened.

Simon lifted himself off the floor and knocked his shin against his stool.

'Fuck,' he whispered, well when I say whispered what I really mean is shouted.

This seemed to grab everyone’s attention, and with everyone’s eyes on him he muttered a brief apology. He could not believe what he had seen in the newspaper article, his friend was standing in the picture holding a trophy of some sorts, which wasn’t the weird bit, what was the weird bit was that his friend was now a dog. A smug looking dog too.

Chris Seal - Hero of Henley

He knew this was his friend because he recognised the mop of curly hair immediately, that and underneath the picture it read: "Chris Seal - Hero of Henley."

The confusion running around in Simon's head was causing all sorts of internal circuits to go haywire that after a brief moment with reason decided that it was best that the whole thing be shut down. So Simon passed out, again, ironically he hadn't ordered an English breakfast because he probably would have drowned in the scrambled eggs.

A magician walked passed the window, but no one needed him.

Douglas Admas would be having a right ol riot.2

It was Simon's second week in Fyllis Court Club and he was cashing up the bar when he realised he had spelt the word "Fyllis" wrong. He then remembered why he had done so. You see in a country marred by health and safety nutters if he had actually spelled the name of his current employer correctly he would surely be sent back home. This was evident by the case of Mr J. Bobsley of Twyford, South Oxfordshire, England, after a rather unpleasant spat with Twiford Dry Cleaners and the Grammar Police, Mr J. Bobsley of Twyford, South Oxfordshire, England, was sent packing and asked to take out the trash and to close the door on his way out. What he had done was completely and utterly wrong in many peoples eyes.

You see he had placed an order for the underwear model Miss E. Wallonsworth of Twyford, South Oxfordshire, England, of six panties, two brassieres and one negligee and sent them to Miss E. Wallonsworth of Twiford, South Oxfordshire, England, who it turns out was a 97 year old lady with a fear of lycra. Such was her fear of lycra that after opening her package she had a heart attack and promptly died. After weeks of silent mutterings and whatnots and whodoneits it was discovered that the criminal was Mr J. Bobsley. He was accused of masterminding the very untimely death of Miss E. Wallonsworth of Twiford, South Oxfordshire, England. So after all that utter nonsense it was best that from now on he spelt Fyllis Court Club the way he had been doing all along. So that after reading this story no one would confuse it with another membership club located on the river Thames in a small village in Henley. And that was that then.

He woke the next morning to the rather unpleasant sound of an ambulance siren. He twitched and stretched and rolled out of his single bed to investigate the disturbance. He was very annoyed with this particular ambulance because it was making a very loud and annoying sound on a day when he should be sleeping in. You see he had been working a full week and had finally been given a days leave, so naturally he went out drinking the night before and was not feeling up to the loud annoying siren coming from the loud annoying ambulance. As he tried to wash his face in his basin he noticed to his annoyance that there was no water coming out of the tap. He tried the other tap with much of the same result. It was beginning to become quite clear that Simon James Carter was not having a very good start to his day-off. To make matter worse it appeared that another ambulance had joined the first one and decided to play its siren even louder. Just my luck thought Simon. After combing his hair he thought it was a good idea to see what these ambulances were banging on about. He assumed one of the members had had a heart attack, which seemed to be going around at the moment. It was just the other day that a Miss E. Wallonsworth had died from a heart attack, the doctors had no idea why but she was holding a pair of lycra knickers at the time. As he opened his door a man in police clothes went rushing past and he was shouting something at some young chap clothed in sweat pants and a hoodie. He paid no attention to what the police officer was doing but rather turned his attention to the now three ambulances parked outside his driveway.

"Excuse me sir, but can you tell me what is going on?" Simon asked.

There was no answer. He tried again. Still no answer.

He tried louder, "Excuse me sir, but what the bloody hell is going on here?"

And as before no one seemed to hear him. He walked around to the driver's door when he noticed why no one had answered him. The door was lying ajar with the keys still in the ignition but with no one in sight. He tried the back of the van and saw no one there either.

"Very strange" he silently muttered to himself.

He convinced himself that the paramedics were obviously inside treating someone who was having a heart attack. He came up with an idea, a very clever idea he had thought to himself, considering the circumstances of his hangover. He decided to enter all three ambulances and turn off their respective sirens and return to bed. It was during this idea when he was overcome by another thought; what the bloody hell is the plural of ambulance?

"Ambulaceses? ambulinci, ambulinsee, ambulances?" he concluded with the last one and carried on with his previous thought which for the life of him he had forgotten about. And it was about this time that he was knocked over the head with a baseball bat. His last memory was so disturbing that he tried to reason with the image but the image would have none of it. Ironic he thought; knocked over the head with a baseball bat in front of an empty ambulance because some old bat was having a heart attack. As his head hit the pavement he digressed that this was truly a shit day and he hoped tomorrow would be better.

Thankfully it wasn't, but we'll get there later.

If only Douglas Adams was still alive he might or might not like me.1

Simon James Carter was a simple man, he never expected much from life and life didn't expect much from him in return. In fact Simon and life had been spending so much time a part recently that only after a double take, during a walk in the park, did they both realise that the other one was still there. Simon had a plan that he had developed years ago as a child that had some how got lost in the general mish mash of living, that it took a couple of long lazy lay offs to remember what if felt like to have hopes and dreams. It was during this sudden realisation that something happened.

Willy was an odd Dad

He came to be in possession of a golden ticket handed down to him from his father who had received the same ticket from his father who had received the same ticket from his father and so on. This special golden ticket was a means to a journey, a journey with a beginning, a middle and an end. and this is the beginning.

After landing at Heathrow International airport the first thing he noticed was that there were a lot of internationals and hardly any heathrows, in fact he had no idea what a heathrow was, he guessed that they were an inconspicious bunch of people who threw random objects in open spaces not used for farming that had hidden agendas and therefore didn't show themselves. As for the internationals many of them seemed to be going somewhere really quickly or going nowhere at all. Simon had somewhere to go so he followed the internationals that were going somewhere and landed up in a small bathroom cubicle where the people he had followed turned around and looked at him in wonderment.



mate, you right, it totally looks like a marshmallow

 He penciled this down to the fact that he bore a striking resemblance to Harry Potter. This as it turned out was completely wrong, his thought that is, because after miming he had no pencil to sign autographs the internationals promptly called security. After a long argument with a bloke in uniform Simon revealed his golden ticket. This seemed to work as the bloke in uniform said a very uniformed apology and sent Simon in the right direction. That right direction was the wrong direction, because after traversing the umpteenth travelator he landed up in exactly the same position as he had started, in a bathroom cubicle with a bunch of angry internationals.

password: "chavs tickle"

He was lost and confused. These were two things that you thought you never wanted to be at the same time, lost by definition is to be somewhat confused of your direction, and confused by definition is to be somewhat lost of your direction. As the two were both negatives Simon remembered he had read somewhere that if two opposite emotions and or thoughts or feelings come into contact they will attract each oher (read under Love and War in section 1-999) which underlines the fact that if two emotions and or thoughts or feelings which are similar they would naturally repel each other, so in that Simon realised that two negatives cancel each other out and it was at that very moment that he automatically became un-lost. He looked up and there he saw his friend Brad.

And so his journey had already begun, but was yet underway.

the beginning.

Being a girl is a team sport

My thumb is back and in 67.3% working order the other 16.7% is used for my calculations so I’m not too bothered. It’s weird how much we actually use our thumbs; for example the other day I tried trimming my ball-hairs with my index and middle fingers and I missed entirely. Turns out I’m now a Jew; damn I didn’t even have a bah-mitzvah, point is we need our thumbs. This one like famous oke tuned in a song that a zebra is such a waste of an animal that if it was born with opposable thumbs it would look at itself and say “fuck it” and commit suicide, pity they only have hooves I’ve seen that movie White Stripes zebras don’t need to live, or run in horse races for that matter.
 I’m going out on a limb here and saying the Gwaga probably had thumbs, that’s why they’re extinct, that or they all lost in the Durban July, cunts.

So you wanna know what happened to my thumb do you?  Well a little fairy girl named Thumbelina came to me in my dreams and granted me one wish and I didn’t even have to think about it.

Thumbelina< just for search engines

Thumb: So you want to be a girl?

Me: Yes.

Thumb: Dude, that’s very gay.

Me: Says the fucking fairy granting wishes to dudes wearing orange lumo tights.

Thumb: you realise you just said you’re wearing orange tights right?

Me: They’re comfortable and they totally show off my calf muscles

Thumb: I’m starting to see why you wanna be a girl.

Me: listen here bitch I’m not gay I like bangin chics, these pants rock your tits off now are you…..

I woke the next morning feeling groggy, I had a stomach ache, my nipples hurt and I felt pissed off for no reason. So I decided to steel a few more minutes of sleep, only problem was I felt a dampness between my legs. I reasoned a wet dream to be the cause, nothing that a shower wouldn’t help but first a cup of tea.

                                                     Gloria: Good morning Mr Carter

She wont leave me alone after----->>

Me: good morning Gloria how are you feeling this morning?

Gloria: holy shit balls? What happened to you?

Me: huh? Bitch I told you to leave me alone, it was only that once didn’t you read my blog? (http://simonjamescar.blogspot.com/2011/03/gloria-holed-for-blackmail.html)

Gloria: no I did, it was misleading, I didn’t cum. You look like a girl.

Me: you look like a girl.

After my cup of the best I walked to the bathroom to check out the effects of lasts night’s bottle(s) of wine and to my surprise I looked like a girl, a fucking hot girl! I had long hair down to my shoulders, my teeth were straight and...um…girl-like? I had the darkest of dark eyes and a small beauty spot on my left cheek, ha ha sweeeeeet! You wanna know what I did next? I. got. Naked.

I stood staring at every part of my body, scrutinising the flatness of my stomach, examining the round curve of the small of my back, the size and shape of my breasts as my teeny tiny nipples pointed skywards, I locked eyes on my petite frame and my lengthy legs and I stood in absolute amazement as I inspected the smallness of my vagina. Gloria you fuck.

I walked out onto the streets to the gaze of the civil workers as they whooped and hollered at the shortness of my floral dress and the unmistakeable scent of my pheromones. It felt nice having the eyes of every man on my gorgeous body. They were playing a game of dodge ball and approached me to play with them; I misunderstood this thinking they were making a sexual advance on me, turns out they were not so direct and that they did in fact wanted me to play dodge ball.  I flashed them opportunities to look between my legs at my red panties and I made sure they noticed my full cleavage. I was enjoying the banter as they threw witty reprises across the road; my body felt good being close to the men even though I knew full well that I was actually a man inside. I was on the team that seemed to be winning most of the games. My masculine instincts took over as I moved with speed and agility dodging the projectiles coming my way. I saw an opportunity and threw a ball at one of the weaker men, as he ducked out of the way I saw I red ball carving through the air, dancing around in the friction the ball bobbed and weaved and struck me on my right thumb. The pain was instant and I dropped to the floor immediately.

Thumbelina: Eat shit you knob

Me: jeez bro, I thought we had a deal here?

Thumbelina: no, deal was broken the minute you told Gloria she was a fuck.

Me: so you’re telling me the whole time I was playing dodge ball with those workers outside I was a man?

Thumbelina: yes, a man wearing a dress! Ha ha you dumb fuck

Me: fuck.

@simonjamescar

I wannabe a Red light Mizer victim again.

I had an encounter with the lead singer from City Bowl Mizers and the ginger from Red Light Stereo at Splashy Fen 2011. It was dark and we were all very drunk but I know deep down inside what happened, as it was my insides that were encountered.

I had just finished my set at the comedy tent and felt buzzed, not from the gig but from the jagermeister coursing through my veins. I knew my favourite band the City Bowl Mizers were about to start their set so I ran to the stage in search of my fix. I muscled to the front of the stage hoping to catch a glimpse of Marty and the crew.

lovin u, u know its not true

I was liquored up and was caught up in the music. In a trance I bobbed and weaved my head whilst singing at the top of my lungs, these guys were my heroes. Their funky punk and rhythmic lyrics kept the endorphins pumping. After the show I caught a glimpse of Gareth, the guitarist from Red Light Stereo; he was sitting admiring the band from a distance. I made my way over to him to congratulate him on his earlier show. He seemed distant; it looked like he was having an argument in his head about something.

Me: Hey Gareth!

Gareth: Hey Si

Me: Do you want a drink?

Gareth: Yeah sure lets go say hi to Marty, they have beer back stage

Me: Fuckin A

Gareth: Don’t say that, you don’t sound cool, no one says that anymore.

Me: Fuck you.

So we went back stage and drank beer with the band, I was in Nirvana, a perfect blend of booze and people kept my mood optimistic. A cold drink was passed my way from what seemed to be Marty’s hand, my memory is a bit foggy and as a result the next bit is what I think happened.

Martin and Gareth raped me. They tied me up and gagged my mouth shut. My shirt was ripped off my body revealing my sweaty body. A bright orange mop of hair moved to my right and held me down as a tanned boy touched my navel.

 The red head blew gently into my ear and whispered his lyrics “Here’s YOUR ticket to the show I hope you are happy where you are.” The other boy moved his hands across my chest feeling for my heart beat, it brought out an animalistic rage in him as every beat he pushed himself up against me. He said that if I did this he would make me a star. The ginger looked into my eyes and wept a tear that fell to my mouth, I could taste the salty taste of hunger and an unsatisfied lust for closeness. This didn’t seem like the first time these two had done something like this. It looked like they had planned this meticulously to subdue their own agendas. I felt for them and sensed a connection when I told them that everything would be ok. The next hour or so both men had their way with me, my memory comes and goes but for the most part the climax was intact. I woke the next morning with a cubic fuck ton of a hangover, my lips were chapped and faded and I felt a burning sensation between my legs. My recollection of the evening came back in a flash as I pulled out an orange curly hair out from my mouth.

My therapist believes I suffer from Stockholm syndrome; a condition rendering my judgement on love, sex and admiration for my captures. I think he’s a cunt.

@simonjamescar

lady lucka

When it comes to luck I’m not familiar with it. I may have won a water-resistance radio from K-tv once but let’s be honest the thing didn’t “resist” water very well, I chucked it in the pool and it sullenly clucked its final rendition of wet wet wet, suffice to say I did not feel it in my fingers, but then again luck is in the bones.

I’m always getting into shit for something. Right through High School I was the kid on a Saturday sanding down desks and washing the school bus for my many indiscretions. I never did anything too serious, ok just the once but I’m not getting into that right now there’s not enough time, I was more of a rebel without applause, rules made me feel claustrophobic and if its confessions time: I fucking loved the rush of getting up to mischief but what I loved more was the rush of being caught, just thinking about it now I’m getting a semi. Or maybe that’s just the after burn of a blue bottle. Or the sand falling off the back of a speeding truck. Or vinegar on an open wound.

In honesty I always got what was coming for me. And the luck? Well I’m the guy who missed the boat by a second; I missed the ‘A’ by a per cent; I missed the record by a centre meter and I missed the threesome by a year. If it has anything to do with luck well then I’m shit out of luck. Lies I’ve had a threesome and I got an ‘A’ for it because I wasn’t a centre meter late ;)

But there’s a butt and a big one at that, 3 months ago I was pulled over for driving under the influence by 2 officers; the one was a senior and the other, with a large butt was a junior female trainee. This is where the luck runs out for me and I get fucked up the arse by murphy and his chom lady luck, the dick fucks like playing games with me. The fucking irony. (The swearing is a way of getting back at those two twats by the way, they can’t read, they didn’t go to school they were being fucked by karma. She’s chilled, we are mates, we hang out on weekends, I buy her tequilas; it’s her kryptonite. We make love to penguins she likes the black and white suites it’s weird.)

So I tested positive for awesome dance moves on the wind instrument aka the breathalyser, lady luck steps in and puts her SABS stamp of approval on the machine, the officers miraculously learn to spell, the inspector is in town so no bribes and bobs your uncle I have a court case pending. Fuck sakes. But then guess what, karma bitch slapped her younger boet murphy and gave lady luck a proper clit punch (@standupglenbo) and the following conversation was had.

Popasmurf: Ow bitch that hurt

LLady: well ya it did hurt but it was mildly erotic do it again

YingYang: Sis you are fucked in the kop, I need to have a word with you after this. Now listen, I essentially embody both of you and your decisions, except the literacy issues, that is your fault you two are just stjupid. My point is that Simon is not a bad guy, he doesn’t deserve all this punishment, he does good he has compassion he has blue eyes he is tall he likes long walks on the beach his cell number is…

PoppaLL: …shut the fuck up

YingYang: sorry product placement there. Anyway what I’m trying to say is give the guy a break. He’s an ok guy.

Poppasmurf: chilled it’s just fun picking on him

LLady: fine, I’ll let him win the lotto next week.

YingYang: deal, that’s a lot of tequila.

LLady: what?

YingYang: shut up

Call it what you will; luck, muryphs law, dyslexia whatever, I paid my fine and I have a 5 year suspended sentence, luck didn’t play a part, there’s no such thing. Murphy doesn’t sit around waiting for you to make a mistake and claim it; he’s a placid oke who chills in your head who only comes out when you need to point fingers at someone else. Take a long hard look in the mirror, and see that new pimple developing on your nose? No, not that one the other one, to the right, under the freckle, no douche your other right, fuck you are incredible, yes that pimple, you got it? Ok cool well-done I just wanted to see if that worked. You just got punk’D bitch! Anyways before I stray further, the person you see in the mirror is the person you need to blame, he is the one, time after time who is fucking you over, it’s time to take a stand against this douche and take accountability for your actions. You.are.to.blame (@matthewsavides) yes blame matt. Ha ha. 

Blame matt/matt-black/I like to be spanked/spanked is a word/words were spoken to my officer/officer arrested me and sent me to court/court is evil/evil is Hitler/Hitler invented coconut snowballs/snowballs are pink/pink is my favourite colour/colours are rad/rad is an acronym for Radio-assisted-delusions. It all comes together with a castle. Who is driving?  

thanx

@simonjamescar