Money, Murder & Musing; Part I

OK, this isn’t my usual type of thing and I’m a bit at a loss as to why I’m sharing it – in fact that’s complete bullshit; the reason I’m sharing it is to find out whether or not I should continue with it. This is the only thing I’ve wrote in recent memory that I’ve actually enjoyed writing. It’s a [long] short story and like with all my previous short stories [May Contain Nuts & Mr. Whiskers Must Die] it was written in one/two sittings and churned out. It’s not really a funny story yet or maybe it’s so terrible it is funny.

Any comments would be greatly welcomed.

Chapter I; Salinui Chueok

If this has come to the light of day, the likely chances are I’m either dead or in jail and if the justice system knows what I know about me, it’s unlikely I’ll ever see the light of day again. But I’m getting ahead of myself. There’ll be plenty of time to overly describe the horrors I’ve inflicted on people over my near on thirty years on this earth, but before all that I want to tell you how I became what am I.

You know the strange kid at school that sat at the back of the class? The one that mainly wore black and was constantly moody? Always a bit of a loner? Yeah, I guess you’ve got the idea, well that wasn’t me. That kid at our school went on to develop some iPhone App that made him a small fortune. I was just a regular kid, I blended into the background. Sure I had my small clique, but we didn’t pose a threat to anyone. We were a pretty mundane group, only interested in playing PlayStation, smoking ganja and trying to convince older siblings to be us alcohol. You have 15% cool kids, 15% loser kids and I was in the other 70% just like the majority of students.

People would constantly say those are the best days of their lives. That’s not true at all. Those are the simplest days of your life. But you add a fake sense of nostalgia that makes you glamorise those years into something they weren’t. If you’re one of those people [that claims those days were the best], you only have yourself to blame for carving out a shit life for yourself without doing something about it, like I did.

I left school at the first chance I could. I understand the benefits of education and despite numerous requests of my teachers I opted against college and university. It just wasn’t for me; I had the intellect but not the attention span to stick with it. I was sixteen; all I wanted was to make money. So that’s what I set out to do. I had a string of shitty, low paid jobs, from cleaning, to humiliating factory work to pleb roles in offices to being surrounded by swarms of morons in retail. I never stuck around long enough to move up the runs of the ladders, but who’d want to in those environments? There’s no major pay off coming your way at any point. You’ve heard the phrase; ‘money makes the world go around’ and at that point of my life that was my mantra.

My C.V. was packed full, I had experience in plenty of fields, but turning up to job interviews with that only made perspective employers question how long I’d be sticking with them. To be fair, it’s not like I made an effort, my unkempt appearance at the time had decisions made before I even plastered on my perfectly detectable fake grin. So I was beginning to run shit out of luck. JSA was barely keeping me afloat so my next obvious move was to do something, anything to bring in money. This is how I got into dealing weed.

I knew a couple of people that could hook me up so it wasn’t long before I was in business. By this point I’d stopped smoking the stuff, simply to make more profit and keep my head clear. I wasn’t doing too badly, it was extra money coming in but not nearly what I was expecting. So after about six or seven months I came to the conclusion I had to evolve my current operation. There’s no real money in selling cannabis, is what I began to realise, I needed to upgrade to something else.

This began a chain of discussions with other dealers I knew in attempts to get in contact with a supplier, I knew of some people that would supply me with coke or pills, but the product they had was already cut or simply too low grade to be bothered with. A drug dealer doesn’t make money from selling drugs; he makes money from returning customers. That’s drug dealing basics.

After a few broken promises and countless let downs, finally a meeting had been set up; I was meeting a guy named Toby [the least drug dealer name I’ve ever heard]. I’d been told that Toby worked for Ricky Matthews, who in turn was a “big player”, I’d repeatedly been told, although I had no idea who he was. But then again, if you’re a “big player” in the drug scene, it’s probably best you have at least some privacy about yourself.

I met Toby at a flat that he sold from. It was a fucking shit-hole. Dank, drab, squatters had better places than this. Not really a fitting place for a man that’s apparently connected to a large drug dealing syndicate. He invited me and strangely enough was quite a nice host; he offered me tea/coffee and even some of his A-Class products to sample. I obviously declined both. This was business, not the Mad Hatters fucking Tea Party. In between numerous junkies ringing the doorbell, we tried to talk numbers, as to how much cocaine I could buy from him and how regular. We were finally making some headway until there was another knock at the door. Toby went to do his business, but this time something was different. There was a bit of a disturbance; raised voices, a struggle. I imminently assumed it was the police and ran through my options as what excuses I had for being there. But when Toby re-entered the room with a stocky masked man holding a sawn-off shotgun to his back, it all be abundantly clear.

A second skinnier masked man entered with a machete and rope in hand. Toby was flung into a chair and quickly tied down and before I knew it I was staring down a barrel of a shotgun. At this point I’d never been in a situation in which my life had been threatened. My eyes just fixated on the dark barrel and a euphoric feeling descended over my body. My mind was a million miles away while my physical self was amidst a robbery about to take a violent turn. I was in a suspended reality, I don’t know if it was shock or an excitement I’d have never experienced before, but I was rushing.

“Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?” is all I could hear as I re-entered reality. By now the cold shotgun barrel was pressed up against my cheek, it was like having an ice cream pushed into your face, but with the threat of death. Who was I? I had to think, I certainly wasn’t feeling myself at that minute.

“I’m no-one.” I gently muttered. I kept my composure. I was calm, not panicking, even though the whole situation was completely foreign to me, I knew I should’ve been crying, screaming and begging for my life, but I just didn’t feel the need. Was I suicidal? No, but it’s not like I had anything to live for at that moment of time. I quickly ran through a list of people I knew; family, friends, acquaintances and asked how long it’d be until someone realised I hadn’t been seen in a while, due to my brains being splattered all over Toby’s damp living room walls and haggard old sofa.

“Who the fuck are you?” The masked man screamed once more, derailing my train of thought again. Clearly, he wasn’t happy with my original answer, but this guy was starting to get a little shaken. I’m assuming when he usually thrusts a shotgun in a strangers face they act a little more cooperatively than I was.

“I’m just a customer, stopping by.” I said, finally.

“Well, you’re gonna have to stick around for a little longer,” he barked, as if it was twice as witty as he thought it was, “tie up this cunt too.” He instructed his smaller counterpart.  

“There’s not enough rope.” His henchman responded.

I was no expert in robbing drug dealers but even I could see this plan was starting to unravel. I began to detect the nervousness creeping into their voices as they discussed what to do. [RULE #1: Have a meticulous plan; everything should be taken into account.] They weren’t going to let me walk out the front door while they had Toby tied up so they could ransack the house, so instead the skinnier guy left his machete with the big guy while he rummaged around to find the stash of drugs and money.

Toby was starting to get unruly tied to his seat, who could blame him? These two fucking shitbags were in the process of undoing all his hard work – fuck he could end up with the coroner picking parts of shotgun shell out of what used to be his forehead at this rate. Apparently the big man’s suggestions for him to “Shut the fuck up!” fell on deaf ears. As Toby struggled to loosen his ropes the shotgun wielding buffoon headed over to him and waving the machete in his face and instructing him to say still. At this moment he had is back to me and his mate was out of the room, so I scanned my surroundings as to what I could find. I locked eyes with Toby, he glanced underneath the sofa. I slyly reached under, hoping the thief wouldn’t catch any movements in his peripheral view; then again he was wearing a fucking mask so he had limited vision anyway. I grasped the baseball bat tightly with both hands, and slowly rose to my feet. In the process my knees cracked – I’ve always had the problem, not sure if it’s bad joints or shitty cartilage, either way it’s never happened at a worse time. The big man turned, I lunged forward and just swung with all the power I could muster. He hit the floor with a deafening thud. Maybe I’d missed my calling in life as a homerun-hitting baseball star.

I stood over him, my arms trembling from the adrenaline rush. I’d never felt so powerful before. A small pool of blood was trickling from his mask and beginning to gather at my feet. With all this happening around me all I could think about was how long it’d take me later to wash away the crimson residue that had gathered on my trainers.

His mate barged back into the room, clutching a duffle bag.
”Get that fucker!” Toby yelled at me.

As the skinny bastard stood there trying to figure out what had happened, I nonchalantly approached and starting swinging. Sadly, I was a bit of a one hit wonder with the baseball bat and I missed this guy, in my defence it was a lot smaller than my original target. A scuffle ensued, he dropped the bag and I dropped the bat and fell into the kitchen. We tumbled around on the kitchen floor like two uncontrollable toddlers, until he gained the upper hand and pummelled me in the face. It probably would have been enough to keep me down if it wasn’t for the fact I was hyped up. He got to his feet and began flinging open kitchen drawers in the hope of discovering a knife or anything to give him the advantage.

I dragged myself to my feet, only to find him gripping a hammer. My initial reaction was; ‘who the fuck keeps a hammer in the kitchen, doesn’t Toby own a fucking toolbox?’ I grabbed what ever was in my reach and began to bombard him with it; plates, mugs, glasses… I reached for the kettle, it was cold [kind of wished I’d took up Toby’s offer of a cup of tea at that point], I threw it at him and it connected, but this guy was clearly amped up too.

He ran at me, swinging the hammer, luckily he was about as skilful with that as I was with the bat against him. After about a minute of dancing and prancing around like two faggoty ballerinas, I’d had enough. I dived and rugby tackled him, he hit me a few times in the back as we dropped to the floor. Then I just let ripped, I swung a windmill of punches to his head as I sat atop of him. It was a fury of fists, some missed and hit the floor as he attempted to squirm out, but I didn’t care, I just carried on.

Eventually his ski-mask was wet from his blood, yet this didn’t deter me, I just continued to throw punch after punch, my hands red raw from the blows I was delivering. By this time he’d stopped squirming, hell, he hadn’t been squirming for at least two minutes. He laid their lifeless, a massive contrast to myself; I’d never felt so alive.

I left the kitchen feeling new levels of ecstasy, blood dripped from my knuckles. Toby gave me a look, for a split second I swear he look terrified of the meek man in front of him. I think twenty-three minutes before he’d have never expected that from the guy he’d welcomed into his flat. But to be fair, I’ve known myself twenty-three years I didn’t think I was capable of it either.

I took the machete and started to cut Toby free. It was strange; we didn’t speak a word to each other. But yet, what do you say in those situations? By the time he was free the silence had become too much.

“The one in the kitchen; is he dead?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” and honestly I didn’t, to be fair I didn’t care, “he’s not moving.” I told him.
”Well let’s tie up this big son of a bitch first before he comes to.”

So we did. Toby made a phone call. Then he went to examine my handy work in the kitchen. He stayed in there for a long time. I don’t know what he was doing, I never bothered to ask. I just sat on the sofa in an exhilarated state, still trembling from the adrenaline. I still can’t pinpoint what exactly was running through my mind at that stage but I felt totally different. I felt I was a new man; I’d evolved, I’d be reincarnated, I’d achieved a higher level of self. I was Zen. I’d reached nirvana.

Toby didn’t re-emerge until there was a knock on the door. Three guys entered and instantly began surveying the damage. They didn’t acknowledge my existence, which was fine; I was in a world of my own.

That’s when Toby sat beside me and handed me a rucksack.
”This is yours and it’s on the house, as a thank you. But you have to understand you won’t speak a word of what happened here today, to anyone.” “I totally understand.” I told him.
”OK, I’ll be in touch, but it could be a while.”

I took the rucksack and left, kind of felt I’d overstayed my welcome anyway. I got about two streets away before I was in a secluded enough area to investigate the contents of the bag. I opened it up; £1000, a bag of 200-300 pills and fuck knows how much coke. I removed the money and stuffed it into my pocket, zipped up the bag and made my way home. At the first chance I got I threw the rucksack into a bin.

I was officially out of the drug dealing business after that experience.

Now I’d found something else to pursue.

How to Interact in Society

Now, I’m a notoriously antisocial son of a bitch [no offence to my mother], but luckily in the limited amount of time I’ve spent on this doomed rock we call Earth, I’ve adapted the basics of social interaction. Most of this comes from the rare times my mum was able to tear herself away from the bottle long enough to point of valuable advice [yes offence to my mother]; while others I’ve kind of collected along the way like my surprising wide compilation of sexually transmitted infections. Anyway, although I’m not a people person, every once in a while I like to divulge what I’ve learnt onto lesser beings also inhabiting this doomed rock [that’s YOU, reader], in an attempt at making my rare social interactions slightly more pleasant and leave me less likely to jab my house keys into the jugulars of people. So I’ve compiled a simple list of hints and tips for interacting in society. Read them. Practice them. Don’t get key jabbed in the jugular.

Excuses, Excuses, Excuses…

At what point did it become not just acceptable, but the norm to simply start talking to people? I’m no great conversationalist, I’ve mentioned a few times I have two topics of discussion [best ways to drown kittens and overly long descriptions including; size, weight, colour and smell of my defecation], but that’s not the kind of talking I’m talking about, I’m talking about the talking in which a talker just starts talking to you [know what I’m talking about yet?] without an opener. That sentence that grabs your attention, so you know someone is talking to you and you can concentrate on what they are saying, so you can respond. Sentences like; “Excuse me,”, “I beg your pardon”, I’d even settle for an “Oi, mate”.

These need to be used. Without them I’m too busy daydreaming; “All in one sack with a brick… or individual sacks with a brick each?” and I’ll simply suspect that any jabbering on in the background has nothing to do with me.

I think this is all to do with people’s unjustified self belief that all the attention is primarily aimed at them constantly. They skip through life thinking that the rest of us are hanging on their every word, so they have no need for openers for conversations, in their minds we should be grateful they are even speaking to us. I hate those egotistical pricks… who do they think they are? Ben Broughton?

Taking your hygiene personally…
 
Now we all have a bit of a hum about us from time to time. I, myself, often avoid the shower a few days at a time, like a lucky Jew in a concentration camp circa 1934 [but not 1935, poor bastard]. But I like to think I never leave the house stenching like some individuals.

You’ve all smelt them. It’s the odorous mix of must, sweat and urine. I don’t know at one point a person starts to carry an aroma worse than public toilets in the slums of Mumbai without noticing. Clearly these people have relationship issues, because if there’s nobody in your life that loves you enough to point out the scent you’re giving off is causing dogs two blocks away to vomit their guts out of their eye sockets, you must be a lonely individual.

This obviously doesn’t just extend to personal relationships either. Clearly you don’t have any workmates or they would have pointed it out much sooner. Who wants to turn up to work and breathe through their garments constantly for eight fucking hours?

So here’s the thing; wash your clothes, wash your hair, wash you face, wash your body, learn the correct toilet process. Then you can re-enter society.

Be Polite…

I know it seems a little odd coming from someone like me to say this, but politeness is a must have. I tend to think I act politely in public; I hold open doors, I mind my Ps & Qs and don’t flick cigarette nubs into passing prams.

Just treat people as you expect to be treated, if you talk to me like I’m a piece of dog shit don’t be surprised when I treat you like a piece of dog shit and step all over you with new trainers on.

And if you’re having a bad day don’t bring your fucking negativity around other people, just piss off home and cry in a corner like normal folk.

#DrinkingSeason: Ben's Booze Banter

Bonjour cunts, as many of you may know from personal experiences with me I’m quite an avid borderline alcoholic.

If you can’t ever remember seeing me so drunk I made a complete twat of myself and all those around me, you need to seek medical advice because clearly you’re suffering from major blackouts or memory loss.

Anyway, recently I’ve been slightly worried about my colossal intake of alcohol. I don’t know if I’m simply being a bit of a hypochondriac or if in fact this is an actual, legitimate, reasoning from my subconscious.

You see, I drink A LOT. That’s not some kind of braggadocios claim, like; “I drink more than you” [although I do], it’s a stone cold fact [I could also out drink Steve Austin, stone cold fact #2]. For as long as I can remember I’ve drank almost everyday [of the week, not the entire 24 hours]. I like to think it started when I came* to University, but delving into my corrupted memory bank of before I departed to Derby, I still used to spend most nights drinking with friends in my hometown. Back then it was all there was to do in our small shitty town, but now I’m a proper grown up, paying council tax and whole lot, surely I should have moved on from this ‘habit’ by now?

So why do I drink? I don’t have a definitive answer, I think it’s a combination of factors, the first being habit.

You see I like routine, I’m a simple, yet boring individual and I like to know where I stand day to day. I like being in my comfort zone; at home with alcohol… and sometimes friends. Anything away from that and elements are out of my control and I don’t like having to give up complete dominance of my surroundings, it makes me feel weak. Yet, if everyday passes with no massive alterations between one and the next, I feel content in life. Just writing this makes me pity my own existence, especially when you take into account how fleeting life is. Maybe I’ve lost my drive, ambition and self-belief that I’m capable of doing anything else with my life. That moves us swiftly on to my second reason of why I drink…

Escapism. Alcohol like many other wonderful drugs, helps ease off reality. And let’s face it; reality, much like reality TV, is fucking awful. If you think reality is anything but awful you’re either; an optimist that’s yet to have life crush that hope out of you or you’re a botched lobotomy patient. On the rare occasions I don’t drink [due to the fact I can’t afford to] and I go to bed sober, my inner voice begins to role off that long list of problems in my life; debt, health, future, bills, rent, the disgusting human being I’ve become. That begins the never ending spiral of self-hate which culminates in me sitting up until the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep, making empty promises to myself about how I’m going to change. Those promises never happen. Then the next time this happens the intensity of my self-loathing escalates to astronomical levels. Alcohol amends this, with enough in my system that little inner voice has nothing to chime in about, it blocks out that nagging talk in the back of head and helps me relax and be happy, without the constant fears of how my life is mapping out.

Boredom. I get bored extremely quickly. I get bored with people, bored with tasks, bored with entertainment, right now as I write this I’m itching to get out my seat and do something else, because quite frankly I’m bored of writing at this precise minute [but you can tell that from the lack of jokes]. Yet, the only reason I’m writing is because I’m bored of everything else there is to do in my flat… fucking explain that one! Alcohol doesn’t totally cure boredom. It’s not like I sit in a dark room, swigging SoCo from the bottle congratulating myself on how so not-bored I am. Alcohol just makes things less boring; episodes of QI on Dave I’ve seen a million times before, the latest shit comedy film Hollywood has churned out, listening to my friend’s relationship problems… You get the picture, all the mundane shit that we come across daily. You see, while I like to think of myself as a boring individual [I have two topics of conversation], I detest being bored, my mind thrives on constant information. Alcohol subsides that need of stimulating entertainment.

So, am I an alcoholic?

I’m not capable of self-diagnosing, really. The government suggests having at least two dry days a week and if you’re able to do this you’re probably not addicted to alcohol, I tried my hand at it and was successful [for one week, this is only the second]. But the pure fact that they suggest only two dry days was slightly shocking to me, which made me think on the grander scale that I’m probably not alone in how much I actually drink.

Yet I do think I have an addictive personality; smoking, TV, tea, chicken wings, I’ve done more than my fair share of recreational drugs in the past and my personal opinion is I ‘liked’ one a little too much, but when the down out-weighted the high, my perspective changed. Maybe this will happen with alcohol; maybe I’m just one massive hangover away from calling it time gentleman, please, on my drinking… although with my current drinking form I average less than ten impactful hangovers a year, so for one to make me want to quit drinking altogether may put me on my deathbed before I take note.

I think my biggest problem isn’t alcohol, it’s what I’ve mentioned; routine, escapism and boredom. These are all problems with me personally, I need routine, but routine makes me bored and I need to escape it. Maybe if I just get off my arse and make alterations to my daily actions I not need to drink so much. Maybe if I stopped spending all my money on drink, I could pay off those debts. Maybe if I spent less time being drunk I could regain some self-belief and drive to actually achieve something in life instead of moaning about it in a drunken stupor. 



*Proof reading this, I noticed this; “came to University”, it obviously should be; “went to University”, clearly I still think of myself as living that Uni life style. 

#DrinkingSeason: The Alcoholic Test

1.  Do you drink heavily when you are disappointed, under pressure or have had a quarrel with someone?    

YES. Obviously, drink cheers me up when I’m disappointed, if I’m under the influence, I’m over the pressure and what else would I do after a quarrel? Talk things out like civilised adults?

2.  Can you handle more alcohol now than when you first started to drink?

YES. But can’t everyone? Let’s face it when you have your first drink [at the tender age of six], you have no tolerance at all, and that slowly builds up over time until you’re able to knock back quadruple Southern Comforts [at your seventh birthday party]. 

3.  Have you ever been unable to remember part of the previous evening, even though your friends say you didn’t pass out?

YES. But my friend’s are complete bullshitter’s, they probably knew I’d passed out and decided to fuck with my mind… maybe that’s it… maybe, just maybe I don’t have a problem with drink and simply have shit friends.

4.  When drinking with other people, do you try to have a few extra drinks when others won’t know about it?          

NO. I want to make sure everyone can see how much I can handle.

5.  Do you sometimes feel uncomfortable if alcohol is not available?

If I’m at a pub; YES. If I’m at the off-licence; YES. If I’m taking a long dump; NO. If I’m at a funeral; YES. Swings and roundabouts; YES.

6.  Are you more in a hurry to get your first drink of the day than you used to be?    

UNSURE. As I can’t remember that far back.

7.  Do you sometimes feel a little guilty about your drinking?    

YES. Along with my actions when I’m drunk, like once when [censored for legal reasons].

8.  Has a family member or close friend express concern or complained about your drinking?

NO. Not for a while at least, but there could be a reason for that. [Read the answer for Question 3 again].
   
9.  Have you been having more memory “blackouts” recently?     

NO. I don’t think so, but how would I know?

10.  Do you often want to continue drinking after your friends say they’ve had enough?      

YES. Because they’re totally drunk after four beers, I start to get drunk after six [if I haven’t eaten that day].

11.  Do you usually have a reason for the occasions when you drink heavily?

YES. But my drinking heavily and your drinking heavily are three completely different things.

12.  When you’re sober, do you sometimes regret things you did or said while drinking?    

YES. But to be honest, I don’t remember 80% of what I said, did or brandished at the park to those children and that duck.

13.  Have you tried switching brands or drinks, or following different plans to control your drinking?            

YES. I started buy extra strength larger and also switched to vodka to get me drunk faster, but I get the feeling that’s not what you are on about.

14.  Have you sometimes failed to keep promises you made to yourself about controlling or cutting down on your drinking?            
YES. But who hasn’t uttered those immortal words while suffering from a hangover; “I promise I’m never drinking that much again!”

15.  Have you ever had a DWI (driving while intoxicated) or DUI (driving under the influence of alcohol) violation, or any other legal problem related to your drinking?      

NO. As I don’t drive [a personal choice, as I’m always drunk and would be liable for a DUI] and I’m rarely out in public drunk.

16.  Do you try to avoid family or close friends while you are drinking?          

NO. Gotta have someone around to carry me home or make sure I don’t choke on my own vomit, that’s just common sense really.

17.  Are you having more financial, work, school, and/or family problems as a result of your drinking?       

NO. I’m having more financial, work, school, and/or family problems getting in the way of my drinking.

18.  Has your physician ever advised you to cut down on your drinking?

NO. As I haven’t been to see a doctor since I was 16, but if I did see one I’m sure they’d advise me to drink less, but that’s just what they say. When ever as a physician advised a patient to drink more?

19.  Do you eat very little or irregularly during the periods when you are drinking?    

YES.

20.  Do you sometimes have the “shakes” in the morning and find that it helps to have a “little” drink, tranquilizer or medication of some kind?         

NO, I don’t drink in the morning before work, instead I get some hammered the night before I wake up at least tipsy or at most still totally bladdered.

21.  Have you recently noticed that you can’t drink as much as you used to?  

NO. Don't be silly.

22.  Do you sometimes stay drunk for several days at a time?     

YES. Last year’s record was 365 days on the trot.

23.  After periods of drinking do you sometimes see or hear things that aren’t there?    

NO. I don’t think so. But how would I know, if I constantly see it? This question is really tripping me out.

24.  Have you ever gone to anyone for help about your drinking?     

YES. But it was a barmaid.

25.  Do you ever feel depressed or anxious before, during or after periods of heavy drinking?    

Before? During? After? You’ve covered all bases there, so basically the question is do you ever feel depressed or anxious? Then; YES.

26. Have any of your blood relatives ever had a problem with alcohol?

YES. They’re all a bunch of drunks.

Time for a Sketch

Now, my recent lack of blogging has really become apparent to all my fan [that’s you Batch, you cunt].

But, I’m a busy man-child; I don’t have time to articulate all my frustrations into words nowadays, especially seeing as this blog has been going for over five years and I’m yet to become famous or even slightly respected for all the effort I’ve put in. I blame you all, I hope you know.

That’s why blogging has taken a backseat to other aspirations I hold. The first example was my battle rap, which if it went ahead and I was successful [not in the battle, but in standing in front of a crowd and performing, without making a massive tit of myself], I was going to try my hand at a stand-up routine.

Blogging was a low priority at the begging of the year as I was developing comedy sketches for various outlets, including Newsjack, 4amCab and The Show What You Wrote. Although a mix up with submitting times and working a late shift meant that all the hard work I’d ploughed into writing for TSWYW was a total waste as I missed the deadline. I could really do with an agent or at least someone to make sure I’m actually paying attention to these fucking things I do.

I hadn’t heard anything for a while and wasn’t hoping for much from 4amCab as I’d sent them three sketches and once I clicked send email I instantly regretting one of the sketches so much I assumed they wouldn’t use anything I’d offered up. It was in very poor taste. But they the other I got a notification on Twitter [this almost never happens], excited and bemused I checked it out. And as it turns out they’d liked something I sent them and used it.

This made me happy.

The sketch has be rewritten by the wonderful people at 4amCab [this happens a lot, as at the end of the day it’s their product that they are putting out and the podcast has a certain ‘feel’ it needs to continue], but features my beginning and overall premise.

You can check out the sketch here;



You can check out the whole podcast here;

http://4amcab.com/credits/s2/credits-ep4-spudmarine/

You can Follow 4amCab on Twitter here;

https://twitter.com/4amcab

The Sketch I send them. 

Ben's Battle Bars [Round 1]

OK, let me start off by apologising for my recent lack of blogging… although you probably haven’t realised, it’s not like this my blog is your home page… although it fucking should be, you cunts.

You see, I’ve been extra busy writing battle raps. I’m far too lazy to explain that now [I’m writing this at 1.00 am after a bottle of red wine, show me some mercy, please]. Anyway, I was due to battle an individual named Shaolin Dunk, but sadly he was unable to attend due to personal problems, so after all that writing and practicing I was never able to get up in front of loads of people and embarrass myself on camera by forgetting all my lines… and making a fool of myself, but luckily for you I’m posting my ‘bars’ on my blog, seeing as I spent so much time on them they deserve to be seen by some people. Seeing as the majority of my readers [all three of you, and I am including myself in that figure] have no understanding of what battle rap is and how it works, I’ve highlighted certain lines and explained why they are [supposed to be] good.

He’s recently back from Toronto, Canada [1], so welcome to Derby; the sticks
Where we call your mum Karma as her nickname and it’s starting to stick,
cos she comes around and goes around … the largest of dicks,
And that’s how I know [that] you’re an S.O.B cos Karma’s a bitch

[1] Mentioning a fact that I’ll come back to later.
[2] “Karma comes around and goes around”, “Karma’s a bitch” With referring to my opponent’s mother as having the nickname Karma I’m able to call her a bitch and suggest she is promiscuous. 

Shaolin Dunk sounds like the name Nike’d give to some Yao Ming pumps [3]
Shaolin Dunk; a novice Chinese Basketball team, coached by a howling monk,
Shaolin Dunk; a kung-fu inspired way to dip biscuits in tea when you’re out for lunch
Shaolin Dunk; a gay twist on bukkake involving a bucket, in which your boyfriends leave you showered in spunk [4]
 
[3] Yao Ming is a famous former NBA [basketball] star of Chinese descent, therefore I’m saying my opponent’s name is something what the Nike brand would call a pair of trainers inspired by Ming.
[4] I continue to use references towards my opponent’s chosen name ‘Shaolin’ by referencing monks and kung-fu.

Shaolin Dunk… admit it; that last line left you aroused, you punk, [5]
You; dowdy runt, how the fuck are you exactly; ‘Shaolin’, Dunk?
Cos the way I see it; [Me;] Hidden Dragon, [Him;] Crouching Skunk [6]
Let’s say; I was to get loudly drunk and turn into a rowdy cunt
 
[5] I’m alluding to the fact he is possibly a homosexual, nothing original, but always fun to do.
[6] I twist the title of the martial arts film; “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”, so it makes me seem to be the hidden dragon and my opponent is a crouching skunk. 

 Would you pounce ‘n’ jump then pull some astounding stunts? [Shake Head]
Or announce some stuff so profoundly tough that the crowd erupts? [Shake Head] [7]
You’re not connecting with a “round-house thump” or those rounds you brung
And you ain’t Dhalsim, chump, just cos you stretch out a lousy punch [8]
 
[7] Here I describe the very possible fact of me getting intoxicated and becoming obnoxious, and question my opponent as to if he would respond physically or verbally, then quaff his ability to do either.
 [8] I claim my opponent is unlike the Street Fighter character Dhalsim known for his arms that stretch as he delivers a punch. Here the word punch has a double meaning, one is the act of hitting someone with a fist, the second is short for punchline. Punchlines are used in battle rap to attack your opponent. Stretching a punch[line] is often a bad thing, basic translation is; you take too long to get to the point… a bit like this breakdown. 

 When I step up, I don’t have to put my Air Max on, to handle Dunk  [9]
Cos he’s still on the contents page of “How to Battle Rap; Manual One”
Nobody here will ever heard a track from this random bum
If Mister Miyagi was your DJ - even he wouldn’t throw your wax on, Daniel-Son [10]
 
[9] Nike Air Max trainers, popular in the NBA [when I used to watch it at least], I reference my opponents name linking it to basketball/slam dunk.
[10] Karate Kid references! I twist the “wax on, wax off, Daniel-Son”, as in Hip Hop putting the wax on means a DJ playing a record. 

This Pagan’s a mess, another Asian obsessed, wank guy,
That wants to change his name to Chang Kai, fly East to bang Thai’s, [… lady-boys] [11]
but I’ll save the hassle of this man’s flight, have him reincarnated in Shanghai
After killing him in Vaults, like I double crossed him on a Bank Heist [12]
 
[11] My opponent is very interested in martial arts and would like to visit the Far East, I over-exaggerate these facts for comical effect.
[12] The venue of the rap battle was a The Vaults, therefore I kill him [as in defeat him greatly in the battle, not literally] in Vaults, killing someone in a Vault may happen if you double cross someone on a robbery of a bank. 

 I have an inkling D’s thinking he’s inking schemes to injure me; ninja please