Amsterdamned; The Prelude

After almost a decade I'm returning to what 'my people' claim as our 'Mecca'; Amsterdam.

By 'my people' I'm obviously referring to stoners and not sexually-deprived-perverts [haven't fallen into that category for ages – there's a smug look on my face as I write this]. I'm less Red Light District more Red Eyed District.

It's less than a week now and the excitement is starting to kick in as I haven't had what I'd class as a holiday since my first trip to 'Dam at the tender age of 18. It's hard to get away when you're caught up in a cycle of bills, shitty wage and crippling alcoholism, but luckily [as with most big events in my life, it's been planned out for me].

As a rapidly advance towards middle-age prematurely, I find less and less things I want to leave my home for [work, food, medium-large house fires], let alone my city [family weddings/funerals] and in turn; let alone my country [rape charge/pregnant girlfriend]. But it's a fucking stag-do in Amsterdam! That's harder to turn down than a... fucking stag-do in Amsterdam [sorry nothing else compares]!

I've only ever been on one stag-do before due to my antisocial attributes and obvious fact that the majority of my friends resemble Sloth from The Goonies [no offence guys, we flock together after all]. On that stag-do I was slightly out of step with the gentlemen present due to my selfish attributes of not visiting my home town and childhood friends. It's hard to re-carve out that same wise-cracking character you spent all those adolescent years building in the space of a weekend, especially with a whole new bunch of faces that have already implanted their place into your former group in your six year absence.

But this time it'll be different as we're rolling with just a four man team; me, [my BFAM;] French, [the Stag;] Chilli and [the random;] Chilli's brother-in-law [aka the guy we accidentally leave behind due to running up a large tab at a coffee shop]. Four [/eventually three] is workable amount of people, less opinions and easier to come to a decision, especially because I know how to manipulate them.

I understand that the Red Light District is a stag-do hotspot, but I think we'll be giving it a miss. AS WE'RE ALL IN VERY LOVING, STABLE RELATIONSHIPS [hopefully that sentence excuses me from buying a round for the boys]. Plus I entered the Right Light District on my last visit; it was surreal, scummy and rife with STI's – it's kind of the embodiment of me if I was an area in Amsterdam. And nothing quite prepares you for seeing scantly clad women dancing in windows. I found it quite fearful, as if some manikins had suddenly come alive and wanted to repopulate the Earth with their half-human bastard offspring. Although that could stem from a childhood fear due to a shop-window model toppling over onto me in a provocative manner. Call me an old fuddy duddy, but prostitution should stick to the classic methods; cards in public telephone boxes, names and numbers penned in public toilets and not-so-sly adverts on craigslist.

But if we're not going to bang Eastern European whores and them get forced out of more money by their pimps, what are we going to do?

… get high... obviously!

But I don't want to be one of those guys that only goes to Amsterdam to just smoke weed because the fact is you could shop around at home and spend the weekend in your house getting high on different strains for half the price of a trip to 'Dam. We need to at least do something cultural while we're stoned.

I haven't run these ideas pass the boys yet but I think I'm on to some winners;

Play 'Hide & Seek' in the Anne Frank museum.

Go to the Sex Museum and erect my own monument [get it; erect my own monument].

OK, so I didn't as many ideas as I initially thought. I was tempted by a visit to the Torture Museum, but I already deal with the public on the day to day basis and there's no rack or body manipulating device more torturous than that, so I'd probably get bored.

Be sure to check back for the following Blog in which I desperately try to piece together half-remember memories from my trip and write them into a mediocre post.

Ben vs. God's Spokesperson #54012254

If you've been reading this tripe as long as I've been throwing it out, you'll know [if you're still yet to kill off the majority of your braincells with drink and drugs like I'm constantly suggesting] that I'm not all that favourable of religion. This isn't quite the case [I'm breaking the fourth wall here folks... if blogs have walls that is]. I put forth the militant Atheist vibe because a) it's funny to do and b) I'm fucking good at it, but in reality I'm more of an Atheist with Agnostic tendencies; I believe/know there's no deity out there, yet I really couldn't give a fuck about it. I'm passed it. You guys can squabble about it to the cows [that you may or may not worship] come home.

That being said/written, I had an encounter today on my way to work, in which I was stopped by a lady that handed me a leaflet about God. I'm used to this, it happens a lot, I think believers must see me with a large neon light above my head spelling out; “heathen”.

Yet this time was different. It wasn't a simple; “Here's a cheaply made leaflet with more spelling errors that a thousand page novel about a quantum physicist written by a dyslexic toddler”, NO! This time God's Spokesperson #54012254 wanted a chat with me and she hijacked my walk to work! Which I thought was pretty shitty, but in context it's better than Allah Spokesperson #54012254 hijacking my flight.

You see, I'm not that much different than religion fundamentalists; as I'm not going to change my stance or beliefs, no matter what. Whatever they say will wash over me like the water from John the Baptist's hands washed over Jesus' head.* If I woke up tomorrow with stigmata and God appearing at my bedside... I'd brush it off and call up work to tell them I can't come in due to an accident with my hands and I'm having fucked up hallucinations, to which they'd respond; “Put the bong down, sober up and get to work!”

Now back to the God Squad member [*penis joke censored in proofread*], seeing as I was missing out on listening to the latest episode of Bill Burr's Monday Morning Podcast, I thought I'd at least have some fun with this lady to keep myself amused [*rape joke censored in proofread*]. Now, I don't want to belittle anyone's religion to their face [because I have a blog for that], so I kept it decent and bit my tongue at certain points.

The following is some dialogue between us both, you're smart enough to figure out whose talking, [dialogue in square brackets is my tongue biting bits].

“Do you see yourself as a good person?”
“[If you don't count the my 'somewhat' illegal hobbies;] Yes.”
“OK, so have you ever taken something that didn't belong to you?”
“[Not counting the virginities that were wilfully offered to me;] No. [In fact, what the fuck are you talking about? Aren't you taking something right now that doesn't belong to you; MY TIME!]”
“Have you ever lied?”
“[Yes, who hasn't? C'mon you stupid bitch, you're believing in a God that doesn't exist; you're lying to yourself and yet have the nerve to ask me if I've ever lied!] Yes, I suppose I have.”

“Have you ever looked at a women and had sexual thoughts?”
“[What? That question should be; 'Do you have a dick and an imagination?', Clearly you didn't go through puberty as a boy!] Yes”
“Have you ever taken the Lord's name in vain?”
“[Erm... Jesus Christ... I've really got to think about this question... um... Oh my God, I probably have.] *Chuckle* Hell yes, I have.”

Taking my answers on board she informed me that I wouldn't get into heaven and I'd be banished to hell – it was like the shittest game show ever! Then began a debate over whether or not heaven and hell existed at all. One of us [rightly] thought it didn't, while the other [wrongly] thought it did.

I tried to bypass the fact my 'sins' wouldn't get me into Heaven by telling her I'd use my charm to sweet talk Saint Peter. She told me that wouldn't work although I am very charming ['whose having sexual thoughts now?' I thought to myself - before realising it was still me].

I was then informed that by accepting God, my 'sins' [or 'lifestyle' as I call it], would be forgiven. At this point I wanted to test the waters, as lying, blasphemy and having a dick and an imagination could be forgiven, what else could I get away with? So I proposed a hypothetical situation in which; a) I stay as myself [the lying, blaspheming, penis owner] and I die in two days time or b) I [the lying, blaspheming, penis owner] murdered someone tonight but except God into my life tomorrow, yet still die in two days time.

Which one would get into Heaven?

It turns out the due to fact the murderous Ben accepted 'The Big Guy in the Sky' into his life; he gets a 'Get Out of Hell, Free' card. While run of the mill Ben, that never murdered anyone has to perish in fire and brimstone for entirety, just because he didn't follow the herd.

After hearing this news, it quickly dawned on me that it doesn't matter how immoral, evil, sadistic, pain-inflicting you've been you can still get into Heaven if you've accepted God. So if Hitler had accepted God in that bunker before his suicide; he'd have got into Heaven [although, killing all those Jews would have given him a free-pass into Christian Heaven anyway], if Jimmy Savile was a believer, he'd be in there too trying to pin-down little cherubs and arse-fuck them! Plus all those inmates on death row over the years that find God after all the pain and suffering they've inflicted on innocent individuals and a trillion more scumbags that have done deeds that are unbearable to think about are all begging forgiveness... and due to the fact they've turned to the 'one true God' their slate is wiped clean!

… “Well, if murders can get in for free upon admitting their sins to God, I don't think I want to go to Heaven” I told the lady.

But with my points made, if you start to think a little more deeply on the matter, Heaven isn't just filled with priests, good-doers and nice guys, it's also filled with the scum of the Earth, that just so happened to cut a metaphorical deal with God before they bit the dust. On this basis, Heaven probably has more murders and rapists than hell. And whose in hell; a bunch of people that didn't believe in God. OK, cool, I'll take hell please. I'd love to have a chat with Charles Darwin, thanks. Plus the devil is a fallen angel that went against God, so he's in charge of all the non-believers? How exactly does that pan out?

Devil: “Hey, you didn't believe in that guy I have an eternal grudge with and I'm supposed to punish you for it... and for all the actions you did that he doesn't agree with... which I'm now against, as I'm the complete opposite of him... so fuck it! Let's get some illegal downloads on the go, roll a couple of joints and a burn a Bible or nine!”

[Dragging you back to the story:] God's Spokesperson #54012254 then began to get into a confusing metaphor about a parachute. I think it started out as God being the parachute and life being the skydive and having to rely on 'God/parachute' to survive. I can't confirm this because I was already thinking of my next sentence and this lady was still rambling on even though she'd lost the metaphor two minutes prior.

When she finally took a breath, I hopped on the chance to hijack her parachute metaphor with; “Minds are like parachutes, they only function when they're open [a beautiful quote from Sir James Dewar - that I once saw on Facebook]... so shouldn't me and you question whether or not Christianity is the one, true religion?“

This 'making someone question their own religion' question went down like a 'making someone question their own religion' question [sorry, there's no funny metaphor for that analogy]. She went on to quote; “Jesus stated he his the prophet of the one true God” [or words to the effect]. To which, I said; “I'm sure Mohammed would have said the same in the Quran.” Which to be fair, I'm not 100% on, but I'm just going on my knowledge of the bullshit religions churn out.

She then began to interrogate me on other religious texts, to which I have little experience outside of Buddhism [but that's not technically a 'religion' and wasn't an '-ism' until white folks turned up – that's not a diss on Buddhists, by the way]. To which I countered; “I obviously can't state that as fact, due to growing up in a [somewhat] Christian country I wasn't granted all the in depth learning of each religious texts when compared to the Bible.”

But that's simply the truth. Religion is usually deemed by your region [of the world], no wonder those words are so similar. To me, religions are just like supermarkets, it doesn't really matter which one has the best stuff on offer you just go to the one that closest or you align with the one your parents took you to.

[Dragging you back to the story, again:] I continued to walk towards my harrowing destination of work as God's Spokesperson #54012254 forced her religion on me. I'll skip ahead to the ending as all of that riveting back-n-forth dialogue quickly evolved [although she'd deny that] into benign banter.

We said how goodbyes and she committed that she hopes she sees me in Heaven, which was spooky, and sounded like some murder, suicide plan she'd hatched for me.

And that's it.

*Wait, that was a terrible metaphor as that NEVER HAPPENED!

From He's Smoking to E-Smoking; One Man's Journey

I'm a walking, talking oxymoron; in equal parts I'm an immature child; from temper tantrums to a diet of Haribo, and an old, out-dated curmudgeon; not prone to new fads. For this very reason I don't like any major changes in my life, so nobody was more surprised than myself when I successfully gave up smoking.

Before this point, I'd attempted to give up smoking maybe once or twice, but both times were an extremely half-hearted affairs. They were in that late hours of the night, those times you sit up in bed with every possible fear, worry or life problem announcing itself into to the forefront of your mind, clouding your inability to sleep.

“I'll quit tomorrow... for good... cold turkey. I'll be healthier and have more money in my pocket!” I'd unwittingly try to convince myself. Eventually those fears, worries and life problems would retreat to where they belong; the back of my head, not to be thought of again until the next time I can't sleep. Then I'd drift off, wake up, forget about the previous late night promise I'd made to myself... and smoke to my lungs content.

I had less will power than a paralysed Fresh Prince. Smoking wasn't just some addiction or habit, it was a part of me, deeply integrated into the soul of my being, the fabric weaved into the tapestry of Ben Broughton. It was a friend, a confidant, a support system and one of very few things that produced a sense of coolness or an air of mystery about me. Why would I want to give that up?

So why did I give up?

I'm not entirely sure. I never minded the stench of stale smoke that constantly clung to every piece of clothing I owned, it gave me character. I was a smoker after all, my senses were easily dulled so that I'd never really notice them too much. I never truly worried about my health too much, like 95% of tobacco inhalers I'd deem myself indestructible and simply think any disease or ailment caused by smoking would only happen to some other poor schmuck. One aspect that did play a factor was that of financial costs. I knew I'd be better off if I quit due to the amount of cash I was shelling out to wake up each morning with a dry, hacking cough that made me heave.

The one major factor that even bought about the contemplation to quit was my BFAM*/Spiritual Advisor/Constant Alibi Provider; Frenchie. He had managed to throw off the shackles of suckling on the tobacco teat and that was all the inspiration I needed. Some may see this as 'monkey see, monkey do', but as we are both Richard Dawkins praising Atheists and great believers in Darwin's theory of evolution, our retort is simply; “aren't we all a bunch of overachieving intelligent monkeys?” Frenchie acted as a trailblazer for me. I've seen acquaintances and previous girlfriends quit smoking before, but I'd never seen someone I respect do it. So I put the wheels in motion and bought myself an E-Cig.

After spending a pretty penny and more importantly two purple slips of credit on my 'start-up kit', I realised I'd have to stick at this for at least two weeks to cover the costs of the thing. To my surprise, it worked much better than I expected. You see, I tend to lean towards being constantly pessimistic so when something good does happen, it's quadruples the impact. And since starting on my vapour E-Cig thing [I'm not entirely sure what you call them] I haven't touched a cigarette since [please hold your standing ovation until the end].

I'm reaching the four month mark now, so substituting tobacco for a different array of fruity vapours does actually work. But do I miss real, proper, Cowboy smoking? Do I still yearn for that orange-tipped white stick of death?

YES; more than an amputee misses a limb.

You see, the vapour contraption is good, but it'll always fall short of the original. It's like comparing a light snooze to a deep slumber, a cold, crisp fresh pint of larger to the warm dregs in a stranger's glass, a hand-job from Abu Hamza to the best sexual experience of your life, weapons-grade weed to a bushy bag of sticks, stems and seeds, a beautiful Shakespearian sonnet to a drunk karaoke rendition of “My Heart Will Go On”, iPhone 5 to a Nokia 3210 … you get the picture. But what keeps me sticking to it? Let's just say the Fresh Prince has made a miraculous recovery and is Boom Shake-Shake-Shaking the [muh'fuckin'] room.

There are some other drawbacks, despite the blatant one. The second biggest flaw is a personal one. It may seem a little strange but making the switch has made me question my morals. As a smoker, I saw myself as some sort of Black Lung Ambassador; fighting for smokers' rights. Now, I've jumped ship and left it on cruse control directly towards an iceberg... in shark infested waters... and the sharks have guns... with heat-seeking missiles. I feel as if I've put the 'Ben' in 'Benedict Arnold' [no homo].

Not only that but I'm put into situation in which I have to defend myself against the very people I used to represent. “I wouldn't smoke one of them, you don't know what you're inhaling or what's in it!” They wheeze at me, in between spouts of coughing fits and chest convolutions. Which is true to a certain to degree, I don't know what's in it. But please examine the “Smoking clogs arteries and causes heart attacks and strokes” warning and picture of some guys second tumorous chin on your cigarette soapbox before you start preaching to me. Because despite the research into what you're smoking and the negative effects they carry, you continue on. [That's the 95% I was talking about.] At least I'm brave enough to take a gamble. Then sometimes they wave their yellow, tar-stained finger at you and you get the old; “Only quitters' quit!” [as if it was half as funny as when I used to say it]. “Only quitters' quit... only quitters' quit” … I wonder if people say that to reformed paedophiles too?

Then there's the practical drawbacks. I'm a forgetful type of person, it takes me around 10-15 minutes for me to leave my house because I have to repeatedly do an inventory check to make sure I have everything. Yet, I still forget things [the system isn't yet flawless]. One time I forgot my E-Cig, not a problem when I was a real, actual, man's man smoker [no homo] and I forgot my cigarettes because fags are easy to come across [no homo – Jesus, the gay sounding comments are coming thick and fast], but now I have to power through.

Despite popular belief most places don't welcome the E-Cig to be smoked inside, so we're still cast out into the cold with the clan members we desperately tried to separate ourselves from. And they only serve as a harsh reminder to the good ol' days that we eagerly try to forget. We're treated like some half-breeds, shunned by our former comrades and not yet accepted by the 'clean-lunged'.

There's also some shitty attributes to using the actual device. One being having to remember to keep the fucking thing charged. The battery life is brilliant on mine, but it's so good it's lured me into a false sense of security and when it does die I'm usually without my charger. Plus there's the risk you run when choosing a vapour to smoke. With more flavours in front of you then an overturned truck carrying every single kind of Haribo, it can be difficult on what to chose first. I regrettably ran the risk of trying a Dr. Pepper flavoured vapour, called Mr. Pepper [see what they did there?] and it was vile. It was more of a white powdered pepper taste than that of the popular soft drink and that's people why doctors are better than misters. I still smoked the thing, just as a punishment to myself for taking a risk.

But enough about the negative aspects, there's got to be something good about it; do I feel any healthier? Does food taste better? Has my sense of smell improved?

No, not really, maybe it has and I'm too idiotic to realise, although I'm quite self-obsessed so that'd be hard to sneak passed myself. I did manage a three minute jog to my local shop the other day without having one of those vivid hallucinations bought on by lack of oxygen, so perhaps my health is improving, although I did like those hallucinations.

But hands down the greatest aspect of making the switch is that for four months I haven't had some scum-bag interrupt me as I walk around begging me for a cigarette. Nobody has barged into a conversation I'm having as I walk by with; “Giz a fag, mate!” No longer do I have to pull my earphones out to listen to the pitiful, needy plea of some bottom-feeding reprobate craving for the devilish kiss of nicotine. So if I can put up with this shitty substitute and all the drawbacks that accompany it to save myself 10 seconds of unwanted dialogue with someone that doesn't deserve to be breathing fresh air let alone someone else's cigarette smoke, it's well worth it.

[Proceed with standing ovation I halted before.]

*BFAM; Brother From Another Mother

Poorly Timed Xmas Blog

Blogs are like buses, you wait ages for one then two come at once plus they're both filled with misery. 

This is something I was writing before Christmas, but never got around to finishing due to it being Christmas...

Christmas shopping ... it’s a burden we all share [like Chlamydia], but if you’re yet to run the yearly gauntlet of frenzied, consumer driven zombies clambering over each other to buy material possessions that are meant to define your love/respect/admiration for a person you share your miserable life with; “I feel bad for you, son, I got 99 problems but ‘buying-shit-for-people-I’m-supposed-to-care-about-for-Xmas’ ain’t one!”*

“Hit me!”*

I’m not much of a man’s man; my unintentionally hairless chest and my physique; similar to that of a 15 year old… hermaphrodite… would prove that! But I easily earn some hairs on my balls for extreme levels of hatred I have towards shopping. Shopping is like eating out an arse; I don’t like it, I can’t do it right and the thought of doing it again makes me sick. But this year I actually made an effort. [Add sentence here to prepare reader for long-winded and unnecessary back-story].

As I live away from my [shitty] hometown, my two younger sisters used to take on the duty of buying gifts for family members and adding my name to cards/presents, then they’d hit me up for the cash I owed them later down the line. They don’t do this anymore, probably because they have their own lives and enough money to buy things separately… or maybe they’re just cunts. On top of that; I’m a terrible gift-giver, I don’t know what people like, but those are my short comings of being so self involved and if my family love me, they’ll learn to get over it.

This year was different. My mum had scheduled to visit me [with less than a week’s notice] to drop off my Christmas presents. This basically set off a fuse of the time period in which I’d see a family member before Christmas – without doing it off my own back! So in the few days before she arrived I spent what seemed like two lifetimes going in and out of shops trying to find my family [mother, her husband, two younger sisters and younger brother] gifts – I think it actually turned out to be three hours and I went to a restaurant in that time too.

I also had to buy something for my mother as I hadn’t got her anything for her birthday [yes I’m a terrible son… doomed with two terrible sisters that don’t seem to give a fuck about adding my name to a card anymore]. Worst of all; I had to buy something for my brother. Now you may be reading this thinking that should be easy enough, brotherly love and all that… but that’s bollocks. As much as I love that uber-computer-game-playing son-of-a-bitch, we’re very different people; I’m the handsome, wise-cracking, ladies man, toast of the town, intoxicant binging reprobate, everyone’s favourite yet to mature man-child, he’s the… weird brother of ‘that dude’. So Jack, if you’re reading this; it’s going to be Game vouchers again, mate, sorry. [Note: Still haven’t actually bought them]

Obviously I have a life outside the family I only see a handful of times a year, the main part of which is the lovely lady I trapped into a relationship and she stuck around [Stockholm syndrome, bitches!]. Now this is slightly easier, as I see this wonderful woman daily, so buying for her doesn’t present such a task. What she likes, her hobbies/interests should be embedded in my brain. But if I chose wrong, the repercussions are much greater, it’s not as if I get a wrong present for a family member they’ll stop sleeping with me – they can’t, we’re from Sutton, they make you do it!

I was struggling on a ‘big present’, I’d got a couple of bits and pieces [cheap, random shit] but luckily she knows me too well so she pointed me in the right direction by suggesting a film camera. A film camera is not a video recorder by the way, I recently learned that, about a sentence after she proposed it [Yes, I’m that stupid]. I know what you’re thinking; “but digital cameras are so much better, no film, no paying for having your photos developed… blah blah blah.” But let’s please not dwell on my younger girlfriend’s attraction towards the out-dated relics. I’d like to add I’m such an idiot that the pure suggestion was not enough to for me to go about finding one myself, I had to be aided with a direct link online to the one she wanted. Yet I still bought another one out of spite.

There are some gifts I haven’t purchased yet, the main ones being for my two comrades in smoking, drinking, joking, thinking and intense games on Worms; whom I constitute as my family away from family [although we don’t sleep with each other]. I’m almost sure on what I’m getting one of them. The other one’s a Sikh, so he has no right celebrating Christmas really [said the devout Atheist] and I know what to get him, but a punching bag with the prophet [censored]’s face on it, is hard to find seeing as the EDL doesn’t have an eBay account.

All this Christmas shopping has rekindled a little obsession I had last year with Amazon [website, not rainforest]. I know buying stuff online isn’t a big deal to most people, but as an out-dated relic I’ve never really done it. The main reason is due to my vast amount of [what some would call; illegal] downloading by PC’s have constantly been hit with viruses or malware, this has always made me cautious towards online shopping in case some computer nerd [Jack!] steals my bank account details. But now I just do it on my phone, like most ‘look-at-me-I’m-tech-savvy’ mindless drones inhabiting each others’ lives. I fucking love Amazon it’s like window shopping form the comfort of your own toilet seat, plus you can get anything on there, I recently bought a novelty toilet seat [it’s strange how my mind works].

[This Blog stops here because I didn't finish it]

*that was an adaptation and reference to Jay-Z; 99 Problems from The Black Album [Roc-a-Fella / Def Jam]. 2004.

Breaking Bad Book Store Etiquette

So, I was recently in a branch of the UK's most popular book store, and to save them getting any free publicity let's just call it 'H2O-pebbles' when I unintentionally overheard a conversation between a couple, that got me slightly irked.

Now, I understand that H2O-pebbles is not a library, although enough people treat it like one. But there's that unwritten rule that you should keep your voice a few decibels below your usual inside voice, yet this couple didn't seem to follow that rule. That fact alone made it easier to hear what these two fuckwits were talking about.

At first I attempted to block it out as I rooted around for belated Christmas presents [yeah, don't you wish you were in my inner-circle], but they kept congregating around my general vicinity, like flies to shit [could have picked a better metaphor that didn't label me as shit]. It didn't take me too long to clock on that these two were either on the cusp of getting into a romantic relationship or had just began one.

The biggest tell tale signs was their inability to stand in silence. Because when you've been together for a while there's no need for you to open your pie-hole and let a random barrage of words waterfall from the back of your throat. I do understand that in new relationships silence is deadly, it needs to be filled with inane chatter … “Have you read this book...”, “I heard they made it into a film...”, “Hey, that moody looking geezer looks irked that we're talking TOO FUCKING LOUDLY...”.

That's fine. Do what you gotta do, love birds, just do it quieter and away from me, please.

But the metaphorical straw that broke the metaphorical back of the metaphorical camel was when the female said; “Will you explain Breaking Bad to me, I was texting you when I was watching it so I kinda lost track.”

For some reason, unbeknownst to me, instead of giving the correct response; “No, you silly bitch, go back and watch those episodes again, in fact, what the bloody fuck are we doing in H2O-pebbles if you haven't watched those episodes of Breaking Bad I suggested?” [I myself would have thrown a couple of C-words in there too, to be fair] and breaking her fingers to stop her texting in future, the guy actually starts to catalogue what happens like a spineless, pussy-whipped C-word!

Deep down, I know this shouldn't frustrate me to the levels it does, but I can't help it. Honestly, this really fucking frustrates me.

Breaking Bad is a masterpiece of television and deserves to be treated as such.

You wouldn't describe a Picasso; “Well it's all like square bits and the faces are all mixed up and weird.”, you'd simply show it to a person. Just as you wouldn't half-heartedly hum a Beethovan symphony, instead you have the person listen to it. Breaking Bad is the same, you have the person watch it, for Heisenberg's [read as Christ's] sake!

I sincerely hope they went home and he [A] Clockwork Orange'd her [Ludovico technique scene, not the "Singin' in the Rain/Rape" scene]. If he didn't I hope they have a truly unhappy life together and they spawn stupid children that struggle to tie their shoelaces and get bullied everyday by my kids; Walt, Jesse and Saul.

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.