Sex on the Brain

To Agnetha, Aisha, Amanda, Amy, Andrea, Andreea, Angelina, Angie, Angie, Angie, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anne, Ann-Margaret, Anthea, April, Audrey, Ava, Avril, Becca, Becca, Becky, Bernadette, Bess, Bettie, Betty, Bex, Bex, Beyonce, Billie, Blanche, Brenda, Bridgitte Buff, Brigitte, Britney, Bo, Candice, Carlie, Carmela, Carol, Carol, Carole, Cath, Catherine, Charley, Charlize, Charlotte, Cheryl, Chloe, Christina, Christina, Christine, Christine, Christy, Cilla, Cindy, Clare, Clare, Claire, Claire, Connie, Crystal, Dana, Diane, Diane, Dawn, Dawn ,Debbie, Deborah, Debs, Dee, Denise, Denise, Denise, Di, Diana, Diane, Dita, Elle, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Elizabeth, Esmie, Esther, Eva, Evonne, Ewa, Francoise, G, Gerry, Gill, Gina, Gisele, Grace, Gwen, Gwyneth, Heather, Heiki, Helen (bitch), Hels, Hilda, Ingrid, Isla, Jamelia, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, January, Jayne, Jean, Jenna, Jennifer, Jennifer, Jessica Rabbit, Jezebel, Jill, Jilly, Jilly, Judith, Judy, June, Karen, Kate, Kate, Kathleen, Kathy, Katie, Katy, Keeley, Keira, Keisha, Kelly, Kiki, Kim, Kirstie, Kirsty, Kirsty, Krizzy, Kylie, Kylie’s bum, Ladyy Cee, Lana, Lara, Lee, Lily, Lily’s eyes, Lily’s fringe, Lily’s little button nose, Linda, Lisa, Lisa-May, Liv, Liv, Liv’s magazine cover picture in the little black and white gingham dress, Lizzie, Louise, Louise’s arse, Lucy, Lulu, Lynn, Lynne, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Margaret, Mariella, Marilyn, Marisa, Martina, Maxine, Megan, Mel, Melanie, Melanie, Melanie’s lipgloss, Michele, Michelle, Millie, Miroslava, Mollie, Naomi, Natalie, Natasha, Nicole, Nigella, Nikki, Nina, Nina, Nix, Olivia, Pat, Patricia, Patsy, Paul’s mum, Penelope, Prue, Rachel, Racquel, Raquel, Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca N, Rhonda, Rihanna, Rita, Rocio, Rose, Roz, Ruby, Ruth, Sally, Sally, Sally-Anne, Salma, that kick-ass movie Salma was in with the Spanish guy, Sam, Sarah, Sarah A, Savannah, Selena, Selena, Selina, Serena, Scarlett, Shakira, Sharon, Shirley, Sian, Sienna, Sky Sy, Sofia, Sophia, Sophie, Star, Steffie, Sue, Sue, Sue, Susan, Suzanna, Suzy, Tanya, Teri, Tess, The one in the BT ad, Tracey, Tracy, Trisha, Ursula, Valerie, Vanessa, Veeka (bitch), Venus, Vickie, Vicki, Victoria, Wendy, Wendy, Whitney, ZeeZee, and all the others too numerous to mention, without whom this book wouldn’t have been possible, and to my mum and dad, who had only love to give, but made me feel the richest son on earth, and finally to my own son, who makes me proud to be his dad, and whom I love more than life itself.

Foreplay

This book is for every man. And woman. For the pubescent teenager aching to discover the mysteries of a grown up’s body, to the fifty year-old in mid-life crisis, shipwrecked in a world of young beauty. For the guy who can’t stop thinking about sex to the woman who wants to know why men are such slaves to their desires. I read somewhere that the average person thinks about sex a dozen times a day. I don’t know about you but I can eat those stats for breakfast. I think about sex pretty much all the time. Even when I’m not thinking about it, it’s lurking in my subconscious, waiting for the slightest thing to set it off. It could be an attractive secretary walking across the office, or a group of high-heeled bimbos giggling their way down a town centre street. A low-cut top on a bank teller. A well shaped bob cut. A weather girl’s smile. An awesome figure in a tight dress. A beautiful pair of eyes in a magazine ad. A shapely ankle. A traffic-stopping pair of legs. A sexy voice on the radio. Especially a sexy voice on the radio.

In case you’re wondering, of course I’m insane. I’m an animal trapped in a man’s body. Ask yourself this simple question. Have you ever had a sexual fantasy? I don’t mean looking at your Beyonce or Brad Pitt poster and going phwoar! I mean like something darker, much darker. Dark as freshly laid tar on a summer road. Some shameful secret you never EVER told anyone? Was there like, one really hot teacher in high school who you really obsessed over? Like totally? Not the maths teacher with the Buddy Holly glasses and the huuuuge pokey tits? I thought so. You caned the meat pretty bad, huh? Okay girls, so it was the classroom assistant in science with the cute ass. Or the handsome history teacher with the dazzling smile who kept rabbiting on about all those facts and dates and you soooo wanted to French-kiss him. Hun, half the school did! Did you have a hot uncle too? An auntie? A cousin? Let’s say no more about it. Okay, let’s fast-forward a few years. Is there like someone at the place where you work who you totally fantasise about having sex with in the company toilets? What, in your car? Oh c’mon, you can do better than that. Wait, no, not over the photocopier when they work late at night! You animal you. They’re married aren’t they? Probably a bit younger than you. Or older, if that’s your thing. That’s cool. Let me guess, as an adolescent you longed to lose your virginity to one of your big bro’s or sister’s classmates at school. Am I right? The one with peachiest bod in the entire sixth form? Every school has one. They’re put on earth to torture us. Oh Jesus, not your best mate’s mum or dad! They’re like, old enough to be your parents dude. Well, this book is just to say it’s okay. You’re normal. All men and women think like us. Especially the ones who pretend they don’t. Plenty of Prime Ministers and Presidents have been caught with their hands where they shouldn’t be. Don’t get me started on priests.

Talking of mid-life crises, my own began at puberty, with my first erection. Since then there hasn’t been a book about sex I haven’t read. I’m into self help. If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s this, that we spend a huge chunk of every day thinking about having sex with other people. We can’t help ourselves. It’s our job description, to perpetuate the species and continue the circle of life. Promiscuity is coded into our DNA, it’s hard-wired into our on-board computers. We are programmed to procreate. Since our earliest ancestors first crawled out the primeval swamp our sole purpose on earth, apart from finding food and shelter, has been to make babies. So whether we like it or not the instinct to have sex at every available opportunity is as ingrained in our being as the colour in our irises. You might as well ask the grass to stop growing.

By comparison the notion of sex as something sinful has only been around a few hundred years at the most. A mere click of the fingers on the cosmic timescale. Victorian morality has only been around since, well, Victorian times. We invented it. Like religion. It didn’t evolve over millions of years as did our instincts to hunt, eat, and have sex. Puritanism is just a way for those in power to shape society according to their own prejudices. They tell us how to behave and what to think. Obeying the law, paying taxes and getting married are all good. Having casual sex, or too much sex, is bad. Having sex with someone a minute before their sixteenth birthday can get you locked up for several years, but wait an extra minute and you’re okay. Fornication under seventeen is bad in South Australia. Under eighteen in some parts of the USA, under twenty in Tunisia, and so on. These are self-imposed dogmas made up by society, not eternal truths written in tablets of stone.

Let’s get one thing straight. From the moment a boy’s balls drop and a girl starts having her periods, getting laid is the most natural thing you can do. Why else would the universe condense the most pleasurable experience in nature into ten seconds of bliss called an orgasm? Sex is as old as the hills, my friend. As old as time. Older than art. Older than language and culture. Older than towns and cities. Older than castles. Older than Christianity and Islam. Older than the human race. It’s how we got here, for chrissakes. And when you strip away all the clutter of modern life - our jobs and careers, our cars and homes, the pleasures and pastimes that fill up our days - there is only one overriding purpose to a human being’s brief stay on this tiny blue piece of rock spinning in space, and that’s for a man to crash his yoghurt truck into a lady’s naughty bits as often as he can, and leave behind his creamy white calling card.

Are you still with me? Good. I want you to do this little experiment. Open any magazine or switch on a TV channel. How many seconds did you go without seeing sex, or someone portrayed as a sexual object? I mean, even some of those newsreaders on Sky, I mean you definitely would. Sky aren’t stupid. They know what keeps our asses nailed to their channels. Sexy actors, sexy presenters. Most of the classic movies and TV soaps ever made have sexual desire as a central, if not the central theme. The Graduate, Last Tango in Paris, Breathless, A Clockwork Orange, Some Like it Hot, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, Gone With The Wind, Psycho, When Harry Met Sally, A Streetcar Named Desire, Basic Instinct, 9½ weeks, Straw Dogs, The Postman Always Rings Twice, La Dolce Vita, Coronation Street, Dallas, Holby City, and more recently of course, Lars Von Trier’s epic Nymphomaniac. Even the thoughts of the saintly Harry Potter, chaste hero of the biggest grossing movie franchise of all time, turn increasingly to getting jiggy with the Hogwarts hotties, the moment he hits puberty. While we’re on the subject, have you watched any of the music channels on Sky lately? They’re like 24/7 trailers for soft porn movies.

Love it or hate it, our 21st Century world revolves around sex. It screams at us from every billboard, web-page and TV set. Take a walk through any town centre on a Saturday night. You can’t move for nubile bimbos, sixteen going twenty, legs like giraffes and skirts like postage stamps, walking around practically naked. Giving it up for like, anyone. All standing in line with their asses in the air, queuing up for a spoonful of the boss man’s yoghurt. What these girls are doing with their breasts and buttocks all trussed in cling-film, all swollen with promise and tease, is advertising their sex. Ditto the guys, those hair-gelled hunks with spray-on trousers and shrink-fit tees, displaying their packed-lunches like puppies in a shop window. Everywhere you look. There’s no fucking escape. No wonder we live in a sex-obsessed age. I’m obsessed, you’re obsessed. It’s a subject that fascinates writers, artists, cab drivers and politicians, and is used to sell everything from deodorant to dental insurance. They sell you the sex, not the product. It’s the weapon most used by men and women in the war of love and relationships, in job interviews, social networking, you name it. You dial up the sex. It’s what ‘selfies’ are all about. Clothes are designed to advertise it. Most pop lyrics include a reference to it. Millions of hookers make a living out of it. Even love is just nature’s trick to get us to do it. We spend most of our lives desiring it, fantasising about it. It fills our waking thoughts, and plenty of our subconscious ones. We have Sex on the Brain.

Here’s the good news. If you follow the principles I outline in this book, basically you can have as much of it as you want, with whoever you want. In your head, I mean. I’m not suggesting you actually go out and do this stuff. That would be bad. Very bad. And probably get you locked up. But there is no law against innocent sexual fantasy that I’m aware of. You guys who’ve got a thing for that hot little blonde number in Emmerdale with the push up titties? The one who’s two-timing on her husband with the vicar? She’s yours. In the back of your Land Rover, the top of the hay loft, anywhere that takes your fancy, bud. How about you girls? Are you like, totally into the hunky new Italian barman with the roguish smile in Made in Chelsea? No worries. Screw what anyone else thinks. You can ravish him or be ravished to your heart’s content in your imagination. There’ll be no comebacks, no recriminations. No nagging. No guilt. Your partner won’t suspect a thing. How about that married neighbour you’ve secretly been lusting after for years? Why not pop round for a cup of sugar while their other half’s at work? Sure they might play hard to get at first (they usually do, if it’s any good) but both you and I know their protests will soon peter out once you snog them passionately in the hallway. Most turn out to have wanted it all along. Go on, get them acquainted with the kitchen table. Remind them you’re descended from the apes. No one’s going to come in and disturb you. They’re not going to tell anyone. It’s a fantasy, right? You can walk down the drive next day, look their spouse in the eye and shoot the shit over the garden fence. They’ll shake your hand. And your paramour will be standing in the window giving you that smouldering look, with a warm sticky glow inside their pants. I told you I was insane.

As a writer, I’m often struck by how badly most authors handle sex. Your average sex and shopping novel crowbars in a cringe-worthy scene every dozen or so pages, when fate conveniently throws the characters together on horseback or stranded in some broken down Range Rover. Where of course it’s only a short step from map reading to full doggy sex across the hood. Impossibly beautiful females dripping designer lingerie and hot for a good tupping ‘gasp at the size of his manhood’ and ‘ache with deeply feminine longing’ to be ravished. While tall dark handsome males invariably ‘take her sensitively from behind’ in a word-storm of flimsy panties, swiftly followed by gasp-inducing orgasms. They always, but always, come together. And collapse breathless, into each other’s arms. Bless. While at the other end of the scale, porno books and magazines dispense with any pretence at storyline whatsoever. Composing with a fanatical discipline to their genre, porno writers serve up their characters on platters, with fries and mayo. Erotica is sex ‘to go’. Peopled by women who can’t open a can of peas without being serviced by a troupe of randy garage mechanics. All hung like baboons, blessed with enough sperm to float the Titanic and a repertoire of moves that make Casanova seem like the Pope when he was six. Unlike porno films, which are at times so real you have to look away, porno literature – porno novels, porno short stories, porno fiction – struggles with the collapsed timeframe of porno action. Bonk follows bonk in scene after scene. Only the page numbers change. Stripped of emotion, stripped of humour, stripped of all narrative or meaning, you read it with your book in one hand and your love weapon in the other. Now there’s nothing wrong with a bit of harmless masturbation. I like to make the bald man cry as much as any man. But I also like to think. And laugh. And be entertained. And read books that do all three. So that’s what I’ve set out to do in this collection of stories and poems.

I want you to use this book as your passport to the realm of anything goes. Give yourself permission to fantasise about doing stuff you’d never dare to in real life. For instance, who hasn’t imagined banging one of those drop dead gorgeous celebrities who peer down at us from the lofty perch of stardom? I’m talking glamorous movie stars, sex symbols, pop stars, sports stars, fashion models. The kind you fantasise about getting stuck in a lift with, so your imagination can really run riot. Can you honestly, seriously, say you’ve never fantasised about giving one of those rich celebs a good seeing to? Nobody taught you to think like that. You didn’t read about it in any book. And your parents certainly didn’t bring you up like that. You think it as naturally as scratching an itch. So how come you feel like Hitler? Where does that little voice come from in your head telling you what you’re thinking is wrong? Political correctness? Morality? Religion? Well, tell them all to go to hell, is what I say. As long as it stays in your head and nobody’s feelings are hurt in real life, sexual fantasy isn’t anything to be ashamed of. And it’s nobody else’s goddam business.

Okay, here’s one final experiment I want you to do, to prove my point. Ladies, in the example that follows, I’d like you to substitute the sexy cosmetics girl for one of those pretty-boy shop assistants in your favourite boutique. The one you have a bit of a thing for, who never gives you a second look. Yeah right, he wishes.

Guys, you know those cosmetics counters in big department stores, the ones your girlfriend is always dragging you round? And all the sales assistants look like Miss Sweden, and wear those ass-hugging uniforms and have really cute eyelashes, perfect ankles and snotty accents? Every man who’s ever lived has stumbled by mistake into the perfume displays of a big store like Debenhams, Harrods or Bloomingdales at some point in their life. Usually you look like crap. It’s five thirty on a wet Wednesday evening in November. It’s your girlfriend’s birthday and you haven’t got her anything. It’s pouring down outside. Your hair is a total mess. Your coat smells like a dog’s blanket. On the end of your nose there’s a boil like the Cromarty Lighthouse. And you stagger into this oasis of beauty, light and sweet smelling perfume, thinking you’ve wandered into an audition for the FHM top 100. Behind every counter is cloned a beautiful thing with Miss World looks and a body to die for. This must be what heaven looks like. Until you realise every one of them is looking at you like they wouldn’t take your money with a pair of tweezers. You feel so ugly all you want to do is slink outside before you’ve even asked how much the 50ml bottle of Angel on special offer is.

Well, screw that. Here’s what you do. Picture the scene. You make a bee-line straight for the hottest one of all. That’s right, the snotty cow with the little blonde pony tail, too much orange make up and a nose so high in the air you can practically see up her nostrils. Miss Estonia 2014. Okay, act casual, ask her for something they’ve run out of on display, so she has to go into the storeroom out back. Follow her in. That’s right, shepherd her inside, now you’re getting the hang of it. Now shut the door. When she asks what the hell you’re doing, hush her. Softly, with a finger to the lips. Whisper in her ear. You’ve seen the way she was flirting with that previous customer. See how her neck’s flushing already, how quickly she’s breathing? She’s practically panting, man. She can smell the testosterone on your breath, she can read it in your smouldering eyes. Her body is responding in the only way it knows. Now give her a hard kiss on the lips. Wow. Not that hard. What, her arms have snaked around your neck already? She’s kissing you back, like really passionately? Okay, now frisk her against the storeroom wall. Hey, go easy there.

You still with me, ladies? Well what are you waiting for? You’ve lured pretty boy into the changing room haven’t you? And closed the curtain, yeah? He can see that look on your face. He knows what it means. He’s toast. Go on, back him up against the wall, run your hands over his chest a little, down over his rock hard six pack. Lower? Don’t wimp out on me now girl. We need to do this together.

Okay guys, in your fantasy, the lipstick lady’s protests have already turned to moans of pleasure, right? It’s happening already? Turns out she freaking loves it. Her secret fantasy has always been to get ravished by a bit of rough like you. The door is locked, check. No one can get in, no one can get out, check. By now little Miss Perfect is laid out on the store-room floor like an open box of chocolates. Okay, so you’ve ripped the buttons off her jacket. That tight blue pencil skirt is jammed up round her ass. Her panties are hanging off the ceiling, like wherever. You’ve got her knees up round her ears, laying it into her like a jackhammer. God, you’re going at it like a porn star! And those chunky calves are bouncing on your shoulders. Those shocking red stiletto heels that match her lipstick are waving around behind your head. She’s begging you to stop. To carry on. To stop, no, wait, go faster, harder. She hardly knows what she’s saying any more. She doesn’t think she can take much more of you. You’re too big for her, she says. It’s hurting. You’re fucking HUUUGE man! ENORMOUS! That’s when you really go for the coup de grace, slamming it into her like you’re trying to kill her with the damn thing.

‘Please don’t come inside me’, she whimpers. Bet you’ve heard that before. Which never fails to do the trick. That’s when you let her have it all, in that final moment of grace. Nailing her ass to the store-room carpet, you pop your load like a champagne cork going off. Enough cum to wallpaper a hotel lobby. And of course, correct me if I’m wrong, but your orgiastic caveman humping technique quickly brings her off too. She came just before you? Thought so. Screaming loud enough to shatter glass, huh. A real hand over the mouth job. High five, dude. Okay, so I’ve read too many sex and shopping novels, but you get the idea. And when it’s over, she lies there, smudged lipstick all over her face, looking up at you like the cat who drank everyone’s cream. As if she’s just been pleasured by the entire parachute regiment on crack. ‘Will you be popping in tomorrow?’ she croaks, all glassy eyed and barely able to speak. And you climb off, zip up, and walk from the storeroom leaving her smouldering amid the trashed cardboard and spilled perfume bottles. Or, in the case of the pretty-boy shop assistant, ladies, you’ve left him slumped against the changing room wall with a smile wide enough to hang your dress on.

And if that don’t beat going through the motions with your partner on a Saturday night, turning over and switching off the light, you’re reading the wrong book. Stay strong, peeps. Stay with me. All you have to do is close your eyes and imagine. Your imagination has no boundaries, no chains. Believe me, I’ve had them all in my time, from the young Queen Elizabeth to Marilyn Monroe in her prime. From Lady Di to Pamela Anderson. I even did Thatcher once, at the height of her power, when the entire nation grovelled at her feet. I had her face down in the back seat of her ministerial Jag, squealing like a San Francisco whore. From behind. Twice. So the next time you’re mentally goosing the smoking-hot sales assistant in Harrods, or fantasising about your attractive brother-in-law giving you mind-blowing orgasms in the back of the Audi, don’t beat yourself up about it, okay. You’re not a pervert. Nor a freak. You’re normal. Whether you’re sixteen or sixty, sexual fantasy is one of the most natural things you can do. And you can’t have a law against nature. That would just be stupid.

Having been afflicted by sex on the brain for most of my adult life, it goes without saying that all the stories in this book are pure fantasy. Most of the names and places are made up. The events described are make-believe, or straight out lies. Any mention of or resemblance to a real person is used for fictional purposes only. If any of my old girlfriends or lovers are reading this and think they recognise themselves, forget it, I made all this stuff up. Honest to god. Cross my heart and hope to die.

Big bang

When the great cock god unzipped his flies

infinity knew it wasn’t going to be her day

like a drunk urinating in the snow

god pissed into a black hole light years wide

showering the milky way with a million stars

scratched his balls

steam rose in a giant nebula

he worked his cock back and forth

slashing his name across the void

a goddam work of fucking art

‘jesus christ I needed that’

he spat on the moon, zipping himself up

‘we take the cosmos now’

god’s troops moved in fast

snuffing out stars, galaxies, worlds, civilizations

mugging two planets wandering past

a sniper took out earth, which exploded like a lightbulb

infinity was sitting humming, combing her atmosphere

in the orchard at the galaxy’s edge

when the soldiers came

hearing the screams

she flattened herself against the milky way

from where she witnessed four soldiers drag her sister andromeda

into the yard

and take turns

while making her father watch

after ten millennia had passed, god bored of it

got up, stamped his feet

and a trillion stars fell out the sky

like a string of christmas lights

smashing on the floor

‘shit, who put out the lights?’ he joked,

then casually slit the father’s throat from ear to ear

as if paring a slice from an apple

‘we move out’

suddenly god halted

his great nose twitched

he sniffed deep, and a billion constellations were sucked from the heavens

disappearing up the black hole of his nostril

‘I have a scent’ he growled, ‘I smell spores’

like a disturbed comet’s nest, his battalions swarmed everywhere

god clumped across the universe in big, hob-nailed boots

grinding galaxies into soot

kicking nebula clear out the stadium roof

in one bitch of a mood

‘where are you? I know you’re there’

infinity pressed herself tighter into the milky way’s ditch

as god reached the orchard wall

stood towering over her

within touching distance

mere light years away

the great creator scratched his ass

unzipped himself, took another piss

then holstered his manhood and was about to walk

when he smelled her

his erection twitched like a divining stick

he grinned a mexican bandit grin

infinity broke cover

crashing into the night forest wild-eyed in terror

but two comets posted point cut off her escape

so she flared south

lobbing supernovae over her shoulders

god laughed, and snuffed them between his fingers

like fruit flies

‘the best you got, bitch?’

she dodged and ducked and twisted

thorny asteroids clawing at her legs, dead stars tripping her

but god kept on her tail

the spores giving her away

her escape velocity insufficient

finally she smashed into a stellar column and broke her cheekbone

then fell into a black hole up to her waist

the first comet caught up, breathless

‘infinity,’ he hissed, and spat out a planet-sized gob of fire

‘you know this whore?’ asked god

‘she’s one of them’

‘I’m no whore, you murderer!’

god gripped infinity’s jaw, uplifting her harvest moon face

and was briefly dazzled by its fathomless beauty

‘she looks... educated’

a snort of laughter erupted from the street gang of stars

who had gathered to watch

‘bullshit’ sneered the comet

‘she’s a whore, like all the rest’

the comet shoved a cigarette up his ass and lit it

he blew out a nebula, which rolled across the years

‘I’m gonna pump every last drop of my goddam seed

up her pretty little ass’

‘back off punk!’ boomed god

he turned to infinity ‘speak, your name?’

‘infinity’ she said proudly, jerking her chin from his grasp

‘where you from?’

‘nowhere special, everywhere’

‘don’t get wise with me, bitch!’ the big man snarled

and a fiery jet of his breath set a million stars’ hair on fire

‘a real high opinion of herself,’ sneered the comet, circling

‘you know what we do with wise ass bitches like you?

we take em up the ass’

‘you’ll never get to the bottom of me,’ she said defiantly

‘philosophers have tried, professors and popes

I laugh at their feeble equations’

she shot the comet a smile as sharp as a broken bottle

‘look down your nose at me, motherfucker,’ hissed the comet

‘fuckin chaos theory don’t cut much ice out here with your pants down’

and he yanked out a todger fifty planets wide

‘smile when this goes up yo ass, baby’

‘yeah, give her a meteor shower!’ the crowd shouted

‘let’s fuck her and get it over with!’

‘NO!’ boomed god, slapping the comet so far into the cosmos

it wouldn’t return for a thousand years

‘I told you once, get in goddamed line you punks’

the other comets backed off

as god wrestled with his cosmic erection

prising it out his pants

it was a real good one

the size of the universe

a billion trillion zillion light years wide

he hadn’t used that thing since the beginning of time

‘no!’ screamed infinity, eyeing his dark matter with terror

she tried to claw her way out the black hole

but such was the gravity of her situation

the more she struggled, the deeper she sank

‘help, police, somebody!’

four comets hurtled across the galaxy

pinning down her arms and legs

‘leave her be!’ shouted god. ‘I can take her’

‘have you no morals?’ she pleaded

‘no sense of right and wrong?’

‘honey, this is the universe

when your belly rumbles, you fill it’

god tore off her atmosphere and flung it across the sky

‘it’s against the law, you’re twice my age!’

‘the law’s a joke I made up for fools

you’re infinity, as old as time’

‘you, you barbarian, you’ll go to hell for this!’

‘I made that up too

you ain’t none too bright for an educated girl’

‘you’ll answer to god’

well, that got the biggest laugh of all

and god split infinity like an atom

who dug her quasars into his shoulders

wrapped her pulsars round his waist

shuddered and came like all the earthquakes there have ever been

knocking the stars off the shelves

stopping the clocks

bringing down the sky

the whole fucking universe, all of space and time

which disappeared up the singularity of infinity’s pussy

like soot up a hoover

‘who turned out the fucking lights?’ god joked, again

and struck a match

offering infinity a post-coital cigarette

she lay back smiling

glowing

throbbing

empty, full

pulsating

took a pull on the cigarette

and blew out the biggest motherfucking nebula

since the dawn of time

Big Brother

Stalin means ‘man of steel’ in Russian

but it wasn’t his real name

he was christened Joseph Vissarionovich Djugashvili

a Georgian peasant

one step above a donkey

on the ladder of life

a coarse-mannered ugly dwarf

with slits for eyes

disgusting eating habits

and a moustache that stank of beetroot soup and pipe tobacco

he couldn’t get a girl to save his life

and didn’t bust his cherry

until the age of twenty seven

people said Stalin was ignorant

however, on exploiting the proletariat

he knew a trick or two

he described religion

as the opiate of the masses

nicking the phrase from Marx

and when science kicked religion’s ass

he built bigger vodka factories

and when I think of modern television

I can hear him rubbing his hands

from the grave

and he is back in the Kremlin

round the big table

firing questions like daggers

‘comrades, we are falling behind the capitalists

in the television race

did the Soviet Union not build

the world’s first satellite in Sputnik?

my spies in the West tell me

they have satellites orbiting space

with a thousand TV channels

which the masses devour like morphine

round the clock

while we have one man in a suit

reading the news

surrounded by electronic snow

Kamenev, what are you doing about this?’

a cold sweat broke out

on communication commissar Kamenev’s brow

his brain suddenly echoed

like a big empty building

‘d-dear premier Stalin

should we consider making more

current affairs and documentary programmes

so the Soviet people feel better informed

and superior to the capitalists?’

‘GUARDS!’ shouted Stalin

‘take him outside and shoot him’

the guards dragged Kamenev from his chair

and the great doors boomed shut

‘the Soviet Union didn’t get where it is today

by having more boring television than the capitalists’

Stalin turned to Zinoviev

head apparatchik for the collectivization

of cultural dissemination techniques

giving him the big bear smile

with the glinting metal tooth

‘chess? dearest leader?

the Russian people love their chess

we could televise nightly tournaments and…’

‘GUARDS!’ shouted Stalin

‘drag him in front of his family

and torture him by shoving

chess pieces up his ass

then kill them all’

Zinoviev went squealing like a pig

Stalin’s gaze fell next upon Litvinov

bureau commissar for permissible social activities

who squared his shoulders

‘dear leader

I propose we should devote

an entire channel to sports programmes

the Soviet Union has the finest athletes in the world

the masses worship them as heroes

we would be forging

tomorrow’s olympic champions

building a stronger, fitter proletariat

our shipyards would become more productive

tank production would increase, and...’

Stalin interrupted, wagging his finger

‘a fitter, stronger proletariat

is a dangerous proletariat, comrade Litvinov

a more rebellious proletariat

and we know where revolutions lead’

the great doors creaked open once more

they manhandled Litvinov from his seat

kicked the shit out of him

and dragged him away

dismissed with a shoo of Stalin’s wrist

the massive oak doors boomed shut

then opened again

a young servant entered

carrying a samovar of fresh tea

on a silver tray

it was a long meeting

Stalin’s eyes tracked her movements

like radar across the room

she wore the dark green uniform jacket

with highly polished silver buttons

and belted waistline

of all female Kremlin staff

and a tight-fitting uniform skirt of the same green

cut just above the knee

as designed by Stalin himself

her thick dark hair was clipped up

underneath her little green hat

she had the classic Russian fire

in her high Slavonic cheekbones

eyes that could melt snow

lips like the petals of the Ukrainian rose

‘bring it down here’ ordered Stalin

the maid did as she was told

laying the tray on the table

in front of the great Soviet father

as she bent over the table

Stalin smeared a hand over her buttocks

‘what is your name, child?’

‘Rosa Kaganovich, your great Soviet highness’

‘oh Rosa, uncle Joe, please’

‘Rosa, uncle Joe,’ she said

‘a pretty name’

Stalin patted his knee

and she sat on it

everyone lowered their eyes to the table

terrified of meeting Stalin’s gaze

all except Trotsky

the cunning old fox

senior of the politburo statesmen in the party

co author of the revolution

old Bolshevik buddy

when Stalin glanced his way

Trotsky bowed in acknowledgement

‘chairman Stalin

I have an idea so powerful

the world will imagine it must have come

from our great leader himself’

Joseph Stalin’s face darkened

he paused from stroking Rosa’s thigh

and glowered back like a stone statue

‘go on’

‘well, you take a dozen people from society

lock them in a house for three months

a house where in every room

there are secret cameras

watching everything they do and say’

‘everything?’

‘when they go to bed

when they wake up

when they eat...’

‘when they take a shit?’ boomed Stalin, laughing

the great dictator resuming stroking Rosa’s leg

as he waited for the uproarious laughter to die down

‘comrade Trotsky, this idea

we have people watched every day

it’s nothing new’

‘except, general secretary

if I may be so bold

this time the whole Soviet Union will be watching’

‘WHAT!’ gasped criminal statistics commissar Christian Rakovsky

down the far end of the table

‘on television?’

the shock around the room was palpable

there were frowns

sharp intakes of breath

‘surely comrade Trotsky cannot be proposing

that surveillance privileges be extended

to the whole population,’ complained Rakovsky

Stalin’s eyes slid from Rakovsky

back to Trotsky

‘this idea, comrade Trotsky’, remarked Stalin

snaking a hand around Rosa’s waist

‘sounds as interesting as watching paint dry

do we need to remove the brains of the audience first?

you think the Soviet people will switch on their televisions

to watch a houseful of fools pick their noses?

is my plan to send the entire Soviet Union to sleep?’

this raised a second great belly laugh around the table

Trotsky had many enemies

‘not quite to sleep, chairman Stalin’

replied Trotsky, bowing his head deferentially

‘but perhaps to intoxicate, into a stupor of docility’

‘ah’, cried Stalin,

‘we are back to the vodka, yes!’

more laughter greeted his joke

‘a categorical error, general secretary, if I may be so bold

for the idea transcends common stimulants

it intoxicates by stealth’

Stalin began playfully bouncing Rosa on his knee

unfastening a button on her tunic

‘personally, comrade Trotsky

I am growing bored of your idea already

convince me of its value

in the next thirty seconds

or you will be shot’

‘well general secretary

the formula for the programme calls for

five normal men and a token homosexual

plus five beautiful women and a lesbian

naturally all of the females

will have undergone cosmetic surgery of some description

to enhance the size of their breasts and lips’

‘this is an outrage!’ cried Rakovsky

banging his fist on the table

‘it’s nothing more than a freak show!

besides, homosexuality is a crime in the Soviet Union

punishable by death!’

‘oh sit down you great faggot’, ordered Stalin

Rakovsky’s cheeks blazed

but the Soviet leader stared him down

‘have you something further you wish to say

comrade Rakovsky?’

Rakovsky sat impotently

Stalin whispered something in Rosa’s ear

tucking his fingers between her knees

and running his hand a little up her skirt

‘carry on, Trotsky’, he indicated, with a flick of his free hand

‘general secretary, as I was saying

by selecting twelve of greediest

dumbest, shallowest, most gullible fools

who will do anything to become famous

we will present the Soviet people with a spectacle

on a par with the Roman amphitheatre

a freak show, as comrade Rakovsky correctly surmises

the population will be baying for blood each night

their thumbs hovering’

‘oh really?’ quipped Stalin, raising a bushy eyebrow

‘is somebody muscling in on my territory?’

‘on the contrary

it is merely the illusion of power we give’

‘and how, pray, do I put all this illusory power

into their hands, comrade Trotsky?’

‘I’m coming to that dear leader’

‘well you’d better hurry,’ said Stalin

loosening Rosa’s belt buckle

‘general secretary

each week

every man, woman and child

in the Soviet Union

calls in on the big telephone

and votes which contestant they most dislike

on the programme

and that person is exiled to Siberia’

Stalin paused in undoing Rosa’s buckle

‘a person is sent off each week, to the gulag?’

‘every week for twelve weeks

one vain talentless fool is exiled

to the glee of the proletariat

who feel suitably empowered’

A slow nodding smile materialized on Stalin’s face

‘I am beginning to see where my idea is going’

‘moreover, at the end of the three months

the person left is the winner’

‘WINNER?’ queried the great leader, ‘winner?’

‘they become a star overnight’, explained Trotsky

‘famous throughout the Soviet Union

we give them ten million roubles

a twelve bedroomed dacha

in two hundred hectares of prime Ukrainian forest

freedom of every Russian city

the best table at restaurants

they are interviewed on television

their autobiography becomes a best seller’

‘even though they have no literary talent?’

‘especially as they have no literary talent

even though they cannot spell their own names!

they read the six o’clock news

they make a pop record

they are photographed shaking the hand

of our great leader the general secretary himself

on the Kremlin steps…’

‘all for scratching their arse on tv?’ sneered Rakovsky

‘don’t they have to have any talent whatsoever?’

Stalin banged his fist on the table

‘your next remark will be to the firing squad, fool

do not try my patience, comrade Rakovsky

what you were saying interests me, comrade Trotsky

but my spies in the west

tell me that soap operas and soft porn

are the most effective drugs they have

is there any of that in my programme?’

the great dictator took the maid’s hand

and guided it toward his lap

‘with respect, general secretary

what we are proposing is better

than any soap opera

it is a living soap opera

reality TV’

a great gasp went round the Kremlin hall

‘REALITY!’ protested Alexei Rykov

deputy commissar for public weed clearance

‘are the Soviet people ready for THAT?’

Stalin frowned

‘comrade Trotsky?’

‘trust me, general secretary

the reality lies not in any truth

we need not burden the people with that

we are going to give them a freak show

a houseful of strutting peacocks

with chicken shit for brains

who confuse fame with happiness

whose greed is only surpassed by their stupidity

whose ignorance is only matched by their egos

whose beauty fuels their vanity like gasoline on a fire

it will be a human zoo of fornication

classic aggressive-submissive primate mating behaviour

a frenzy of herd-like copulation

even masturbation’

the Georgian peasant in Stalin gave a wide smirk

‘my idea gets more interesting the more I hear of it’

‘indeed general secretary

your idea is so addictive I predict

within a year the whole Soviet Union

will be tuning in every day and night

to see what underwear the contestants are wearing

and find out who is giving blowjobs to whom

and what other bestial crimes they are getting up to

it will become compulsive viewing

people will look forward to it so much

they forget the vodka

and turn up sober for work next morning

eager to discuss the previous evening’s entertainment with all their comrades’

‘we may no longer need the vodka?’ queried Stalin

‘it is a categorical inevitability

the masses will be mesmerized

forgetting their shitty little lives

in a deep cosy narcoleptic trance

our scientists call the ‘couch pancake syndrome’

Stalin nodded gravely, grasping at its awesome potential

‘maybe they will even get used to our cameras

spying on them in their homes’

interjected the deputy commissar for

Soviet death camp transit and administration

Nikolai Bukharin

who could see which way the wind was blowing

‘and their phones being tapped,’ added Krestinsky

deputy commissar of heavy industry

and supervisor of slave labour

‘and us watching everything they do,’ concluded Trotsky

punctuating the exchange with a triumphantly raised finger

‘it will all feel perfectly normal

dare I even say it - desirable

allowing us to go about our business uninterrupted

and the communist party

and our great chairman and general secretary

more popular than ever’

‘is it conceivable that even the plebs

could be stupid enough

to fall for such a trick?’ asked Stalin

‘don’t they know I have all famous

people shot?’

‘there is no-one capable of stooping so low

as he who desires to rise in the world

the exhibitionists will stop at nothing

to titillate the great proletariat

they’ll never suspect a thing’

‘hmmm’

everyone fell silent

while the great tyrant pondered

‘the question of the deviants’

‘yes, chairman Stalin?’

‘I share some of comrade Rakovsky’s concerns

the party cannot be seen to be endorsing

such criminal behaviour’

‘don’t worry about the queers’

sneered Trotsky

‘they are just there to stick the knife into

someone the plebs can despise

and feel superior too

they will be first

to be voted from the show

and thrown in the gulag’

Stalin’s slow smile returned

it spread round the table

‘tell me comrades,’ he asked mischievously

singling out Rakovsky with his gaze

‘what you think of my idea that

criminal statistics commissar Rakovsky here

should be among the first contestants

on my terrific new programme?’

Rosa slapped Uncle Joe on the thigh

he was so naughty

there was much grinning and nodding all round

Rakovsky looked like he’d been stabbed

in the chest

‘but what if I get voted off, dear leader?

not Siberia, please!’

‘you know the rules, Rakovsky

you will be our token faggot on the first show

my spies tell me you have a big one

we will enjoy watching you getting fellated by a comrade

in front of the great Russian public

is 200 million of them enough to turn you on

brother Rakovsky?’

by now there were tears of laughter

falling on the great shiny table

‘in your honour I shall call my programme

BIG BROTHER!’

it was too much

the uproar could be heard by the guards

in the corridor outside

the big doors sighed open once more

Rakovsky bowed his head and left the room

the doors closing behind him like a giant mouth

Stalin clapped his hands sharply

indicating the meeting was over

everyone stood to attention

their chairs scraping behind

‘not you, my sweetness’, he said

and Rosa sat back in his lap

‘comrades, it feels time for my afternoon nap’

chortled the great dictator, winking lewdly

‘I look forward to seeing my new television idea

built into the five year plan

comrade Trotsky, in recognition of the small assistance

you have been in this matter

I am sending you on a six-month skiing holiday

in the mountains of Mexico

have fun, and do be careful

dos veedanya, tavareesch’

one by one the men filed out of the room

‘now my child

let me take a look at you’

Stalin lifted the maid from his lap

she hopped back onto the table and sat

swinging her legs over the edge

so he could see up her skirt

the tyrant sat back grinning on his throne

eating her with his eyes

‘I have you in mind for a very special mission

my dear

are you quartered near the Kremlin?’

‘we have an apartment in the city’

‘are there many of you?’

‘eight, including my brothers and babooshka’

‘is it a big apartment?’

‘two bedrooms’

Stalin tutted

‘I expect it must be very cold and cramped

at this time of year’

‘yes’

‘yes, uncle Joe’, he corrected her

‘yes, uncle Joe’

‘and your brothers must live in constant fear

of the knock in the night, no?’

Rosa dropped her eyes

inclining her head to avoid the tyrant’s terrifying smile

‘don’t be alarmed child’

Stalin leaned forward and lifted her chin

‘what would you say if someone offered

to appoint your family with a dacha in the suburbs

with birch-dappled lawns

a hundred hectares

a paddock with a herd of the finest Steppe stallion

and enough rooms to house a dozen Kaganoviches? eh?’

‘comrade Stalin! I mean uncle Joe!’

Rosa Kaganovich gripped the table

her eyes sparkling like a six year old

‘with no less a security guarantee

than ordered by the general secretary himself’

‘oh!’

the young maid’s hand flew to her mouth

‘I expect

that if it were in your power

to make such a thing come true,’

added Stalin

‘you would do almost anything

to make it so’

the premier ran a finger over her ankle

Rosa kicked off her shoe

and began tracing her big toe along his inner thigh

he was not so ugly

after all

power is a beautiful thing

his big moustachioed face looked warm and friendly

like a great uncle

he pulled a cigar from his jacket

lit it and punched a blue fist of smoke into the air

relaxing back into his throne

‘tell me sweetness

what you think of my revolutionary new idea

for the dawn of Soviet television?’

‘great leader

people crave fame like drugs

your idea will take human interest television

to a new level

spellbinding the masses’

as she spoke

Rosa slipped from the table

and knelt between the great Soviet father’s legs

where she began unbuttoning his flies

‘I can see you are a true heroine

of the Soviet Union my child’

‘uncle Joseph?’

‘yes child?’

‘will our dacha have a heated swimming pool?’ she asked

opening the top button of Stalin’s fly

‘we shall see’

‘and its own sauna?’

she popped another button

using her other hand

to rub his erection

through the rough serge of his trousers

‘I adore saunas in the winter

they leave your skin feeling so clean

and smooth, and silky’

‘everything in life has its price, my child’

Rosa popped the final button

unleashing Stalin’s beast

‘hmmm, I can see why Stalin means

man of steel’, she murmured

the big bear bit into his cigar with a sigh

as she gripped it like a microphone

ready to sing

‘uncle Joseph?’

‘yesss?’

‘I should like a private hunting lodge

built in the grounds too’

‘you would, would you?’

‘yes, with its own rooms

somewhere I could entertain very

very

important

people,’ she said, rolling her eyes up at him

‘in private

whenever they wanted to come’

through half-slitted eyes

the general secretary of the communist party

glanced down his nose

at the maid’s head bobbing away in his lap

Rosa’s puppy-like eyes continued gazing up at him

as her mouth sucked noisily

at the great soviet bell end

he took another puff on his cigar

‘how many rooms, did you say?’

Eye candy

The HR Director’s office at Sky TV’s London headquarters was empty and silent. Only the soft background whisper of the air con rustled the spider plant leaves. The desk was covered with sixteen CVs, laid out neatly in two rows of eight. A buzzing started up as a bluebottle took off from the wall, zig-zagging a cat’s cradle around the room, bouncing off invisible objects. It spiralled high over the steel grey filing cabinets, banked and dived lazily down toward the coke bottle on the desk. The fly executed a perfect soft vertical landing on the screw cap. It gave the cap a quick body search with its proboscis, then took off again and rejoined the greenbottle on the wall.

‘Any good?’

‘Not been opened.’

‘A fly could die of hunger around here. Did you check the glass?’

‘It’s upturned, stupid.’

‘I’m not falling for that old trick.’

‘I’m telling you, the place is clean.’

The greenbottle pushed off, executing a textbook sideways landing on the smooth surface of the glass. It walked its sheer vertical ice-cliffs with the surefootedness of a mountaineer, dabbing here and there with its hoover-like proboscis. Nothing doing, it hopped onto the desk and did a recce of the CVs. People have greasy fingers.

‘Check out the honey,’ buzzed the bluebottle. An emerald seemed to glint as the green fly flitted randomly between the sheets of paper, walking a figure of eight on some, doing the maze walk across others. Showing off, while uploading the information to its memory banks. It took off and rejoined the bluebottle on the wall.

‘Eye candy,’ it said dismissively.

‘Five gets you ten he chooses the honey.’

‘I dunno,’ mused the greenbottle, ‘that one has a degree in sports journalism, look.’

The blue-black fly activated its powerful tele, locking on the greenbottle’s sight path. It lasered in on the CV third left, bottom row, in 632 X magnification. ‘The minger?’

‘Okay, so she’s not gonna win miss universe.’

‘She’s old enough to be his sister.’

‘She’s got six years experience in regional TV.’

‘Yeah right, like he ever gets that far down the page.’

‘What about that one then, she has a first in classical economics from Cambridge.’

‘And the blonde has a bullet-deflecting rack and pole dancers thighs. Your point being?’

‘Has she got the brains?’

‘Do elephants got wings? Have you ever actually watched Sky Sports News? It’s a 24/7 blow-job. I’m telling you the lap-dancer ticks all the boxes, it’s a done deal. What’s your fucking problem fly?’

‘What if she fluffs her lines? What if she’s crap in front of camera?’

‘With those breasts?’

‘I was just playing devil’s advocate. ‘

The bluebottle focused its eyes hard, uploading the information up its sight cone. ‘Look, she has perfect references from three model agencies - she flunked her exams, her CV is all pictures, she’s had three tit jobs.’

‘Heavily qualified, I’ll give you that.’

Bluey did a little dance, turning in a circle and buzzing his ass in the greenbottle’s face. Suddenly the flies froze as the office door swung inwards. In strode the tall suited HR Director Dave Love, followed by his p.a. Jenny, taking notes as he dictated a letter to her.

‘Dear Melony, thank you for your kind application for the position, blah blah. I read your CV with interest. However, the standard of applicant we’ve received for this position has been exceptionally high, so unfortunately we won’t be taking you through to the next stage on this occasion. We will certainly keep your details on file and if a suitable position arises in future we’ll be in touch. Thanks again for your interest, blah blah, Dave Love. P.S. Have you considered breast implants?’

Jenny tutted and crossed out the half written line of shorthand, chastising her boss with a glance.

‘These are for the mid evening anchor slot with Jay McEverly,’ she said, indicating the sixteen CVs laid out neatly on his desk.

Dave Love ran his scanner-like eyes over them and back again. He opened his desk drawer and took out a pen, then began singling out CV’s, striking a red line through some and handing them to Jenny. ‘No... No... No... Did we advertise for Shrek lookalikes? No... No...’ He handed her another one, then another. ‘Oh perlease! The last time I saw a face like that there was a jockey on it.’ Slowly Dave Love undid the careful jigsaw of paper his p.a. had laid out. Until only one remained. The young lap dancer. The blonde honey. Dave ran his fingertips over her photograph like a blind man reading brail. ‘This one, I like.’

‘Aren’t you even going to read the others?’

Love looked at his p.a. as though she were insane. He slid