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Author Archives: beachhutt

Rage Against The Monarchy

Long live the Queen?
I’m not fussed.

It seems that I am once again, as a member of the British public, expected to celebrate someone being hideously wealthy and respected for doing not much more than being born into the right family and successfully developing neck muscles strong enough to hold up more gold on her wrinkled head than Fort Knox. We dutifully forget that her reign advocates a class-based system that we’re supposedly trying to phase out, and that her face resembles Emperor Palpatine’s.

The BBC’s coverage of the event would make North Korea proud, with Supreme Leader Elizabeth being shown as unanimously adored by all. I’m not seeing equal attention being paid to the millions of people who don’t give two shits, and that frankly wouldn’t even know that the Queen was still alive if they weren’t getting two extra days off work to remind them.

And yet here we are, with BBC One airing footage of a miserable crowd cheering at gunpoint beside the Thames’ world-famous mixture of sewage, litter and national shame. Forget coverage of the procession, I’m personally more impressed by the fact that the boats that find themselves in this acid-bath don’t literally dissolve. I feel sorry for Huw Edwards being forced to sound as though he cares as he endlessly loops his description of the boats, the bridges, the flags, the rain… the poor man sounds happier reporting on global casualties of war on the news than he does talking about this shambles. This is assuming that the combined viewership of twelve people can actually see anything at all, what with the BBC neglecting to put windscreen-wipers on their cameras.

Sales of bunting, scones and cake have all skyrocketed as the retailers join the Queen in cashing in on this ridiculous parade. There are more Union Jacks flying than in a 1800s colonial invasion fleet, and suddenly everybody doesn’t think Victoria sponge is the most boring dessert in the history of mankind. People battle in the streets over the pronunciation of “scone” before realising that nobody actually gives a shit, and that the only people who actually eat them anymore are elderly Women’s Institute members who don’t have long to live anyway.

There’s a Jubilee street party being held outside the neighbours’ tomorrow. I will, of course, be attending. Not to sabotage it with fire and death – even I can suspend my otherwise uncontrollable hatred for the monarchy if it involves getting some free food before retreating back into my bitter, republican shelter from all this ridiculous and spontaneous patriotism.

The only event that I can see outstripping this in terms of immorality and public demonstrations of anti-monarchy rage is when the Queen finally dies of mysterious circumstances and is conveniently succeeded by Prince Charles. Ignoring all other issues with his very existence, a redesign of British currency would need urgent attention, as they realise that his ears won’t fit on any depiction smaller than a pie dish. Expenses will run into the billions of pounds as ATMs, vending machines, charity boxes, arcade machines, street performers’ hats, and the general public’s wallets and purses will require enlargement to deal with the sudden change (pun totally intended). Metal prices will soar and cable theft will become commonplace; trains will cease to run in the criminal climate and the economy will grind to a halt as the cable-thieves exhaust their resources and move to raiding cars and boats for metal supplies. TV aerials and satellite dishes will disappear off of rooves and we’ll all be forces isolated from the outside world, weeping as we realise how supporting the monarchy stopped us from watching TOWIE. Lack of Essex culture will obviously be the final blow to the morale of the British public, leading to a complete economic and social collapse. Millions lose their lives in the ensuing riots and famine, and the monarchy tears itself apart in a power-struggle over what is left of a new third-world nation. Eventually, Britain is officially removed from all public records and atlases as an act of global shame in our situation, and the rest of the world forgets we ever existed.

Do you really want this to happen? I didn’t think so.

Depose the monarchy.

 
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Posted by on June 3, 2012 in Opinion, Ranting

 

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Are you ready?

Her boy was sat at the kitchen table, school bag slumped on the floor. He was tapping furiously on his phone, names and faces scrolling down the screen as he cycled through his remote social network. He’d done what she’d asked as soon as he’d got home, setting two plates – one slightly chipped, knifes, forks and two polished glasses on the pine table. A stew was simmering on the stove; his meal was waiting patiently for him, as ever, for when he stepped off the school bus into his mother’s arms.

She stood looking at him for a brief moment. Still tapping away at that phone she’d got him last Christmas, so he could keep in contact with his friends. She felt guilty: they lived on the last stop on the school bus route, out of walking distance, and she’d never let him walk back at night. She usually drove him around, which was safer than travelling by bus.

He growled and swore. It’s frozen. She didn’t ask; there was no point. She’d never been the one who dealt with the technology, she’d normally’ve just left it to him. It was a wonder half the gadgets in the house still worked. It was probably the best opportunity to get him off the thing.

Do you wanna have a kick-about outside?
He tapped for a few more seconds then paused, and shrugged.
Come on.

He hurried a few more messages, then dimmed the screen and slipped the phone into his right pocket, reaching for the old kit-bag. She turned the stove down, and stepped out through the glass door. The lack of sound would’ve surprised her if she weren’t so used to it. An intimidating quiet. The two apple trees were as though dead and the little, chirping bird that lived within didn’t seem to be there. There was a slight hiss of grain from the endless fields that reached right up to the fence on each side.

The clatter of football boots on the step broke the silence, and her son’s muddy shirt brushed past her. Boots two sizes too big upon his little feet, with missing studs and worn, dull leather, sunk past the unmown grass and into the earth. A red-brown football shirt, slightly torn on the bottom, stained, also muddy, with the loose seams causing the white “3” to peel off the back under a surname she didn’t even know, but remembered fondly. The frayed sleeves slid back, exposing his slender fingers as he bent down to place the ball. Cracked white, once grey, and slightly flat, it rolled slightly to one side on the uneven turf.

Are you ready?

He barely nudged it, uncertain of how hard to kick it to his mother… they never played football. It stopped short… she managed a glancing smile, making a conscious effort to rush excitedly towards it, swinging at the ball; the tough leather stung her skin exposed through her shoe, woefully inadequate for the outdoors, but she beared it for him. It rolled faster than her son’s, but at sharp angle to him, rolling into the bush. Her smile dropped and eyes turned to face him, worried. She expected to see a grimace, to see his smile drop as well… but he was smiling. Laughing. He dived behind the bush.

She paused for a second, lips still tweaked upwards, ears awash with the sound of trees in the fresh wind and the shakes of dense fir-fronds as her son scrabbled for the ball. She watched the white cloud gliding in the cool spring air, and smelled the honeysuckle that shone green as it clambered up the side of her kitchen window. Distant farm machinery hummed from afar.

He’d emerged from the bush, shirt dotted with torn leaves and splinters of bark. His hair was ruffled, and hands brown. She started half a step forward, seeing him, but held herself back, reassured by the smile on his lips as he replaced the sweat on his brow with dirt from his sleeve.

He kicked it once more to her; she knocked it a stride with her shin and, undeterred, kicked it back, fairly on target. He seemed surprised, and they passed the ball excitedly between each other, her shots improving in confidence with each attempt, his increasing in enthusiasm. Finally, inevitably, one of her shots flew wide, and struck the dark, rotted panels of the shed in the far corner, hidden forgotten in the overgrowth behind the trees. An ominous rumble of balanced boxes and tools collapsing punched through the garden, exposing the two as they followed the arc of the ball. The sound continued for longer than she’d wish to note as all other ambient noise seemed to cease around them, the sides of the shed trembling with each beat as it trickled quieter with the last few items, then stopped. The broken, wisp-strands of cobweb hung still over the dust-opaque panels of clear plastic.

Are you ready?

She hadn’t been in there in years. God knows what state the inside was like, with old belongings filed in boxes, gardening equipment, nuts, bolts and trinkets scattered in drawers and shelves and cupboards. She didn’t really want to know, but she’d have to tackle that corner someday. She’d left it too long. She knew she’d have to forget the majority of it, to be rid of it, but the issue of sorting the good from the bad stood in the way. She stared at the door, with its thick, rusted padlock.

Her boy made to fetch the ball, innocently, but she grabbed his arm. Not now. She looked down into his eyes. Not right now; he could get it another time. The stew was ready anyway, and the sky had started to cloud over. Night chased day rapidly across the gaping flats; she could almost watch it approaching. She led him back inside, ringed hand pressing into the small of his back, muscles tensing as a cold wind gathered behind them. She passed over the threshold and shut the door, drawing the curtains together sharply, and exhaled slowly.

The stew is ready.

 
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Posted by on March 8, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Meet Keith

That’s right, I’m a motherfuckin’ snail.

If ya’ve got a problem with that, ya can fuck right off and complain to ma fuckin’ lawyer. Oh, I forgot: I don’t have one, because I’m a fuckin’ snail, so let’s keep things simple enough for ya fuckin’ amoeba brain to comprehend: mind ya own fuckin’ business. Humans. Arseholes, the lot of yas.

Don’t think that I can’t hear ya commentin’ on ma speed. Ya’re louder than Davina in a fuckin’ blender. What’s the point in rushin’? I’m not on a fuckin’ busy-ass highway, am I? Fuckers all up in ma space, followin’ ma snail trail – yes, it fuckin’ glistens in the motherfuckin’ sunlight. No shit, Sherlock. I’m only tryin’ to cross this empty fuckin’ space – wasn’t askin’ for a crowd of gawping motherfuckers! Absolute fuckin’ joke. Was only goin’ to eat ya shitty lawn anyway. Ya smother ya fuckin’ cripple plants in so much fuckin’ chemicals that I’d melt if I touched ‘em. Ya’re always complainin’ about keep ya fuckin’ lawn short anyway, because mowin’ is too much fuckin’ effort for yas. Boo-fuckin’-hoo; I’m cryin’ ma motherfuckin’ snail eyes out. I mow grass just to fuckin’ survive, ya ungrateful twatbags.

Yeah, that’s right! Sprinkle that fuckin’ salty shit all over me. Fuckin’ Walker’s crisps? Ya dumb piece of shit. Snail bitches love fried potato, motherfucker. Look at me! Off ma fuckin’ tits on salt! If ya had half a fuckin’ brain ya’d have more brains than ya parents fuckin’ put together. Fuckin’ idiot human pixie-dick wanker.

I’m only lookin’ around for a measly fuckin’ bite to eat. I’m fuckin’ starvin’; ma belt keeps fallin’ down ma skinny fuckin’ Kate Moss waist. If I had a waist, that is. Ha! Fuckin’ joker snail, right here. Pipe the fuck down.

Oh, look at this joker. Some sort of young, pink, frilly bitch; talks like a deaf person drowning. Oh I suppose she- bitch is pickin’ me up! Fuckin’ hangin’ in the air, holdin’ me by ma fuckin’ shell. I’d rip her cutesie fuckin’ ponytails out of her scalp if I had arms, the little shit. And look at the rest of ‘em! Fuckin’ eggin’ her on. Eggin’… fuckin’ eggshells… scatters ‘em all over the bloody place that woman does. Would she appreciate me casually scatterin’ fuckin’ razor-blades around her kitchen? I think fuckin’ not! Stupid bitch can- Ah! Fuck! Poked ma fuckin’ eye! Yes, it retracts back into ma fuckin’ angry-ass snail face. Fascinatin’! Yeah, go on, poke the other one, ya dribbling piece of fuck. I’ll gnaw your fuckin’ nose off if y- Fuck’s sake! Oh ha motherfuckin’ ha, I’ve retracted both? Giggle ya fuckin’ heart out, love, I’m fuckin’ blind now.

Oh, so now you wanna fuckin’ feed me, right? You worthless goat-rapist. I’m sure that most individuals wouldn’t be in the best mood to have a fuckin’ meal after being blinded by an breast-feedin’ clinical psychopath. No, I don’t feel like being force-fed fuckin’ grass. Piss off, or I’ll fuckin’ tear out ya throat with ma snail fangs. Would kill ya in seconds, the dangerous motherfuckers would. Kill ya dead, and I’d laugh, ya fucking pig-tailed gape-arse paedo-treat fuck.

Hide in ma motherfuckin’ shell, I will. Yeah, that’s right! Ya deadbeat fucker. Hidin’! From ya! Can’t fuckin’ run ‘cause I’ve got not fuckin’ legs – even if I did ya’d probably rip ‘em out off ma fuckin’ body, ya sadistic little Friday-night cum stain. Aww, don’t cry. Ya fuckin’ pu- What the?! Hey! I’m not a fuckin’ retard! I may be fuckin’ blind  but I can still feel ya fuckin’ shakin’ me like a Michael Jackson kid. Oh, and ya’ve thrown me. Fan-fuckin’-tastic. Yeah, ya’d better cry for ya shitarse Snorlax of a mother; I’d fuckin’ poke ya eyes inside ya fuckin’ skull if ma shell weren’t fuckin’ shattered all over ya dog shit smeared patio. Ya know that arsehole of a feelin’ when ya can feel a crumb in the bottom of ya sleepin’-bag but ya can’t see it or stop it pissing you off? Imagine that except that the bag is ya shell and the crumb is YA FUCKING INNARDS EXPOSED TO MOTHER FUCKIN’ NATURE. Think about that, ya gene-deficient miscarriage of humanity!

Oh, and look at this prick of a dog. I’m in fucking agony, but ya wouldn’t care would ya? Ya pantin’ more than a paedophile in Mothercare, ya fuckin’ freak. Yeah, I’m bleeding. Can’t even see to recon the motherfuckin’ damage, ‘cause I’m still blinded from the little kindergarten whore over there. I’ll slap yas both ‘cross the face with ma massive snail cock, you fuckin’ coons. Lookin’ for a quick snack are we, Dog? I see. You won’t forget this one. Come on then, ya cunt.

COME AT ME BRO.

 
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Posted by on March 7, 2012 in Creative Writing, Short stories

 

Empty armchairs

They face each other with a deathly calm,
Two old chairs in the dark with florals frayed.
Spindle held leaves clawed climb o’er each arm,
Thread-broken petals ripped raw and decayed.

One seat depressed with rests aged down but clear;
Silhouette of a soul, sad and alone.
The other is pristine, there’s no mark here;
The ghost of the man that I’ve never known.

Sun shoots through windows shored thickly with dust
Searing limp cloth as it fires from outside,
Splintering off panes imprisoned in rust
But shines off the letter and badge on the side.

A lifetime after he left his armchair
His wife’s not alone, for he is still there.

 
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Posted by on February 21, 2012 in Creative Writing, Poetry

 

Vlog post: A Behavioural Analysis of Chavs

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzsoZXeBESI

Here’s another vlog post, this time as a satirical study on Chav behaviour,

Please like/dislike, comment, criticise, subscribe, flag or report – whatever floats your boat.

 
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Posted by on February 20, 2012 in Vlog

 

Wife knows best

An experimental triolet. ‘Tis a weird form of poetry – the first, fourth and seventh lines have to be the same, as does the second and last. The rhyming structure is ABaAabAB. Hard to write.

“The belt never fits?” Well!
My wife “knows best”?
The silly woman can’t tell.
“The belt? Never! Fits well!”
But no matter how much I yell
Or swell my chest,
The belt never fits well….
My wife knows best.

 
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Posted by on February 20, 2012 in Creative Writing, Poetry

 

Started a vlog!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dg4ZAuNEuMM

Here’s the link to my shiny new vlog post, folks! I’ll attempt to make it a regular occurrence, with original writing instead of recycling a blog post.

Please like/dislike, comment, criticise, subscribe, flag or report.

 
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Posted by on February 17, 2012 in Updates, Vlog