When pirates walk the plank.

In the last 10 years, I have witnessed the growth and en masse documentation of many crimes, fraud, drug trafficking, paedophilia and of course, knife and gun crime. Late last year however, saw the rise of one of the most hideous criminal acts, piracy. I am not talking about file-sharing, neither am I talking about buying bootleg copies of the latest Hollywood drivel from a questionably dressed individual in a Tesco car park, no, what I am referring to is real piracy, bands of merry men sailing the seven seas in search of treasure and adventure, wreaking havoc on unexpected sea-folk.

Over the last year, I developed quite the affinity with said pirates. I admired these collectives of young men from impoverished and war-torn countries, trying to earn a crust in a way yet to be depicted by rappers. In an age where CCTV and GPS monitor the movements of the masses, these diehards took to the ‘blue Madame’ to chase success. Voluminous bodies of water, over which man has no real jurisdiction - genius! Today, however my love for these men was sullied.

Late last year, they kidnapped a British couple who were minding their own business, perusing the aquatic terrain and held them hostage, demanding £7million from the UK. The British government, in response to this act of Jack Sparrow proportions, decided that with their policy to never negotiate with terrorists, coupled with the financially lean climate, they would refute the pirates’ demands. This story soon trickled into obscurity, that was until today, when I learned that the pirates have now lowered their demands, from £7million to £2million, asking for just enough booty to cover their expenses.

Expenses? Really? This was not a lunchtime run to Greggs to pick up some iced buns for co-workers, this was piracy, kidnapping! These villains, whose’ criminal activities date back 18th century, had resorted to begging. My heart genuinely sank and my image of a pirate, altered.

No longer do I see them as randy young men, with untrimmed beards, eye patches, the proverbial parrot and conjurers of fine phrases such as ‘argh’ and ‘ahoy’, ready to swash-buckle sea urchins in the pursuit of fair maidens and fine rum No, after this feckless retreat, my mind now, gives them a Frank Butcher-esque demeanour. Thanks this to this spineless backtracking, I now see pirates who don flat-caps, tan sheepskin jackets and who jabber on in a timid attempt to salvage a deal with an uninterested customer, all the while slurping milky tea from a polystyrene cup.

Thanks guys. Now I believe in nothing.

The secret diary of _________ (part 1)

Friday 14^th January 10:37pm

So this is what it’s come to. 10:30pm on a Friday night and I am tucked up in bed. Disgraceful. Of course I am not alone, I have the comedy styling’s of BBC 2’ finest to wince away the hours, but still, I can’t help but feel slightly dissatisfied, that there are much greater adventures beyond these four walls. Surely a man in his early 30’s can muster up more than a takeaway and excess remote fondling on a Friday night. Maybe.

But for tonight, I guess routine shall prevail and Paul Merton and co will ease my social pangs. Still, Friday spells the start of the weekend, two whole days away from work and all its shiny monotony. Yeah, I will make the most of this weekend, in fact, let me cement my ideas in ink and make a list of the things I’d like to do this weekend:

1)      Finish my new Grisham novel

2)      Ride the London Eye

3)      Take in the Ian Fleming exhibition

Yeah, 3 is enough, large enough to constitute a list and small enough as to not overwhelm me.

Oh and another:

4)      Thank Heidi for the diary

Sunday 16^th January 2005 12:57pm

Well it’s Sunday and I have completed a total of zero activities on my list. Shit! In my defence, there was a Scrubs marathon on Saturday afternoon and while I would have loved to endure the greatness that is public transport and the greyness that is a British January, it felt much more appropriate to stay in the flat, armed with Pringles (buy one get one free, thank you generic supermarket offers) and fruit juice and catch up with Turk and the gang.

As I write this, I can hear strange moans coming from Stefan’s room, so I’m assuming he got lucky last night...again. Still, all that carrying on at this hour, during The Politics Show I might add is just plain discourteous.

Ok, enough ranting, time to resume the normal Sunday routine which consists of:

1)      Cooking a roast

2)      Shouting advice to the misguided residents of Albert Square

3)      Ironing a weeks’ worth of shirts for work

4)      Trying not to be appalled by Stefan’s taste in women.

Monday 17^th January – 10:02pm

Mondays’ are by far the MOST depressing day of the week in the office. Everyone sits down, tea in one hand, Malted Milk in the other, and trades stories of parties, pills and pulling, while I hide behind my screen, eavesdropping, hoping they don’t ask me, for fear of having nothing to contribute other than a bite-size review of the weekends’ TV and the sexual exploits of my South African flatmate and his easily pleased one night stands. Fucking great! Still, it’s over, and this is the furthest moment away from another Monday, so thank the Lord for that.

Time for some Grisham and a milky tea before bed methinks.

Tuesday 18^th January - 6: 49pm

Why the fuck doesn't he do housework? I encounter morons all day at work; must I really live with one too? Is it too much to ask that he washes his own dishes – really? Must I honestly come home and CLEAN before I COOK and then CLEAN AGAIN!!

Fuck you Stefan!!

Thursday 19^th January 7:21pm (just getting home now!)

I’ve decided that the commute to work is much worse than work itself. I’ve found that there are 3 types of person I end up standing within close proximity to on the tube:

1)      The gazer. He/she never reads the free paper and they never read, or at least pretend to read the advertisements on the walls, instead, they choose to gaze at me, for their entire journey, adrift in my pupils, as if the answer to historys' greatest questions are somewhere between my retina and my iris.

2)      The inexperienced. He/she cannot find their footing or even enough space or gravity to stand still, so they end up wobbling their way through the journey. One day, I may just stop the train and conduct a tutorial on the importance of handrails and their ability to minimize how much damage a person can cause to a fellow traveller if you just HOLD ON!

3)      The reader. He/she will insist on reading their paper – tabloid or broadsheet – or their shitty Amazon approved book of the month - (I actually checked the website and this months’ book is The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho, 100 + pages about Santiago the shepherd, who has a severe case of ADHD and the inability to hold down a job. If he were British, he would probably have an ASBO and find it charming to finish every sentence with 'man') - without regard for others, which means I spend the journey dodging elbows and rubbing my nose against the smudge-able fine print.

And to top it off, none of these people are ever women I find slightly attractive – sod’s law.

1/ Unconditional Love

1/ Unconditional Love


“You probably never knew me” she whispered. He stood in front of her, his back facing her front; his mumbled gasps the only sound in the room. He rocked from side to side, in search of escape, but his feats proved pointless.

“Stop fucking moving or we WILL do this the hard way” she snarled, grasping a handful of his hair. His body trembled in front of her, he, 6 foot 3, shaking, petrified. She walked in front of him and raised her balaclava. His eyes tearful, screaming in silence. His masculine exterior eclipsed by his frail and frightened demeanour. He was on his knees, hands tied, mouth gagged, naked.


The light that hung from the ceiling swung perfect pendulum motions, oscillating beams of light and casting darkness in its absence. He shook his head and expended muffled screams and desperate attempts at a pardon, but she was not interested. She just stared. A long and thoughtful stare, at him, his eyes.


“Love” she said, her voice slightly strained. “Love...” she said it again, her face becoming tense, her lips pursed. “Love...” slightly louder. “LOVE!” she screamed. The words fought their way from her lips, leaving behind a trail of saliva and acrid taste in the back in of her throat. She looked at him, from head to knee, this weak, timid, boy of a man. Her mind wandered back to the day she had realised she loved him, truly loved him. The dinner they shared, the looks they exchanged, the love they made. Rage grew in her. Her face trembled and her eyes became tearful.

She reached into the hip of her trousers and felt it, the cold, steel machine of justice. She drew it out and pointed it, at him. His muffled cried turned to yelps. He rocked with panic and was overcome with fear, so much so that he toppled over, and the intermittent beams of light exposed his full nakedness and the pool of urine he had made. She grabbed him by the hair again. “Knees!” she barked. “Get on your knees NOW!” He motioned himself back onto his knees.


How did it come this far? She asked herself. To this. She stood there, holding justice in between his eyes and hate in her heart. Her mind was racing, on them, on him, on love, on lust, on dates, on sex, on arguments, on him, on her, on cold nights, on moments shared, on smiles, on him, on them....on HER! She couldn’t take it. Being able to see him and him being able to see her was throwing her off balance. Despite everything, he was still HIM and she was still HER. She was sure of her feelings, but seeing him, like this, was beginning to strain her concentration and drive the fibres of her determination to breaking point. She took a deep breath, and lowered justice and her head to the ground.


“Love...” she started, “true love is the most amazing thing we humans have to offer. It’s what separates us...” she began to pace, slowly, from side to side, the length of his body “...from the beasts. But unconditional love”...she stopped her pacing, right in front of the squeamish and frightful man, her voice becoming colder and lower in tone, “unconditional love, the love I gave...I am learning, is a love reserved for parents and morons.” She raised her head and stared at him. She watched him squirm, a helpless and pathetic being. She pulled down her balaclava, leaving her lips and her eyes exposed. “...and I...am no...moron.”

She raised the steely object in her hand and aimed it at his forehead. His muffled cries of woe became louder, and louder until...BANG!


Her eyes followed his body as it slumped to the floor. She stood over the body and watched as he lay there, truly at peace. As the light swung back and forth, she saw the ever increasing pool of blood forming around him and placed the gun back inside her trousers. The warm nozzle tickled her inner thigh. That sensation, it was nothing short of a commendation, a salute from comrades, knowing that you had met your objectives.


She stood motionless. Nausea ravaged her stomach and confusion fed on her soul. She had no idea it would be so easy yet so difficult to do it. She brushed away such distractions and let out a sigh of relief. “I love you...” she whispered, and with those words, marched away from the body and towards the door, her mind and her heart empty.

KFC (K and a Friend in Conversation)

In a KFC somewhere...


Him: (Smiling) Ah, good old junk food...nice.


Me: Really?

Him: Yeah! But in the ends, chicken and chips costs £2 pounds, KFC take it too far with their prices.

After eating said KFC...

Me: (Holding my stomach, envisioning multiple bathroom trips when I get home) That was horrible. Never again!

Him: Yeah, it wasn’t all that. Not for the money they charge anyway.

Me: KFC, it’s a lot like sleeping with your ex.

Him: (Confused look on his face) Come on, what are you talking about?

Me: Well, it sounds like a good idea at the time, possibly even a great idea that you have craved for some time, but once it’s done, you kind of wish you hadn’t, in fact, there is a pretty good chance that while doing the deed, you feel slightly ashamed of yourself.

Him: (Big man chuckle) You are too much!

Me: I’m serious!

Him: (Big man chuckle, again)

Me: Especially the feeling after, all that guilt. You try to do a billion good things to make yourself feel better, and swear that you will never do it again, but you know, one hungry night, you just may succumb to those familiar herbs and spices.

Him: (Shakes his head) You're not well K.

Act 4

He dreamt of his main squeeze, them hitting the night scene, draped in the finest robes, the flyest stones, elegance, decorum, the whole thing, in this particular fantasy, they were out, he and she, hands intertwined, eyes locked, sharing space and time, in a room brimming with avant-garde deocr, men and women of all sorts, from the door to the bar, they stood, inhaling the aroma of intoxicating potions from afar.

She sipped an elderflower bellini, he nursed a sour martini, he held her hand, proud to be her man, proud to be her other, her friend, her love, he cherished her, and all she represented, he smiled at her, "I love you" he mimed, she returned the sentiment, they both meant it, all of a sudden, the scene turned bright, excess light, she started to fade out of sight, he knew this feeling, the onslaught of daylight, and in a flash, his eyes opened, the dawning of a new day had left him awoken.

Staring at the ceiling, retracing feelings and pondering the dreams' meaning...

Three things I learnt this week.

1. The term ‘baby boomers’ refers to people born in the 1940’s and 1960’s. This group of men and women are one of the most influential cohorts of people, as they make up the bulk of the modern workforce, pay for many to receive state education, medical treatment and pensions. They are due to retire very soon, let’s hope the state reciprocates the sacrifice and dedication the baby boomers have shown.

2. Trying to arrange a simple pick up and drop off of band equipment, can be filled with as much heartache, joy and tribulation as the work of Homer. Think transport problems, intra-band conflicts, shady meetings in car parks, all of which takes place amid a cold and dreary London landscape. And where would such a voyage be without a deeper, philosophical rumination, which in this case was, ‘why am I out here in the cold lifting drums, while dem man are at home?’

3. People come, and people go. It is very easy to focus on their departure, which is often fuelled with emotion and misplaced words, but rarely, do we remember them by their stay, the way they managed to occupy so much of your life, of your time, of your thoughts.

Act 3

Back home, where he sits atop his throne, the centre of sanity, where he can be, himself, the tragedy, is that home consists of bad memories, a reminder of what shouldn't be, his place to dwell, the room at the top of the stairwell, was light years away from the outside hell, he shut the door upon entry, threw his everything on the floor and tiptoed gently.

Pictures of past pleasures plastered two of the four walls, old friends, an old him, smiling, having a ball, he lay on his bed, arms by his side, slightly intoxicated, an alocoholic high, the room span some, the results of cognacs and dark rum, he closed his eyes for a second, but at that moment his phone beckoned, the familiar 'beep beeping' of a text message:

"Hey love, hope u r well, im swell, u coming for dinner friday? need to know how many, ask them lot aswell."

He shook his head, he knew her type, not a friend, just someone who enjoyed his company on random nights. He trusted nobody, least of all women, serpents in satin, the title he'd give 'em. 'Forget her!' Right now, he craved rhythms, syncopation and harmony, he grabbed his headphones off the nightstand and threw on a CD, Miles Davis was what he heard, he held adoration for the man, over the years he he had become a hige jazz fan, he felt the tension, the build, their brilliance, their skill, herbie on keys was enough to please, he closed his eyes and slipped between the sheets, rubbing his legs in an attempt to generate heat, music gave him hope, its beauty, its joy, it helped him cope, in musical bliss he lay, entering his dreams in a silent way.