Tag Archives: alcohol

Blood and Sand – Cocktail Recipe


Recipe: Equal parts blended Scotch, Sweet Vermouth, Maraschino Cherry liqueur and Orange juice. Shake well with ice and strain into some nice stemmed glassware (see above). Garnish and zest with an orange peel.


Okay, it’s last call on the flavored vodka troops. As it turns out your consumerist bhagwan Puff Dirty Daddy is laughing at you as you follow the scent of his ethereal goji berry spirit down the rabbit hole and into his bejeweled lair of misappropriated excess. Time to drink up and move on.

The majority of flavored vodkas have all the complexity of the supporting female role in a Kevin James movie, and the finish of George’s Marvelous Medicine. Bought because you heard that the Flow Rider and his ‘boyz’ drink it in the clubs, you fully embrace the bland, characterless spirit, and because of the shrewd product placement you gladly overlook the fact that it’s actually best used to clean burnt soup from cooker surfaces and congealed sin from the embossed initials on wedding rings.


It’s time to grow up and start enjoying the taste of alcohol.

Blood and Sand Stuff

The Blood and Sand originated at some point around 1920, and is a fantastically well-balanced Scotch-based cocktail transcends seasonal pallets and themes and often defies those that have an aversion towards whisky, and wince at the bone-dry echoes that sweet vermouth tends to leave behind. All four flavors are present in this drink, coming on one at a time, politely stepping aside and clearing the path for the next with a bygone sense of noble chivalry.

As one of only a handful of cocktails that uses Scotch, it does tend to raise the odd eyebrow with Puff Daddy’s flavored vodka crowd, but it is a hit. To ensure that people approach the drink with the necessary state of open mindedness, assure your more reserved party guests that they are in fact drinking the new Ciroc® Whisky, Sweet Vermouth, Cherry & Orange flavored vodka.

For best results use a blended whisky that’s relatively neutral, sweet and smooth (J&B, Johnnie Walker Black, Famous Grouse should be fine. Just don’t go near anything from Islay, unless you want your drink to taste like smoked surgical bandages), get some Carpano Antica Sweet Vermouth (hard to come by but worth it) and keep it chilled, and I always like to toss a slice of orange and a maraschino cherry into the shaker to get a bit of pulp in there.

Sweet, strong, dry and a little tart, this is an exceptionally well-rounded cocktail. Jay Gatsby would have gladly served drinks like this at his appropriately excessive parties. Not something that can be said for a double Ciroc® Bratwurst with Monster Khaos…

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Messages in Bottles – Part Two

The following photographs are of a sort of literary street art project I worked on with the help of my close friend Anders Rostad. All bottles washed up onto the streets of downtown Los Angeles and contained anonymous letters from five young people struggling to cope with the pressures of their lives.



One Letter




Two Letter




Three Letter




Four Letter




Five Letter




Six Letter


Thank you for your interest. I’ll post the letters over the next couple of days.

Please feel free to share x


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I drank your beer

Sorry man

I drank your beer.

I thought it was mine.

They looked the same

at first,

yours and mine.

Sitting together

Just like we were

Before you went away.

I sat them beside one another

Yours had a little more

But I thought they were the same

I looked inside mine

I saw the bottom of the glass

Through the stuff I didn’t want

I looked inside yours

I liked the way my face looked

at the bottom.

All warm and golden

fat and happy.

I drank it in one

big gulp.

The face disappeared

And so did the stuff

I didn’t want.

It slid faster than mine

Colder than mine

Better than mine

Like I knew it would.

Sorry man

I drank your beer

You can drink mine if you like.

Well, you could

But I drank that as well.

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Weighin’ Up the Colors – Part Two

“Bitch tried to take everythin’ I had. Kids, house, car. She even tried to take my dog! Man’s best friend! But I guess it makes sense…She’s a bitch right!” he started to laugh and slap his hand down on the bar surface. I saw the different colored drinks ripple and shake every time he smacked the bar.

“But it don’t matter” he says, pointin’ at the yellow drink. Somethin’ with lemon, I can’t remember. I slide it along to him and go to note it down. “The way I look at it, I traded her in. Got ma freedom back. I’m forty-eight and I’m a free single man! Single and ready to mingle. Do you think I look forty-eight?” he asked me. I remember thinkin’ no, he looked forty-nine. But I couldn’t say that. So I just said no.

“Yup, forty-eight.” He took a big greedy gulp and looked into the glass. “Twenty-four years I was with that cunt.” I never heard nobody refer to their wife with that word before. But I guess she wasn’t his wife no more. “But think about all the things I can do now! There any places where divorcees go in this town?” he asks me. I say I dunno. I ain’t been here long.

“Hmmmm,” he says. Well not says, but you know what I mean. He lets out this big burp and looks over at the empty glasses next to him. All the little bits of soggy fruit lyin’ at the bottom in a pool from the melted cubes. Couple of them glasses still had cubes in them.

“Lemme see that menu” he says, reachin’ out towards me. He don’t make eye contact. He just stares at the bar. His tie was draped across the bar top, gettin’ all wet from the booze he’d spilled. I looked down at the menu, hopin’ he wouldn’t ask for somethin’ weird I don’t know how to make.

“Menu” he says, snappin’ his fingers. I hate it when mother fuckers snap they fingers at me. Used to happen when I worked in Dennys. I spat underneath a guy’s eggs once. Couldn’t really spit in this guy’s drink though. But he was probably so drunk he wouldn’t notice. I didn’t want to do that with him. Didn’t seem right. I handed him the menu and smiled. Forced it a little to tell the truth.

“Let me see” he says, lickin’ his orange lips. That red’d gone a little orange  since drinkin’ that yellow drink. “Gimme some Sex on the Beach! I could do with some of that!” he shouts, laughin’ to himself. I told him I’s never made one of those.

“You’ve got me nice and drunk so far boy. You just keep doin’ whatchu doin.” I shrugged and looked down at the menu. I started pourin’ the vodka into the little measure.

“How many of them you puttin’ in there?” he asks, closin’ one eye to focus on what I was doin’. One I tell him.

“Put in three” he says. I told him it would cost him more.

“I don’t give a shit! I’m spendin’ as much as I can spend before that cunt takes half of what I got!” he laughed again. There was that word again. I shrugged. I poured in some of the peach booze. Some cranberry and then some OJ. I’d never seen or tasted or smelt one of them Sex on the Beach’s before, but it seemed about right. For him anyway. Rex would’ve sure as shit told me it was too strong.

“Cheers!” he shouted to no one. Well, no one except me. But I wasn’t drinkin’. You couldn’t pay me enough to drink one of them things. Specially if I’d made it.

“You get yourself a cocktail boy. Stick it on my tab.” I told him I was all good. Said I had class in the mornin’. I didn’t really. Just didn’t feel like drinkin’. “Just make yourself a quick one. I won’t tell the manager.” He smiled and started to sway a little. He was puttin’ the glass to his lips slowly and wrappin’ those multi-colored things around the rim. He slurped at the cocktail and sat it back down.

“Mmmmm. Sex on the Beach! I ain’t had Sex on the Beach before” he says, lookin’ down at the glass, little smile on them lips. “I ain’t had sex in almost two years.” I see the air come outta him a bit after he said that. His shoulders slumped down and his nose got a little closer to the red stuff in the glass. I turned back towards the bottles. I wrote down ‘Sex on the Beach – $5’ on his big tab. He had seven big strong cocktails on there. I remember thinkin’ I probably wouldn’t sell him anymore if he asked. He’d had enough for one day.


I heard him sniff from behind me. I didn’t want to turn around. I couldn’t help look at him in the mirror. It felt like I was spyin’ or somethin’. And yup, he was cryin’ alright. I guess you would be too if you was as drunk as an injin at his mamma’s funeral and your wife’s just divorced you.

“I gotta go see my kids tomorrow” he muttered, sniffin’ some of they tears back down his boozed throat. Maybe they’ll help sober him up, I remember thinkin’. “Tomorrow is the only day I get to see them. One day a week. My fucking kids only get to see their daddy one day a week. That cold fucking bitch.” He wiped his face again. I looked at his sleeve. It had all different colors on it. It looked pretty damp. That was the only sad rainbow I ever seen.

“Maybe this’ll be your last one” I says sympathetically. Didn’t really want to tell him to not to do things. This probably wasn’t the day to tell him he couldn’t have somethin’ he wanted. But it didn’t sound like he wanted any more anyway. He looked up and smiled. His nose was a little more purple than when he’d come in. His eyes was red, matchin’ the rest of his face and half the drinks he’d dipped it in.

“I think you’re right. I’m gonna go pee. I’ll be back in a minute” he says. As he picked up his hat I noticed he was still wearin’ his wedding band. I wondered whether she was still wearin’ hers. I doubted it. He picked up his coat as well and took a little stumble.

“Thanks boy. You fix a fine cocktail.” I remember doubting that as well.

He staggered round the corner to where the bathroom was. I turned back to the register. Rex came out and asked me how I was doin’ with they cocktails. I told him, fine I guess. That old boy been seemed to be happy enough with them. Rex looked at the empty glasses on the bar and said the boy must be smashed. I said he was a bit of a mess. Rex told me to clean up and said I could go when I was done. One customer in the night ain’t what you could call a reason to stay open. When I tallied up the boy’s drinks I realized that he had pretty much paid my wages for the night. I reckoned he’d give me a fat tip as well for listenin’ to his ass ramble on and on. No, I don’t mean it like that really. It probably helped him to get it out of his mind and into the air. I didn’t mind really. It gave me somethin’ to do.

Five minutes passed and the old boy was nowhere to be seen. I remember thinkin’ the bar had got a little colder again. Sorta like when he came, but not as cold. I went out from behind the bar and into the bathroom, expectin’ to find him passed out on the john, with his pants at his ankles. But he wasn’t in there. I came back out and looked around the corner. The fire escape door was wide open. I walked towards the door and stepped outside. The light sensor kicked in and the parking lot lit up. The air was so cold There was snow falling down gently. Some of them big fat flakes. The snow was thick on the ground, bout two inches or so. I looked around. Lotta darkness after that light. But I couldn’t see the old boy. In front of me were all these footsteps leading to the start of some tire tracks. The tracks in the snow sorta curved and skidded outta the car park and onto the street. I remember thinkin’ that they poor kids probably wouldn’t be seein’ they daddy tomorrow.

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Weighin’ Up the Colors – Part One

You remember I told you that I’d started working in a bar right? Well I did. My first shift was on Thursday past. It was dead but I think that they wanted me to come in on a quiet night at first. Show me the ropes and how they do things there. I told them that I’d worked in a bar before, but I hadn’t. They told me that they were going to train me to fix cocktails or something. I only knew how to make Vodka Lemonade. But that ain’t really a cocktail. I figured it couldn’t be that hard. They’d probably show me the works.

Anyway, I went in and they got me all hooked up with a uniform. A black shirt with ‘Phillies’ written on it. Showed me how to work the cash register. Showed me the stock room. Got me my papers all signed up. And put me behind the bar. Rex, he’s the bar manager, gave me a list of the cocktails, the ‘cheat sheet’ he called it. Think of them as your trainin’ wheels, he said to me. I smiled. He told me to start workin’ my way through all the drinks on the list. He showed me all the bottles, the measures and the glasses that each cocktail goes in. I was a bit taken aback by it all to tell the truth. I’m a Budweiser man, you know, so a Peach Crush and Sex on the Beach and all that other fancy shit just seemed a bit weird to me. I never understood why you’d want your booze to taste like fruit.

So I start making my way through the list of cocktails. One by one. Every now and again Rex would come and check on me, take a little sip and tell me it wasn’t right. I don’t know why. He’d always tell me that I needed more fruit juice or coke or somethin’. I just made them all liquor heavy cause that’s how I’d drink em. If I drank em anyway, that’s how I’d drink em. So there’s me, stood there behind this empty bar, staring at the cheat sheet and fixin’ enough booze to kill an injin.

The door opens on up suddenly. I didn’t hear it over the music, but I felt the cold air come on in and whip up behind the bar. The little umbrella in the Pina Colada started to spin round.

“Hello” I says, sorta nervous like. Him being my first customer and all.

“Hello” he says, sorta sad like. I watch him kinda plod on in. Door swingin’ closed behind him. This look like it been a long day for him, I remember thinking.

He walks on up and sits down in front of me at the bar. The stools was quite high so he was only a bit shorter than me. He was wearing this long, beige trench coat and one of them pork pie hats you see sometimes. He took off the hat first and sat it on the bar next to my cocktails. Then the jacket. He hung that across the little back rest on the stool next to him. He looked up at me and smiled. His face was all red from the cold. His nose had a little purple in it. He had those little burst veins on his cheeks that all connected together. His hair was doin’ that thing where it falls out from the front and starts to creep back up his head. The big bald patch on the top was shinin’ under the light from behind the bar.

“Who are them drinks for?” he says.

“Nobody,” I says, “This my first night and I’m learnin’ how to make the cocktails.”

He looks at them all. Weighin’ up the colors and the fruit I been puttin’ in them.

“Are they for sale?” he asks.

“You don’t want any of them. I ain’t got a clue what I’m doin’. Manager tells me they got too much booze in ‘em and that ma ratios all wrong.”

He looks back at the cocktails again. He has his eye on the red one. I think it was the Peach Crush or somethin’. Peach vodka or somethin’, some sour stuff and a splash of cranberry juice. His eyes look sorta weary. Tired like.

“Go ask your manager how much you can sell them drinks for son” he says after a minute.

I look at him again. I remember thinkin’ that he looks like a bourbon man or somethin’. But the customer is always right, as they say. I thought, if he wants them drinks, like them drinks right there on that bar that I threw together all blind, then he gonna get them drinks.

“Okay.” I says. I went through the back and asked Rex how much I can sell them drinks for. He says, them drinks you made. Like he didn’t believe that anybody would want them drinks. I says, yeah. He thinks about it for a second. Then says, half price. Then he says, maybe at that price he gonna drink ’em all. I remember thinkin’, I hope he don’t. Poor old boy would be on his back and I’d have to send him back to his family all shithoused. He get’s his ass shouted at and ain’t allowed out no more. That ain’t no way to run a business.


“Half-price” I say to him. His eyes light up.

“Good boy. Can’t let good booze like that go to waste!” he says, looking around to see if anyone was listenin’ to him. But he was the only person in the bar.

“Which one you wanna start with?” I asks him. Somethin’ told me he wasn’t gonna be drinkin’ just one.

“Which one got the most alcohol in it?” he asks. I look at them. And then at the cheat sheet. And then back to the drinks. I can smell the booze in his breath sorta creppin’ across the bar.

“That brown one at the end” I says.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I think it’s a Long Island Ice Tea.”

“Great! We’ll start with that. My brother lives in Long Island. Must be a sign!” He laughs. I smiled and slid the drink along to him.

“Four dollars please sir”

“Start a tab. I’ll be here for a while.”

So I make a note of four dollars on a piece of old receipt that was lying around. I look up at the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. We got a mirror behind the bottles. I see the old boy chug his Long Island Ice Tea in three big gulps and slap the glass back down on the bar. He pulls a smoke from his pocket and lights it up.

“Hey” he says. I turn around and smile. You have to smile for the customers. “Gimme that red one. That looks good. What is it?”

“Eh….”I say, lookin’ at the sheet again.

“Don’t matter. Just gimme it.” I slide it along to him.

“Four bucks please.” He points at the tab. I turn around and write it down. I see him drink that red drink in four gulps this time. He wipes his face with his sleeve and makes that ‘ahhh’ sound people make when they’re refreshed.

“You should slow down on them things,” I say. “They’s lethal! Enough booze in them things to take the paint off a battleship.”

“Nonsense!” He shouts, already startin’ to sound a bit sauced.

“I’m celebratin’!” I remember thinkin that he don’t look like he celebratin’. When you is celebratin’ something on your own that’s just called drinkin’.

“Whatchu celebratin’?” I asks him.

“My divorce!” he shouts out, throwin’ his hands up in the air. His top lip had gone really red from that red drink. Oh shoot, I remember thinkin’. This gonna be a weird night.

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Little Switch

Sometimes I get sad for no reason. Well, not no reason. There’s always a reason. But sometimes there isn’t a particularly good one. It’s like a little switch. The kind of switch that people don’t realize exits and they lean on it by accident. Someone lent on my switch last night.

It was a Saturday night. I usually go out drinking with my friend Jordan on Saturday night. I don’t usually need any encouragement to go out. And last night was no different. We went to a place called Sam’s, a little funky bar that plays old records and smells damp. I like it there. The drinks are cheap and it’s usually empty when we go there. I like it when Jordan and I have a place to ourselves. We don’t have to worry about other people being there, do you know what I mean? Anyway, I like Sam’s because we can request the songs. Jordan likes modern music though, hip hop mostly. I like anything that’s stood the test of time. I requested “In Zaire” by Johnny Wakelin. We always start with that song. That’s one we both enjoy. We ate the little peanuts and drank our almost cold beer for an hour or so. We chatted back and forth about football, music, people we knew, but not women. Jordan and I don’t really speak about women in that way. We never have.

“Where should we go next?” he asked me, sliding the last of the peanuts into his hand and throwing them into his mouth. He washed them down with the last of his beer.

“I dunno man. It’s too early to dance and I don’t think I’m fucked enough to do it yet anyway. Shall we go to the park and have a couple?” I said, gently tugging at the label on the bottle. I like to peel it off perfectly without a trace.

“Sound. That’ll do” he replied as he slid his arms into his coat and went to pay the bill. We like to treat each other sometimes.

As we were walking to the park, I got a call from Scott. We chatted for a minute or so.

“Do you mind if I join you guys?” he asked.

“Sure man, it’d be great to see you” I replied.

We talked details and I told him where to go and where we would be. I liked Scott. He was more my friend than Jordan’s, but he liked him too. Scott was one of those guys who likes to talk about women. He’s good with women. But he’s better at talking about them. He’s not like a slime ball or anything, or even very misogynistic. He just likes to talk about women. Perhaps it’s an appreciation thing.

We had arranged to meet him in a busy bar we knew around the corner from the park. I sort of wanted to go there to look at women. Jordan didn’t really care so much. He just wanted to chat to people. I just wanted to look. I’m not like a pervert or anything, I just like to look. It is an appreciation thing. I think some women are beautiful. I hadn’t had sex in about six months, but I didn’t really talk about it much. I tried to convince myself that if I really wanted to end that long patch of involuntary celibacy, I could. There’s always someone out there who thinks you’re something. But it was like I didn’t want to sometimes. I wanted to keep going, torturing myself by making a big deal out of it in my own head. Sort waiting there in the rain for a single person. I would try to make women fall in love with my eyes and never hear my voice. I would try to make them come to me but I would defend myself with conversation not hers. I would feel like someone loved me for the night and in the morning I would think about it and get a little sad. Not too sad. I knew that the same thing would happen all over again somewhere else with someone else. I would get a little happy, and then a little sad. My life seemed to keep in that balance.


We arrived at the bar and Scott was waiting for us with a table. I didn’t know how he managed to get one. The bar was full of people. Young people. All having fun and drinking heavily. It was an Irish themed bar with lots of Irish themed people. We sat down and did the catch up chat. We hadn’t seen each other in a month or so. He had been working hard and dating a couple of girls. He said he was playing them off against each other. I smiled and called him a ‘bastard’. I did it in that way where he thought I was teasing him. Jordan laughed, but I couldn’t tell he didn’t really laugh. We got to chatting and it seemed like every conversation somehow got steered towards sex. I would try and wrestle his hands off the wheel and points us back to where I wanted to go, but he was stronger than me. He could talk really well.

“Dude, there is so much pussy in here tonight” he whispered to me. I smiled again and nodded. I hated that word. Just the way it sounds. I don’t mind it if you’re talking about a cat, or someone being weak. But I never say it. I don’t have a word for that.

“I’m gonna go to the bar and get us some shots. I might be gone a while” he said with a wink. He wandered up to a blonde haired girl who was on the verge of being really drunk, and started making her laugh.

I looked around the bar at all of the people. It was getting late and everyone was starting to loosen up. Sitting at the corner table was a girl. She was surrounded by friends, but none looked to be anything more than that to her. She was beautiful. Not like head turning or anything. But beautiful. You know sometimes when you can tell someone’s a beautiful person just by the way they dress and hold themselves and laugh and smile. She was like that. You knew that she was a beautiful person. I started to look over to her between sentences. Jordan and I were left to chatting, mostly about Scott and how we both felt he was becoming a bit of a dickhead. But I wasn’t really thinking about what we were talking about. I was thinking about what I would talk to her about. How would I start talking to her? Where would I start talking to her? What compliment would I give first? But all of this was pointless. I knew I wouldn’t say anything.

She caught me looking at her. She smiled at me. It was only for me. I smiled only for her. I think we both knew that we wouldn’t give that smile to anyone else that night. She started pretending to be interested in what her friends were talking about, but every now and again she would slide her long hair away from her big round eyes and look towards me. I wanted to look at her all night, in case I missed her glance.

“Jager Bombs boys! Let’s do it!” I heard from behind me. Scott sat down with the three glasses and slapped me on the back. He sat down opposite me. “That hot blonde chick at the bar, I got her fucking number man. I’m gonna go and chat to her later” he said with a big smile. He slid the glasses in front of us.

“Thanks man.” Jordan said, readying his shot glass. I picked mine up and wondered if it wouldn’t make me too drunk. We drank the Jager bombs and got back to our beers. I looked back to the girl. She looked over and subtly raised her glass. I did the same. Scott caught me. He turned around to see who I was looking at.

“Nice man! She’s fuckin’ hot! Why don’t you go over there and talk to her?”

And that was it. That was the flick of the switch. My color started to wash away. Nobody felt it but me. I think she knew though. When she looked over at me, the smile was gone. The eyes were still there, but that ambitious smile had gone. I knew that nothing in the world could make me talk to her. I went to the bathroom and cried. I did it quietly and washed my face before coming back out to the bar. I didn’t want anyone to know. When I came back, her table was empty.

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Clive’s Balls – Part Two

Sat in the corner of the bar, quietly drinking a Vodka and slimline tonic, Clive scanned the bar for potential test pilots for his Dextrahydrochloridebyzantine 5. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. He was nervous that someone should see him dropping the fluid into someone else’s glass. He had enough problems in his life without worrying about a sexual assault trial. A beautiful blonde girl came and sat at the table next to Clive’s. She looked as though she was waiting for someone. She gave a quick glance at the hefty young man sat next to her.

“Do you know where the toilets are?” she asked him with a smile. Clive pointed to the door on the other side of the bar. He could see his finger trembling like jelly.

“Thanks” she said, standing up and walking towards the door.

He fumbled around in his pocket for the small bottle. His sausage fingers wrapped around it and sat it on the table in front of him.

Dextrahydrochloridebyzantine 5
Testicle Extraction Medicine
To be ingested by sexual partner two hours prior to intercourse
Prescribed by Dr. Marcus Phillis

He looked at it for a second, bit his lip and unscrewed the dropper. ‘Two small drops should do the trick Clivey boy’ he heard Dr. Phillis say.


Clive awoke the following morning six kilograms lighter. He was delighted with the success of Dextrahydrochloridebyzantine 5. He’d had to leave the blonde girl’s flat early in morning in case she thought that someone had had sex with her against her will. But she had wanted it, he told himself, all I did was help her realize it. He had looked at her as she slept naked in the morning. She had developed a gut and a double chin over night. Clive tried not to let this guilt get in the way of his happiness. He was going to be thin again! And the road to success would involve a lot of sex with beautiful, slim women! Fantastic!

The next few months of Clive’s life were a lot of fun. He had been having a lot of sex with a lot of beautiful women and hadn’t felt in the least bit bad about it. He saw it as essential to survival. Dr. Phillis had warned him that he needed to drain himself regularly lest he explode. Every woman that he fornicated with was left heavier than before and Clive was always left thinner. He would go for weekly check-ups with the doctor and he confirmed that Clive’s testicles were getting closer and closer to their original location.

Six months passed and Clive had almost returned to normal. He had a little podgy fat around his hips and his breasts drooped south slightly. He was delighted with his progress and estimated that he needed to have sex one more time to return to his original shape. It was a Friday night and he had managed to squeeze himself into his old clothes, ready for a night out on the town. He had decided that he would go out without his trusty Dextrahydrochloridebyzantine 5 and see if he could have sex with a thin, beautiful woman without it.

He looked around all night, desperate to find a woman to pass the last of his heft onto. He spotted two of the women he had slept with before and noted their weight gain. How disgusting, he thought. Clive recognized them perfectly, but they had no recollection of him. He quickly went to the toilet for a pee. He checked the space between his legs for any sign of his testicles. Hurrah! There were two slight lumps at the base of his penis. He prodded them with his finger and felt that familiar sensation zip through his body. He rushed back to his table in the corner of the bar.

He quickly finished his drink and sat back in his chair, ‘scouting for totty’, as Dr. Phillis put it. He saw the same big old fatties rolling and bumping around the bar. None of these will do, he thought. Suddenly, a gorgeous brunette with olive skin and beaming, soft eyes sat down next to him.

“Hello” she said with a smile.

Clive was confused. He hadn’t used any Dextrahydrochloridebyzantine 5, so why was she talking to him?  Could it be possible that he was finally sexy?

They chatted back and forth and got along famously. They decided to go home together.


Clive woke the follwing morning, confused by his surroundings. Where was he? Someone lay asleep next to him. He vaguely remembered the night before. How much had he drunk? He got up and walked through to the toilet. He had a quick pee and inspected the space between his legs. There was nothing there!? His testicles had retracted again!

“No!” shouted Clive, he was so confused. He looked up at his naked body in the mirror. “No!?” Clive shouted again. He was at least six kilograms heavier! His soft hip padding was now a love cushion and his breasts had dropped further south.

He rushed back in the bedroom and saw that the girl lying on the bed was enormous! She had huge flaps of meaty white skin hanging from her arms and her blue veiny legs were spread across the mattress. But she didn’t have any breasts, just a flat piece of skin where they should be. He was so confused. Clive started to gather his now ill-fitting clothes together. He needed to get home and think this over. Just as he was about to leave the flat, he spotted something that made him stop in his tracks.

Dextrahydrochloridebyzantine 6
Breast Extraction Medicine
To be ingested by sexual partner two hours prior to intercourse
Prescribed by Dr. Marcus Phillis


By Felicity Granger, 17, Basingstoke

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2. India like…

So why the fuck am I goin’ to India of all places? Why not Australia or fuckin’ Benidorm for two weeks like a normal person? Well the truth is ma man, I’m not happy. Haven’t been for a long time. I like to reflect on things a fair bit and I can’t remember the last time I could look at my life and say I was happy. Like actually happy, you know? I’ve been happy about certain things; Selic winning the league, getting Ian Brown tickets, discount need-to-get-sold-or-I’m-gettin’- ma-legs-broke coke, and some other shit as well but that’s about it. I can’t honestly say that I could look at my life, taking every single detail into consideration, and say that I was happy with the majority of them.

So let’s take a good look at the current state of ma life:

No relationship, no job, no job prospects, a growing drug and alcohol dependency, boredom, a searing contempt towards my “friends” and a fuckin’ mother on ma back at me to stop squandering ma youth. She’s the worst though. Givin’ it all that, “If ah hud the chance tae dae it all again son…” and “You’ve that many opportunities these days son”, as if I’m not fully aware how shite my life currently is, let alone how shite it could well become. I mean, it could be a lot worse obviously. I’m not a starving orphan in an Oxfam advert or a fly in a spider’s web or something. But given the fact that I’m young, white, educated, comparatively affluent and can speak English (well, Scottish but I see no point in being pedantic when I’m giving myself a hard time), my life is a shameful waste of resources.

Now let’s be clear here my dear, India is not the solution. I am fully aware of this. It’s not like there’s a job or future waiting there for me and it’s not like I’m headin there to ‘find maself’ or any of that balls. I just need a bit of time to work some shite out. I know that I can’t get that in Glasgow. I know that coming to that conclusion doesn’t directly point to India, but I reckon I can go there on the cheap, see some shit and get ma head straight. That’s the plan anyway, although I did hear that Ketamine’s legal there.  Might have shot myself in the foot there boys! Basically, I need to iron out the creases and try to work out what I really want from this life before it’s too late and I end up like every other cunt. Watchin’ the X-Factor in ma council house, kids at my neck, wife on ma case about the clogged sink, clock watchin’ all the way to the cemetery gates. Nah mate, FUCK that.

I’m very much of the “Made in China” generation. A 21st Century Boy. I like my kicks to be low in their cost and plentiful in their abundance, regardless of the suffering involved.  I care not for quality and have little patience to let it come to be. I’d rather have a hundred pairs of crappy sunglasses that warp and skew my vision than one fantastic pair which let me see life the way it ought to be seen. I am the 21st Century Boy. I can be a selfish, cowardly wee shite, who’s completely jaded by cheap thrills and instant gratification. It’s the way I’ve been brought up, though done little to change. But India shows promise in giving me a look at the other side of the coin. Cunts have been telling me how pure filthy it is over there, that the poverty is horrific and that I should have chosen Thailand instead.  But this is it right, I need to find out the real price paid for my standard of living. How much does it cost other people to put a Celtic shirt on my back, Levis on my legs and hash in my lungs? That’s how I look at it. I owe poor people enough to at least go and acknowledge how much they’ve contributed to ma lifestyle. You can’t just be ignorant about that shite. Everyone should know what it takes to make Britain and America and these places run the way they do. But I suppose if everyone knew, they probably wouldn’t run the way they do.

As well as having major bouts of white guilt, I’m also fucking bored. I’m sick and tired of every single one of ma stories starting in a sordid little Glasgow pub and ending at the edge of some random lassie’s bed with my head in my hands, only partially regretting the journey there. The same experience reoccurs week in week out. The only variable is the quality of substances I seem to pour so much hope and expectation into.

My life is like watching Romeo and Juliet performed by a different theatre group every weekend. Sometimes it’s better than others, but it’s always pretty much the same.  You’re enjoying it for the first wee while, the plot’s new and interesting enough to keep you entertained, but after you know the outcome and are familiar with the path towards it, it becomes boring and predictable. The actors are the drugs. Sometimes they can make each line count and truly add something special to the performance, other times they can be so bad that they ruin the whole thing. Once the plot has become so meaningless and the tragic outcome an accepted inevitability, you put your faith in the only variable; the actors/drugs.  If they are good at what they do, you’re prepared to sit through the predictable story until its grim and morbid conclusion. Which, in the case of our darlings Romeo and Juliet, it comes with accidental suicide in the name of love. In my case, it comes with staring blankly into a mirror on a Sunday night, contemplating suicide as a result of my quest for vacuous, transparent love. It’s basically the same thing but I would argue that my case is more heartbreaking than theirs. They actually got to die, whereas I don’t have the balls to put an end to the torment of floundering potential and drowning ambition that exists in me every single fuckin’ day.

So there’s part of your answer. A bit extreme towards the end, but that’s the reality of it. I’m very, very bored. I need to do something interesting and worthwhile with my youth, even if it is for all the wrong reasons. You see, I don’t want to go like my old man went towards the end. Get to forty-five and realize that my youth’s gone, so I grow a goatee, buy a leather jacket and try to shag all the single mums in town. Actually, fuck forty-five, look at my cousin Sandy. A fat, thirty-two year old cokehead bedroom DJ, who wears clothes intended for someone half his age and tries to ride birds who also fall into that category. Every time I look at him a little part of me shudders. Like actually shudders, because I can see maself in him. Sometimes I catch my reflection on a CD case or a mirror as I snort something and see his beady eyes staring back at me. Shooting warnings signs through the air at me. I genuinely worry about becoming like him or ma dad. Is that bad? Not wantin’ tae be anything like your family? That’s fuckin’ bad in’t it? Christ, I don’t even know anymore. But I guess knowing what you don’t want to become is a good start towards working out who you do want to become.

In almost every single way possible it’s a good idea for me to get the fuck out for a while. But there is one big thing pulling me back to shore. Her. Fuckin’ her man. Of all the things I thought might hold me back, I would have never guessed a lassie had the strength. After all of the women I’ve been with in my time, it would be my luck to finally meet one I like just before I’m leaving for while. This could have happened to me two years ago and changed my life. Who knows, it could have stopped me from flying four-thousand miles around the world in search of happiness. But sometimes that’s the way of things. Right place, wrong time.

The more I hang out with her the more I like her, like. It’s no just the mind-blowin’ sex, although that cannot be ruled out as a contributing factor, it’s her. Just the way she is and that.  After that first awkward morning we both kind of saw the drawbacks of our primitive instincts tae fuck things. It was healed by a bit of tender text messaging and a bit of Facebook chat back and forth. The following weekend we went out for drinks again, and when faced with the hump or home decision, I surprised both of us by opting for home. It was weird, it was like with that one choice I had suddenly become more attractive to her. I was like Hugh Grant dipped in Tia Maria at a granny’s birthday party. Hot stuff like. She’d always done it for me in that area, but it was nice to know that the feeling was reciprocated. We started textin’ more frequently, gettin’ together at least a couple of times a week and really enjoying one another’s company.

But this wasn’t what I wanted.

I’m about to say “Cheerio!” to this city, country and continent in a matter of weeks and I intended to make it a clean break. British Army style, no man left behind, you know. But I don’t know, I guess the lure of chasing love, something I can surely say that I’ve never felt before, was too strong to keep my plan on the rails. I don’t think I love her, but how can you really be sure at this early stage, particularly if this month long fling thing happens to be the longest relationship you’ve ever had.  I mean, I think about her a lot, I’m always happy to see her and I when I’m with her my bullshit filter is completely redundant. I just speak my mind and spout whatever shite I happen to be thinking about. I’ve never been like that with a bird. I’m usually too busy trying to think of things that’ll impress her and make her knickers hit her ankles. That’s the way I am. Or was. I dunno, but it’s nice, being able to feel comfortable enough around someone that you can completely be yourself. ‘Cause I can’t even say what I really think when I’m around my mates like. See I’m the youngest in our botched-together group of arseholes, so I kind of feel compelled tae watch my tongue and try not to come across like the wee guy. Particularly not the wee guy taggin’ about with his big cousin. Not a good look. But I haven’t had a connection like that with anyone since ma dad.

Obviously the thing with ma dad is playing a pretty big role in stressing me out and making me want to get away from this scene for a while. He died a while back you see. Two years ago. It’s been a slow road to recovery from that blow folks, let me tell you. I don’t feel like going into it now. It’s still a wee bit soon for me to try to articulate how I feel about it and judge how I’ve been taking it. I don’t talk about it you see. Rarely even write about it. It’s one of those things that feels far too big to tackle right now. It’s like gazing at the moon through the wrong end of a telescope. One day I’ll work it all out. Right now, I feel like I could almost write about the death of a family dog and its impact on my life. But the death of a parent, fuck that man. Too soon.

One day though brother, one day.

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