Feel Sick And Dirty, More Dead Than Alive

Today I got in a wild paranoid funk that ended up wasting the greater part of my afternoon. So paranoid was I that I missed a crucial episode of Neighbours.

What triggered it was the black helicopter that sat hovering directly above my house for two and a half hours.

I had this morning, as I have been doing every morning this past fortnight, risen when my TV switched itself on to coincide with the start of The Jeremy Kyle Show. After it was over I turned the tele off for some quiet time before This Morning started. It was then I heard it, the distant but nevertheless distinctive sound of a hovering helicopter, a hum like that of a mechanical mosquito.

I went out into the back garden and looked up at it. There it hung, glinting a little in the late morning sun. I went back inside and took from my cutlery drawer my novelty Batman Telescope that I got free of the cover of Tiger Beat many moons ago.

This Batman Telescope, being free thus shite, did not reveal much, except to say there were no markings on the thing, and it were a slightly dull blacky silver. I found this very perturbing.

I went back inside shaking my head and devising a plan, a plan that did not take much time in piecing itself together inside my mind. I would try to get a rise out of the sky creeps by getting the big iron pipe Party Time kept under his pillow and pointing it at them like it were a rifle (they probably wouldn't've been able to tell from up there), see if they fucked off or what.

I went upstairs and got it and brought it outside and stood there with it pointed in the air for a good five minutes till my arms got sore. The helicopter did not move, but the light of the day glinted again and again of its side, having a semi hypnotic effect on me.

Then some clouds passed along by it and I couldn't tell if it were gliding off or the clouds floating by were just giving it the illusion it were. But when the clouds passed fully the helicopter took off at great speed and disappeared over Black's Mountain, outta site.

All day I had dark surmisings go through my head, a jittery nauseating fear course through my being, a feeling like my whole body were experiencing butterflies. I did a little research on the net about Black Helicopters and drew the conclusion 'they' were trying out a sound weapon on me to test its effectiveness.

I nearly cried when it got near dinner time and still I could think of nothing else. It felt as if my head mechanisms had been thrown into flux and were unspooling all over the insides of my skull like an old fashioned playback machine going haywire and sending its magnetic cassette tape out in great spastics of twisting, twisting confusion.

It got so I'd to call someone up and get a bag a weed to try and calm the seas of my psyche, but I am still waiting for the bastard who said he'd be here at half 8, but there's been no sign yet...

Sex Guru Wank Race

When the song ended I endeavoured to do my best to calm Bogdan and try to convince him not to worry about his toasted skin.

I read through the article in the paper and noted that it mentions near the end that toasted skin is pretty harmless and only in very rare cases do you get melanoma from it. Bogdan was relieved at this and observed, as much for my benefit than for his, that he had no moles on his legs and as “its moles that are the main things on your body that are infected by things like sunlight and UV light and general heat like from a microwave then I’ve nothing to worry about. And if I’m about to buck a girl for the first time I’ll tell her the burns are from saving a whole family, 3 generations, from a house fire.”

Bogdan then went on to rant and rave in a generally unfocused monotone about moles and people with moles, taking in Cindy Crawford, Enrique Iquelzies and Robert De Nero. In order to get him off the subject I suggested we go online to look for Porn-a-Likes...

So today’s Porn-a-Like is Denise Robertson the terribly moany, makes-everything-sound-worse-than-it-actually-is by-the-way-she-draws-out-her-sad-sad-words This Morning agony aunt.

So me and Bogdan made some time inventing a story for Denise Robertson and her foray into the world of vice and concluded that what had happened to the poor old duck was that she were taken in by some New-Age sex therapist guru who schooled her in the ways of “cognitive sexual workings out of the problems of the mind” as Bogdan put it. After she left the guru’s enclave in South America Denise went back on This Morning and began to use the guru’s teachings on the bevy of young men that ring into her helpline looking for ways to spot genital warts and AIDS.



Here she is photographed in a sting operation set up by the News Of The World who have hired a rentboy and give him journalist credentials (Like Jeff Gannon). When the story broke Denise set up an elaborate ruse where a recording of her own voice was rung into her helpline live on This Morning. Her recorded voice went through a list of the terrible things that’d happened to her since the story broke and Denise live in the studio’s eyes glazed over and she began to cut herself with a switchblade that she pulled out from her substantial cleavage. Scoffield and Holly Willobry go apeshit and Denise, thrown by their thespianic startled-ness, proceeds to stick Scoffield in the Adam’s Apple and cut both Holly’s tits off.

After me and Bogdan decided we were happy with the parallel life we’d created for This Morning agony aunt Denise Robertson we went to look for some real porn to have a wank race over, which hopefully, by the end of, we’d be tired enough to go to sleep to.