When I Was A Prophet

Sometimes I get a sense about people. Something to do with their mortality.

Sometimes it is the sheen of their skin.

There was a boy I went to primary school with. One day in PE I noticed his hairless shiny legs. It was like he were made out of plastic.

I said to my friend Bob Rose, - I have a prophecy. That boy (can’t remember his name) will die soon of cancer.

At the start of the P6 term a few years later the boy was nowhere to be seen. On that first day back, in morning assembly, we were told by the headmistress that the boy had died during the summer. – Cancer, - she said with a tear.

The boy was a favourite among the teachers. The headmistress, the dotty sneering old cunt, set up a shrine for him in the front hall and kept it up for 6 months. A teachers’ pet. Would’ve turned out to have been a real good-living bread & butter sort of man.

This alone was reason enough to be happy about him dying. But the main reason I was happy about it was because now I could brag to my friend Bob Rose that I really was a prophet.

This turned out to have consequences. People laughed at me to begin with. Then when I predicted that Deirdre from Coronation Street would get cancer (judging by all the veins popping out on her C3-PO neck), and then she did, my classmates became ultra worshipful.

Kylie did not have a Deirdre neck at this point, but if she had’ve had like she later did, I would have said that she was for the chopping block as well. And I would’ve been right (nearly). And then I would’ve been a god among them.

As it was, the popular clique, the Ruling Elite of the microcosmic society - the playground - feted me wherever I went. I suppose it amounted to them wanting to garner some of my occult knowledge. And I suppose the reason they waned to do that was to extend their control beyond the playground and into the mean streets.

But things for me always have a habit of derailing when they’re chugging along just right, and derail they did. As the group around me grew, some of the less popular children began to beg and scrape at the feet of the playground oligarchy. Being the elite’s quasi high priest I too was granted no end of favours from these vassals. One hot summer’s day, just lazing away on the grass, I felt a great urge to take a piss. I sat up and took a look around and spotted one of them under a tree picking his nose. So I called him over. He had a great head of curls that swayed as he walked. I got up on my feet and told him to get on his knees in front of me and open his mouth. He did as he was told, robotic like an MK ULTRA slave, and I put my soft dick, aching from the need to go so bad, right in his mouth and took a long slow warm piss.
I told him, - Don’t swallow!

When I got done he stood up and waited to be told what to do. His cheeks were stretched out, fat as a space hopper.
- Right, - I said. - Don’t swallow. Run up to the toilets and spit it out.

The slave ran as fast as he could up the hill to the school. I smiled with satisfaction and lay back down in the grass to think about my prophecies.

What happened when he got into the school my pal Bob Rose told me about round at my house a couple of days later after I’d been expelled.
- He ran in trough the side door and down the hall toward the toilets. And you know the way The Head’s office is just before you get to the toilets? well she came out just as he got up to her door, and by this point, some are telling me, the piss was running out the slave’s nose, and The Head just looks down at him, screams the place down asking him what he thinks he’s doing etcetera, and he spits out about a milk bottle’s worth of piss right at her feet and told her everything.

And so I was expelled and I went to a new school and that was the end of that story.

Kimba, in one of her strops, had exiled me to the bedroom for ‘thinking time’ and I was bored. Bored enough to eat my own shite. Bored enough to reminisce for sure.
Listening to this calming track on my Walkman I began to turn over in my mind the implications of this power of prophecy that manifested in me as a young child in primary school, but the boredom I felt led me down one blind alley after another so I give up on it.

I decided the only thing for it then was to have a wank. When it was over I lay a while with the warm wet cum curved along my great fat belly in a perfect line like a scar that hadn’t healed properly. I felt myself nodding off and so collected up from the floor the only book we have in the house (The Bible) ripped out a couple of pages (Proverbs) and wiped myself off with those. And then fell asleep wondering to myself that if you spill upwards can it still be considered a spill?

I Saw Your Eyes And You Touched My Mind

This afternoon in the off licence, standing right at the end of a very long queue, I begin to fantasise about murdering the sad looking frazzle haired old lady way up ahead at the till. I would kill her, I thought, by pouring the bottle of gin she were purchasing down her neck. It wouldn’t be hard. She’d have not much strength in her to begin with, being old and a chronic lush. The only resistance I would get, I thought, would be the involuntary body spasms issuing from her in short and decreasingly less powerful bursts as her lungs filled with London Fog.

To take my mind of my morbid fantasies as they were making me queasy I began to think how hard it would be going back home to Kimba. I would have to crawl grovelling back to her. I hadn’t been back in four days and four nights, leaving her as I did in the garden: legs spread and bleeding out all over a Minnie Mouse beach towel.

I was getting for her in the off licence 6 blue WKDs. They were her favourite tipple, the blue ones, and those along with a copy of Viz would get the ball rolling on me-making-things-up to her.

I walked up my street then with a jaunty zing in my gait and turned into my house, nearly walking right through the front door like a ghost so as not to disrupt for one second the vigour in my rhythm.

And just like that into the front room I went and who should be on the floor getting bummed by a skinny little spide with a star shaved into his step, but Kimba, light of my life.

All around there was lube and on either side of the writhing pair a couple of rubber dongs. In the air hung a smell of chlorine or cum.

The skinny little spide hopped to his feet and went to square up to me. He was terribly skinny. His ribs were sticking out so that I could count every one and I’m positive I could see, through his sickly translucent rice paper skin, his weedy little lungs hanging there in his chest like a granda’s scrotum. He looked like someone just walked outta Belsen and straight onto a porno set.

- Who the fuck are you? Asked the Holocaust Spide, hopping from foot to foot.
- I’m Danny Pongo and this is my house and that is my woman you’re sodomising on the floor. Now get out before I cut your throat!
- Or you’ll do wha’? said the Holocaust Spide, the eternal refrain of him and those like him. - I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw, - he said.
- Oh yeah, - I said. - You’re as hard as my granny’s shite. Now fuck off! - I said, karate chopping him right on his little fishbone ribcage.

The little bastard collected up his shop-bought ripped jeans and his Tommy Hilfiger shirt and his gold chain and ran out the house.

I looked at Kimba. On the TV Neighbours was on.
- I s’pose I deserved that, - I said.
- You did, - she said, in post coital lazy purrs.
- Ok then, well why don’t you get up. That songs on. On Neighbours. Angry Anderson. We’ll have a slow dance -
- I fuckin hate that song. Put Flock Of Seagulls on the record player and NO slow dancing!

You Can't Just Shoot Your Way Out And Go

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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.

Toasted Skin

The next morning back at my place Kimba put me off my breakfast again by going on about the bit of my jumper that ripped off in Mistress’s hedge.

I became too nervous to eat. My tongue dried and became sandy and I couldn’t swallow the big gobful of pancake I had worked back into my mouth.

I went upstairs and boked into the bath. I decided not to wash it away and let her find it instead. With her gag reflex she’d probably boke too, adding to the gross and noxious pallet. And being depraved as she is as well she’d probably climb in there are get washed in it.

After I cleaned myself up and ate some toothpaste off the end of my dirty yellow fingers I did a bit of Luke Rhinehart dice therapy and give myself the following 6 options:

1. Go round to Bogdan’s

2. Go round to Bosco’s

3. Go for a walk. Which direction would be also decided by the dice.

4. Go buy a suit to go to court in.

5. Go to Whetherspoons to get pissed.

6. Sit here in the bathroom and look for spiders to feed to Boke the cat.

I cupped the dice in my hands loosely like I were holding a newly born bird, then shook it violently like I were trying to kill it. When my wrists got sore I blew on it like they do on ‘Love Boat’ and things like that, then threw it against the wall. It bounced all over the show: off walls, the ceiling then down off the floor again in that same pattern, as it would as it was made out of the same material bouncy balls are. It landed with a splat in the boke. It read: 1 (Go round to Bogdan’s).

I reluctantly took myself into town to Bogdan’s grubby house, then. I had been hoping for 5 (Go to Whetherspoons to get pissed) and took the bouncy dice with me, throwing it up the pavement going along Castle Street making up options in my head as I went along when this auld soak came out of a bar and kicked it up into the guttering of Poundland, so I decided going to Bogdan’s was what I was meant to do.

- Sometimes, when I’ve driving back from a weed hookup, I like to put this track on and imagine I just shot the dealer and am driving away with his loot and his stash. – said Bogdan filling a bong and hitting play on his cassette stereo.
- I never think that – I said.

We both took a hog of the bong and I tried to adjust my poise to fit with the heavy antsy bassline of Biggie Smalls. After I got myself comfortable Bogdan got up of his beanbag and pulled his baggy jeans down. I reared up a little expecting his ¾ erect red cock to flop purposefully, like a falling tree, from his boxers.

- What are you doin, you freak, - I yelled at him over the rap.
- Look at my thighs. I think I got ‘toasted skin’. I read about it in the paper today. I sit with my laptop on my knee all day wanking over porn and reading David Icke. I think I got ‘toasted skin’.

I took a look at his legs and true enough they were red, mottled and spongy at the thigh.

- What am I gonna do? Screamed Bogdan, near tears.
- I can’t hear you over the rap! – I lied.

Then I sat back, closed my eyes and wished another number had come up on the dice.

Kill Me Now Or Pay Me Later

It turned out Stevenson had personally brought round the summons for my court appearance to be done for blasphemous vandalism.

Inside, Kimba sat at the kitchen table glugging rotten Maxwell instant.
- Vandalism and breach of the peace, - I said reading the summons out loud.
- What’d he bring it right round here for? – said Kimba, trembling.
- I don’t know, - I said. – I don’t think he’s right in the head. You’ll not be right in the head if you keep drinking coffee like that and shaking. You’ll shake your skeleton out your hole.
Kimba laughed her coffee out her nose then boked on the floor.
- Clean up, - I said, handing her the mop.

Put off my toast and Satsuma by Kimba’s bad manners I skipped breakfast and decided to go see my mum instead.

My mum is not long out of a psych ward after her doctor, a Dr Styrm, mistakenly believed she’d tried to cut her own throat, while in actual fact (as everyone from me down to my Down’s Syndrome cousin Donatello will tell you) she cut herself by accident while shaving.

It turned out, as she told me over a hot whiskey, that she enjoyed the pace of the place so much that she acted the eejit in order to stay in a little longer. I realised then she’d been there for 2 months when she was initially only meant to stay for two weeks.
- And not one visit from you or Micheesha! – she scolded.
- I’ve had other things on my mind. I don’t know about Micheesha.
- I can’t rely on my family any more. Just as well then I made some new friends in the hospital. One nice man, named Maurice, explained to me all about the ‘end days’ and that the age of the Anti-Christ is nearly upon us. He told me that the United Nations are going to act as a platform for this Anti-Christ...and he told me to listen to this song to help me understand it all a bit better.
She took from her pinny then a cassette with the words “AXIS ’67 PART 1 – BOBBY CONN” scribbled on the label and put it in her crappy old 80’s stereo.

Out of politeness I tapped the table and nodded my head in time to the number, all while keeping a close eye on her. The notion occurred to me that she had not been acting the eejit on the psych ward but was, in the opinion of the doctors, someone not ‘ready for the outside world yet’, something I’d long suspected.

Somewhere after the two minute mark of the song when it gets heavier she got up and started dancing around, - throwing her hands up in the air and leaping about like a mentally challenged Southern Baptist minister trying to do a star jump during one of his raucous epiphanies.

On hearing the hubbub cousin Donatello ran in then and give me one of his ‘strong hugs’ that I’d warned him about before. Then the two of them joined hands in the middle of the floor and went round and round in circles chanting over and over: Pretty Vacant, The Way Of The Lord’, but I’m not too sure that’s the way the words went though...