Religion is just a cult that’s gone mainstream

So back to some form of normality. No more worries, I guess.

So lets think about this. If you have one person who believes in something and then another one, and then a few more, you are then known as a cult. But at what point does it go from being a niece product to being a religion? A hundred people, a thousand, ten thousand? Or is it time based? If you believe something for long enough then it becomes an acceptable religion and also tax deductible.

It’s interesting to see that Christianity is dyeing out in the western world, but they are gaining followers in emerging countries, is this because westerners are becoming wise? If you want to gain power then first you take over the weak.

And lets not forget the branch that think Jesus took a Ryan Air flight to Utah.

I did the Alpha course, surprising may be. Hmmm, need to discuss that in more detail I think.

Once more, the sun has finally arisen

While I was on holiday a piece of paper turned up. Fairly ordinary looking but contains the signature of a judge. This is the final piece of paperwork. That brings to a close around twenty-seven months of turmoil. One signature.

It took a couple of days to actually settle in. But today, while out walking the dogs, in the rain, the sun finally rose. It’s all over. About 90% of my anxiety suddenly lifted.

If we’d actually waited for two years to be separated we would have only started proceedings about three weeks ago. Thankfully, ‘finding God’, is perfectly good grounds for ‘unreasonable behaviour’. I think I made the right decision at the time and to be honest I don’t think he regrets it either as its allowed us both to eventually move on far quicker. I can’t imagine now waiting almost another year, possibly longer, for due process.

There is still some potentially unfinished business. But for the moment I’ll just let it lie. After all you never know when it’s going to be raining again.

Coming up with a funeral seating plan is never easy

Have you ever thought about it? You must have? It’s going to happen to us all, some of us sooner rather than later. Who’s going to turn up? What friends do you really have? Who is been there from the beginning? Who is only transient?

Deep. Okay, purely a hypothetical, as I’ve left the remaining Zopiclone at home and I’m actually quite enjoying the day. If I popped my clogs in the next five minutes, who would I invite and more importantly who would actually turn up?

Hmm, okay first are some rules. There is still a will somewhere, I think it’s at the bank, I never got round to changing it, lets call that divine insight. I have no dependants. No one to pass anything on to. My mother if she succeeds me (considering she is eighty and looks sixty-five, it’s highly possible), she gets nothing, actually no, give her a subscription to daily Lillie deliveries, she hates the things. Every time they turn up will be a reminder of how I was neglected as a child, so I can not only be bitter to the end, but actually beyond it.

My sister? Nothing. Strange choice? No not at all. She doesn’t need it. Just stick together and you will be absolutely fine, you’ve got through some really tough times and I have every faith (shit I really shouldn’t divulge into any kind of religious context) that everything will turn out well. Just keep doing what you are doing. You can have the Jag if you want, just cruise around like lady muck, but don’t do too many miles on it or it will devalue faster than a B&B on the Syrian border.

My nephews, meh, give them twenty-five grand each (I can’t remember the exact amount as it was inflation linked at the time, so is probably the size of the national debt of a small African country). Now I can just see one of them plotting some psychoacoustic interment in his next ‘trap single’ to bring on some sort of brain embolism, while the other one will just open his phone and send out a drone attack.

The rest? Well I want the dogs to be taken care of. The stipulation being that they must remain together and under no circumstances should they end up with my ex. They will be paid for fully until they cross the rainbow bridge.

Thelma, sadly I think will be gone by the time I get back. Donate Kylie and Jason to a good cause, there must be a girl or boy out there which would love a couple of reptiles with a complete setup for free. Just make sure they have long term commitment.

This entire blog should be interned into a server somewhere. I want it to irritate people for at least the next one hundred years, the same with my Facebook, YouTube and Spotify (TeeJayem).

The rest? Well after disbursements and everything else; my poor sister will of course be taking care of that, feel free to add a service charge at a spa somewhere, after all death can be quite distressing, even if not your own. All to animal charities. Hollyhedge should get a lump sum, mainly as both my dogs came from there, I stopped doing home checks for them as I found some of their criteria to be a dit dubious and didn’t sit overly well with me, but their intentions are indeed sound. Dogs trust, guide dogs etc. A dog may only be a small part of your life but when it looks at you, you are the only part of theirs.

I don’t want any kind of service. People amble in behind a box, sing completely out of key to hymns which mean nothing to me (even if they are in D), and listen to some drivel from a person who’s never met you.

Sidebar: This is one thing that really pisses me off about funerals. You have a ‘celebrant’, who’s sole purpose it is, is to waffle on about how fucking wonderful the person was, yet they work from a script that has been written by a relative and been studied for about four seconds. My grandad’s funeral was typical, the celebrant banged on about his famous ‘ikemo’ (sic) stories, they were fucking ‘Iki-mo’ (sic), that’s something that’s grated still, some twenty-five years later.

Simple box. I’d like a discount negotiated as I’m short. It should be carried into the crematorium with one of my hats on it. What should I wear? Difficult. After all, you are only cremated once, you don’t want to fuck up the outfit. Don’t make me look like a choir boy in some really frilly white fucked up frock, that just isn’t my style. Pick a hoodie and a vest. There will certainly be no shortage of a choice for shoes.

Location? South Bristol crematorium. Why? Simple. It has a view of the bridge. I have that tattooed on my arm for eternity, that’s the way I wish to exit.

The after party? Well I think there should be a grand put behind the bar at the Hollow tree, actually make it two as John will no doubt devour a grands worth of San Miguel before anyone has even turned up. No one is allowed to drink gin or fucking white wine spritzers, take the day off afterwards. Just order three hundred pints of larger…..and crisps. If anyone wants food, it’s up to you to pair up for any ‘two for one offers’. There should be mandatory karaoke. You can only have a drink after you have performed. No one is allowed to sing, ‘Knocking on heavens door’ or anything in F sharp.

Guest list? Hmm, well anyone on Facebook who isn’t marked as an acquaintance, so if you can see a link to this post then it’s party time. I’ll add my mother as well, she will no doubt drive and have a small red wine. She is blocked on my Facebook mainly as she is irritating plus I don’t really want to she her noting my statistics and my Pokemon trait of ‘trying to catch it all’. I still have my doubts about that Cuban, but as my willy hasn’t dropped off and I’m currently not pissing fire I will give him the benefit of the doubt.

My ex. isn’t invited. You pretty much killed me once, I won’t give you the pleasure of having any kind of closure on the act. If there is a God, I will be informing you.

Any final requests? Yes. I don’t want my ashes turned into a diamond, fired into space or injected as a tattoo into the ass of a sumo wrestler. I’d just like a spoonful put into a wine bottle, with a reserve sign posted above it. This should then be used to reserve the table for quiz at the pub. I will be there both in body (although I would have lost considerable weight, if that was even possible), in spirit and for a change, on time.

R.I.P. Me.

Is it that just that Jesus has a bigger penis?

So where are we now? (Why have I suddenly gone royal?) Where am I now? I’m forty-seven and single. Is this my own doing? Probably. Am I going to write this entire post in question and answer format? Most likely.

I’m currently sat in the lobby bar in Antalya, Turkey. To my left is a group of English people, basically discussing the joys of social media. In front of me is a German family, I really don’t have any clue about what they are talking about.

I’ve been here a week. That’s probably far too long. Only having you’re own company for that long is probably a very bad thing. It gives you far too much time to think. I’m permanently tired. I’ve drunk far too much, but considering I’ve been drinking pretty much constantly all day, I’ve never been ‘pissed’, okay, except for last night, but that was really the exception.

So what happened? Where did it all go wrong? If I was following the format properly then I would then type the answers, but that is something I sadly do not possess. Four times I’ve been to this hotel, twice now on my own. They do their best here, the entertainment staff always try to be inclusive. The staff in general are all fantastic, they know my favourite tables, food orders and most importantly what drinks I like, and when to deliver them.

What response would you have? Puzzle me this. (I’m sorry if this has more prose context switches than the whole of Ulysses, but please just take it as a brain dump of consciousness).

“Are you content?”

Those were the exact words.

I will never forget them.

I was watching ‘Dickinsons real deal’ with a glass of white. He’d been out all day, coming up to his thirtieth birthday, been acting strange.

It took me back somewhat.

I had to think, I didn’t like doing that on a Tuesday.

Well. Yes, I kind of think I was. And that was the beginning of the end.

The Turkey Monologues – Micheal 47 – Dentist

I guess I thought it was because I wasn’t wanted. More of an inconvenience. Something that had to be dealt with and just kept out of the way. I’m sure she never really wanted kids, thought they’d be an interruption to the career path.

I guess it started with playgroup. Useful place, local church hall. You could just be dropped off and forgotten about. I used to enjoy it, playing with the other kids, climbing frames, sandpits, water, noise, boys things. There were lots of mothers there, they had their own kids. Also of course they looked after others. I often wondered why, even at that point why my mother was never there. Only to collect me and always late, it was more like collecting a parcel dropped off at a neighbour rather than your own child.

Television, that was her saviour. Meant she had to have no interaction. Just plugged it in and disappeared. Hours and hours I spent in front of the likes of ‘Play school’ and ‘You and me’. I think I learnt the whole of my language skills from Duncan the dragon.

Where was my father all this time? Well he was out working. He liked children, but only out of the point of view that they were a kind of box that just needed to be ticked. I had a sister, I’m sure he preferred her to me. She was a natural talented girl, I was just a ‘strange boy’. We never really had much of a connection. I was ‘tolerated’, up to a point. I have very few recollections of my father, but probably the one that sticks in my mind the most is being thrown twenty foot across a room by my throat because I couldn’t find my school hymn book. I did gain one satisfaction from this, I reminded him of this incident some thirty years later, as he was dying of cancer in bed, he said, ‘I probably deserved it at the time’. I watched him die.

Auctions. That’s where I spent the first few years. Dragged from one sale room to the next. There was nothing at the age of five I didn’t know about woodworm or Chaise Lounges. ‘Sit down and shut up’. That was the rule. Just sit there for hours on end. I knew all the auctioneers, from Le Lons to Taverners, they used to be more interested in me than she ever was.

Then school came along. Another great saviour. I could safely be disposed of for seven hours. Only to return home to listen to how her day had been, there was never any interest in how mine was.

Then it started.

Days before the internet. We were still primitive back then. CB radio. That was the thing. That was where all the lowlifes of the day hung out, little did I know.

A bedsit, that was my first meeting. Nice man, name of Iain. I was, er, probably eleven or twelve at the time. He paid attention to me. Was interested in what I had to say. Said I looked attractive, started massaging my neck. Soon we were in a makeshift bed, he’d put Brylcreem on his penis and tried to shove it up my ass, wasn’t successful, I was never destined to be a bottom. I put my very thin penis in him though, I was too immature to ‘cum’ at the time, but he enjoyed it.

We had many outings together. Went to visit his brother in Wiltshire. Oddly, his brother thought nothing of him hanging around with a twelve year old. Neither did my parents. Off I was in a mini, cruising round. I’m not sure how that relationship ended, but it was soon to be replaced by another one.

Nick. Or ‘Nookie the bear’, as he was known, due to very staring eyes and an altercation with a crowbar. Was into ‘Crossroads’, that bloody awful soap opera with the wobbly set. Used to spend all his time yanking my foreskin and joking why it wouldn’t roll back. Again, he paid me attention. Gave me cigarettes, gave me ‘love’, something I never got at home.

I was probably thirteen at the time, first time I’d ever been to a high security prison, and thankfully still the last. Was introduced to another man, ginger beard, oddly this one I can’t actually remember his name. He was serving time for child molesting. Several weeks later I was in bed with him above a shop. Doing lollipop action. He never tried to rape me, no interest. Not sure what happened to him, other than he sold my parents a computer. ‘You fiddled with my son, can we get a discount?’.

I think there was a bit of break then, not sure what happened, probably laid off the CB radio and found some other interest. Maybe at that point I started going off girls. I’d always got on fine with them, but always treated them more as equals, as friends. Never had really any intention of being permanently with one, although years later that did actually happen. But it was more a relationship of convenience, we just ‘got on’.

Then there was Jim (James on Sundays), met again on CB radio, turned up outside my house, sat in his car where within minutes he was paying me compliments about my ‘hard-on’. Soon we ended up in a quiet location where he then rubbed up against me until he shot all over my stomach. Gave me a cigarette.

From that point on, Jim would take me away for weekends, I was thirteen, my parents didn’t even know his address. We spent many an evening doing CB radio ‘dx’ing’ or long distance contacts. He was into pissing. Loved to piss on you and loved to be pissed on. Used to force you to drink lots of water.

I stopped seeing Jim. Something inside me just said it was wrong. A couple of years later he turned up outside my house again, changed the company he worked for (he was a surveyor for a window firm, which was slightly ironic as my dad was a fitter for one). Asked if I wanted to see him again, I said a very firm, ‘no’. And that he had one opportunity to leave. He left, I never saw him again.

Some thirty years later I did trace Iain again, still lives fairly local. Still those same glaring eyes. I often wonder, should I dig up the past again? One interesting point, although these people were all clearly paedophiles, at no point did I ever feel threatened. I was never once forced to do anything against my will. I think I was just carefully manipulated. Even though I genuinely think that these people felt they were actually doing nothing wrong at the time.

Did it cause me any harm? Mentally yes. I never really had a deep relationship with my farther and this lasted ultimately to his dying breath. I held him when he had passed. It was an odd sensation, the head is actually very heavy when there are no muscles supporting it. His eyes were still open. I tried to close the eyelids, but they just popped back open. I looked into those eyes and just saw….nothing, absolutely nothing. There, was the person who was there at the beginning of my life, and I was there at the end of his, but it was empty, meaningless, I had more emotion when my first dog died. I’ve often visited the place where his ashes are buried in the attempt to make peace, but I don’t think it will ever happen, too much animosity, too much water under the bridge, and sometimes that bridge is just far too beyond reconstruction.

The relationship with my mother on the other hand has been slightly different. She is still alive, very frail, depends far more on me than I do on her now. Did I try and extract revenge? Yes. Over many, many years. I lived with her for probably twenty-two years, so now less than half my life. This is the woman who gave birth to me, why should I feel so bitter? I guess it’s just the case that I didn’t feel protected. On multiple occasions there was the opportunity to question what was going on, but all there was, was ambivalence. She doesn’t know now what went on, it’s not something now that I’m going to tell. It’s in the past, my past. I potentially, have some sort of future, she really doesn’t. I’m not sure how she would react anyway. Would there be guilt? Would there just be dismissal and yet more ambivalence? I think she will die now without any knowledge. Why riddle her last possible months with guilt?

Could I have prevented it? A question I’ve always thought about. The more important question being really, did I want to prevent it? It’s a difficult one. I was clearly taken advantage of, I was at a very venerable age, but what would have happened otherwise? Would I have developed deep anxiety and depression? Would I still be here? Did those interactions actually prevent a different more tragic outcome?

How has it shaped me now, some thirty-five years later? There is bitterness for sure, and that will never pass, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make peace with that. Do I feel I I should persecute the offenders? It’s a thought that often crosses my mind. But will it just drag history up again? There is the possibility that I could then prevent it happening to someone else, but it’s thirty years later, some of these people may well be dead by now.

I’ll guess I’ll just ponder forever.

Too many demons.

The Turkey Monologues – Barry 57 – Plumber

(To be read as a stream of consciousness)

She was the quiet one. There was the three of them in the corner, her, her sister and her friend. I had my eye on her friend first, she was the pretty one, all dolled up, trying to look twenty-one when she was probably closer to sixteen. Long flowing blue dress. It was the colour of the summer sky. She had no interest in me though, I didn’t have the film star looks she was seeking, even by that age I was beginning balding and my belly was certainly looking like a Yorkshire pudding expanding over the edge of the baking tin.

She eyed me up, little did I know at the stage. I gathered my whits about me and stood up. I don’t actually remember our first words but we danced the night away. She moved like an angel, I moved more like a steam train, heavy and on rails.

Married in the spring. Small wedding, her sister, mother and giggling friend. My mother and brother, shortly before he was killed in the forces. I never had great aspirations, plumbing, taught by my father, noble profession, ‘Will always put food on the table lad, someone somewhere will always have tried to flush something they shouldn’t have down a toilet’. He was right, never out of work, which was a good thing.

It started shortly after our wedding night. She had what I can only say as a very ‘short’ temper. I was never a drinker, always made me feel a bit sick, I always stuck to a nice brew, on a special occasion I could be pushed to a port and lemon, she always said that was ‘a ladies drink’. I tried stout once and couldn’t eat for three days.

Six AM, seven days a week, always up at six. Early to rise, another one from my father. ‘Be up with the lark, and bed by the moon’. I can’t say that did him much good, he died at sixty from consumption.

First it was just a raised voice. ‘Barry, your boots, you’ve dragged mud all over the kitchen again’. We never had children, we tried, on a couple of occasions, I was certainly no Casanova. She always said that I may be a plumber but I couldn’t fix my own pipes.

We never had a physical relationship, well not in that way. She was always chaotic while I liked a sense of order. It was probably after about a year it started. We’d been been ambling along quite happily in our two up, two down. Greyhounds were my thing. Once a fortnight. Local track, couple of shillings. I wasn’t a big gambler, never spent more than I could afford. Not that I had any money anyway, she insisted it all went in the jar. Every job, every bit of paperwork was scrutinised, every penny had to be accounted for. It was only the ‘extras’ I received I got to keep. I was known for being discreet and minding my own business, I wasn’t a meddler, what went on in a man’s home I believed stayed there, maybe that was part of the problem. On several occasions I was called out to do ‘special’ plumbing jobs. I remember one in particular. A mature lady married to a rather well known member of the constabulary, had what can only be described as an ‘indiscretion’ with a man from the military. The local ‘doctor’ had to pay a visit. I later had to unblock the sewage pipe.

The first bruise never really showed up. It was probably my fault anyway. I should have never have left the gas cylinder by the back door, I didn’t expect her to catch her dress on it. Food wise, was always potted something, spam, chicken, stake and ale. Always came out of a tin. I was never really a good cook, my mother always catered for that. I don’t think my father ever ventured into the kitchen once. ‘Woman’s domain’, that’s what he always said. Always ate off a tray, never had a television, she said it would give me ‘ideas above my station’. We had a radiogram, one of those old fashioned ones, the radio would drift in and out, she always said she wanted a new one, but I couldn’t earn enough to provide one.

The rib was an accident. I’m sure she never meant to tug the power cord of the vacuum cleaner. The stairs were steep and the carpet was loose, she’d warned me of the carpet, saying that I never paid any attention to jobs around the house. The hospital stay was brief, I needed to get back to work. A band-aid and I was ready to go.

I had two pairs of work trousers and four shirts. I also possessed a ‘going out’ suit that I used for the greyhounds, I wish it had a happier story but both my brother and I were similar size, but what he had in muscle, I made up for in fat. My mother was a quiet woman, she new her place in the household, but she was also a great believer in life skills. I will always be grateful for the evening she spent with me with a needle and cotton. Those trousers have held up well, literally. Father used to press his own shirts, always said it was a ‘man’s job’ and had to be done right. He was taught in the army and passed his ironing skills on to me.

I’m sure the scar will fade with time, after all I shouldn’t have left the iron there. She always went out Wednesday to Sunday. I was never invited. Said I wouldn’t really enjoy it, French conversation class, reading groups and poetry exploration. Always had a new dress, bright lipstick and smelled like a freshly plucked rose. I’d sit by the radiogram with my steak and ale pie.

Thirty-five years. Yet with the pillow over her mouth, it only took her sixty seconds to die.

The Turkey Monologues (An ode to Alan Bennett)

Heidi, 63. Widowed. Three, two naturally and one through the French windows. Nathan, who I’m travelling with, he was the awkward one. Had him late in life. Husband had the snip, but the surgeon got the gas and water pipes mixed up, he was firing live cartridges, but would take three hours to pee. He’s never really found his place in life, socially ‘difficult’, gets that from his father, he was a miner, real hard worker, but his conversational skills consisted of a series of slightly out of tune grunts. It was often like spending the evening listening to the intricacies of a Mozart concerto being played on a tape recorder with ever decaying batteries.

Turkey, lovely place, very hot, too many foreigners. I mean, I like them all but, they just don’t seem to have any etiquette. You just don’t turn up for breakfast in a vest, especially when you have a figure that spans into five digits. There just doesn’t seem to be any class in the world anymore, I mean, heels at this time of the morning is just asking for back trouble later in life. I should know, I spent the whole of my twenties in six inch sling-backs and now every time I bend over it’s hit and miss if I’ll topple over head first into the cobbles or fall flat on my back staring up at the stars.

We are sat down to lunch. Lovely little restaurant, by the pool, playing sweet boss nova music over the tannoy. It’s like being lulled gently to sleep by some runner up from X factor from yesteryear. Table next to us, ‘Chelsea’, from Liverpool, nice lady, in her forties, will definitely need some work in ten years, if her cheeks drupe anymore they will get carpet burns. She has a daughter ‘Kylie’, twenty, common, obviously born around that time when everyone was either ‘Kylie’ or ‘Jason’. She has more the looks of Jason though, nothing really wrong with her, but she wouldn’t look out of place erecting scaffolding on a building site in Bolton.

Nathan is obsessed. He’s ‘that age’, all raging hormones and zits. He should train to be a fighter pilot, his eyeballs have the flexibility of a chameleon, each able to rotate and focus individually… one on each nipple. He’s grunted ‘hello’ to Kylie, his eye line is securely fixed about a foot below hers. It seems to be a match made in heaven, she’s educationally ‘restricted’, he’s just, well, ‘restricted’. I can see she takes after her mother, they are both wearing g-strings, her’s is so tight her lips are in different post codes. Not so much a Brazilian, more of a Patrick Stewart. I can tell she’s had so many people visiting that fanny it’s got it’s own gift shop.

Meanwhile ‘Chelsea’ is informing me that her daughter has obtained a ‘first’. I’m not entirely sure in what, maybe not being pregnant by sixteen. I’m getting a little embarrassed by Nathan, his drool is now creating a visible pool on the patio. He’s not really used to the female form, his normal interactions are with a ‘What’s on TV’ guide and a Kleenex. He’s making gentle inclinations that he wants to be alone with Kylie.

They walk beautifully down the path together. I would say they are whispering ‘sweet nothings’ to each other, but the raw fact is that their arses are so rotund they can’t get within three feet of each other, its like viewing a giant Venne diagram from the rear with absolutely no chance of any intersection.

Apparently Chelsea is in makeup. I think she chose a bad career path, construction is missing an addition. Ferry across the Mersey needs a welder.

If I was any further north polar bears would start showing up on my Grindr nearby

As I now sat in a virtually empty checking lounge in Oslo, suffering from typing this on my phone as the WiFi is virtually nonexistent. Still only another five hours until I get going again.

Did have a fun issue. My luggage is checked in all the way to Antalya, which is why it’s currently sat next to me.

Still. Let’s see if I can pick up a polar bear.

It’s tough watching your pet die

Thelma must be at least twenty-five years old. She’s had two vivariums, and lived in two locations. First under the stairs at the old house and now in the corner of the current one. She’s never been one to chat, she’s not really that social. She’s spent all that time devouring crickets and basking on a rock while probably contemplating the works of Nietzsche.

She used to be a fat bitch, and of course lived with Louise. She died years ago, so poor Thelma has lived in isolation ever since. But now, like most old ladies, she’s lost a lot of weight, she isn’t as spritely as she used to be. In an odd turn of fate, she has an infection in her tail, the crickets who she used to eat are now eating her.

I’ve emptied her tank of food, she’s not interested in it anymore. I hand fed her a few crickets but now she’s had enough.

She’s now just basking in the moonlight and taking her final breaths. She’s outlived two relationships and not within any of that time has she found God. Maybe it’s her turn to now.

I’ll miss you Thelma, you were a constant in my life, and now another door has closed.

In the end, there can be only one

Why now?

Well it’s been over two years since Jamie moved out, and an additional four months on that where he announced that he wasn’t content and had spoken to God. There will be more about this in the near future.

I think it’s time.

It’s been a very bad two years. There have been tears, deep depression and suicide attempts (don’t try ibuprofen and vodka folks, you wake up with a clear head but with a stomach that feels like it’s swallowed a sewer).

I want to tell my side of the story.

I don’t know where I’m going, how long I’m going to be here or how I’m going to get there.

But one thing is certain.

The bitch is back.