The Bimble Book

A collection of the adventures of Mr Bimble,

By Mr Bimble.

…this is how the typewriter interprets the disparate impulses
which made you press the keys… Ernesto Guevara de la Serna

PROLOUGE; extracts from Bimble's diary.

The sun's waving goodbye and its threatening to rain The nymphs are beginning to frolic. Within the longer grass wetted with the blessings of the greyest clouds there lies what we seek.

Crouching in what can only be described as a dank field, grass laden with nature's gifts is being sifted. The fingers seem to cease as in a deep freeze with shuffling them frantically into an envelope addressed to ones former self.

I loose count between stalk and cap, sorting the lethal from the blessed. Wrapping the slimy little fuckers up in newspaper, I know I will be compacted a bimble mumbling, clutching clumsy sentences that make spirals in my throat as they make their way out into the spaces around our ears.

Sitting in a gnome like posture, these cynical moments fleet as I trance in script. Cigarette smoke seems to suspend itself in a tractor beam that has become my vision. My lungs are heavy. These moments are stricken with a segmented understanding.

Mr Bimble and Spangles sat about to smoke dried liberty caps, discussing paranoia: He was staring at me. Swearing at the absence of flame Spangles is struggling. We find ourselves in the kitchen stooped over the gas hob. It has been suggested that some people may not approve of magic mushrooms.

The volume of |Toxins entering Bimble's lungs is causing an excess of flem and general nastiness; there is a three stage solution. 1, Think about giving up smoking, 2 Camomile tea. 3 More cigarettes.

Bimble finds himself entertaining and simultaneously drying his pants over his fireguard; ungainly as this is he is unashamedly in need of clean strides.

Mr Bimble, Sprout, And Mr Midlands, were caught in the deluge, pissed through and on a bus that smells.

Taking off wet dirty trousers only to find his recently washed trousers are also soaked to the bone Mr Bimble is sat waiting for them to dry and the opportunity to go out and hit the town, Time has ticked by so quickly the season is almost over.

Mr Bimble has been poisoned, fraught in the corner of a room, packed with metaphysics. The rain outside demonstrates clearly the relationship between Bimble's own body, Mother Nature and subliminal messages on sugar packets.

Clouds of smoke already this morning and the stomach pains are universal. Someone still squints into the wall. The tea is plentiful and sweet. These huddles of limbs we find ourselves in will not take away the pain nor will the cigarettes. These mornings are a time for collecting our senses and re-grouping our conscious minds, for discussing the finer things in life. Laughter breaks up the inflicted groans, Water is drunk, and the thought is enough to warrant stomach cramps and objections of a tired but persuadable disposition.


Cigarette embers burn on a oak floor once sea born the wood pores ooze salt, sailors once would have walked barefoot across its flesh, it sits now as this kind of floor but one time in its life it transported a group of sailors from one world to another.

On a floating creek of a sponge the sub plot takes prominence. A barrel of half drunk rum is unsteady, dampened sea biscuits float inside it. A torrent of smoky vomit writhes between the boards of this singing raft. All peoples aboard have long since huddled into a safer place. A loan figure emerges tips the barrel and lights the spirit.


Mr Bimble and Sprout having been left by Spangles having slept off a heavy evening had been chilling in Basil's pad. The previous evening had witnessed the throwing up of blood, getting wet in the sea and Mr Bimble's mouth becoming a familiar oracle. When approached by Basil with his flies open shouting 'Come on, fuck me now' Mr Bimble had become grossly perturbed by his compodre's objection to a caressing of his tackle. All other assorted nymphs and bears were to gather in the said household and then they ventured towards breakfast.

The door read 'no admittance', Mr Bimble had been in no mind to confess and on finding the door locked and his ears lambasted by his compodres he opted for the adjacent entrance and found himself sitting in a continental style but thoughally British cafe. He eats breakfast. Bimble is perusing a broadsheet. Also in this cafe sit a group of soaking spirits, a team of sailors once sunk on a burning ship and because of their own spiritual impotence were escorted to the gates of heaven only to be informed by St peter who had raging Pre Menstrual Tension at the time that neither that realm or the one below had enough rum to satisfy their needs. Not quite guardian angels these imping creatures float from cafe to cafe, planting messages on sugar packets. With nothing but the clothes they lay down in they are out for blood. It was to be a plan of diverting the truth, the deviation of lives through sugar. Every morning these lab rats that gather here at this insanitary establishment to ingest heart disease have little idea what is in store. They are invisible to Mr Bimble and his friends as they tuck into fried breakfasts and chatter about the superficial things in life.

Reaching for a sugar packet the world suddenly changed, people were smoking towards Mr Bimbles direction and as he pushed his way through a crowd of people who were transfixed by the dilation of his pupils and his green sweat he had just witnessed in the bathroom, He takes a deep breath swears and focuses on the sugar packet. As the two images come together he finds himself reading the small print on the paper.

"You will never really click with God in heaven"

'Fuck me this sugar packet just talked to me, it said that God will never be a close friend of mine.'

'Get a grip and eat your bacon before I have it away' came the strained reply from the other side of the table, from the unshaven face of an unkempt vegetarian.

On picking up his own sugar packet the vegetarian in question witnessed the little packet grow legs and crawl up his arm, on tearing open the packet in fear the spilt sugar spelt out the words "Never in your life will your mother make you a cheese and pickle sandwich"

In any normal moment they would have left at that very juncture but they felt obliged to protect the others from the dangers of sweetening their tea.

'Everything will be fine if you don't go near the sugar'

'Is that a promise"

'As good as, no guarantees in this cafe mate.'

Just as those words were spoken the waitress arrived with a round of bread and butter, neck muscles tightened and faces adopted contorted expressions of utter terror, she put down the gift and parted without incident, receiving a vague thank you from somewhere around the table. The anti climax had bread silence and scorn of the newly acquired scran.


A conspiracy theory was growing, gaining pace becoming the basis for a level of thought on a national level, it is as follows. Tabs are kept on people by MI5 and the police who buy king-sized RIZLA. This has no connection with the use of these cigarette papers but people who spend money on king sized RIZLA are the dangerous undercurrent in modern day society. These people have no notion of fairness or property, they stumble to and fro between comfortable places and shop anywhere that will tolerate their unkempt appearances, odour and except their vastly over used and somewhat decrepit debit cards. These are the people who sit quietly in their homes plotting the down fall of society, non threatening though they seem these monsters will do anything not to be the one who has to make the effort to make microwave pizza or empty the communal spittoon or comfort sick and homeless badgers, who often need allot of tender loving care, understanding bed side manner and a fully comprehensive life make over after having been living underground for too long and have terrible neighbour trouble with rabbits and moles who just aren't the most sociable and considerate animals by any stretch of the imagination. It seems that in purchasing king sized RIZLA the individual in question takes on an alter ego. Their eyes seem to glaze over and the diet changes, once wholesome now ridiculous this person will have to spend years struggling with a compulsion to buy larger cigarette papers. Soon the individual begins to loose clarity, their hearing is greatly damaged and a slurring of all speech at all times soon takes hold. From here on in it is all pain and suffering the individual will turn into a new aged revolutionary and try to take over the world from the comfort of their very homes. Networks of these people are everywhere and as the complex spiders web evolves it takes on the appearance of Satan himself. A dislike of bright lights is common among these people this is caused by the most heinous of their schemes to topple the worlds political system. They spend all day in bed with the curtains drawn, the theory being that in doing so they can evade responsibility and become a law unto themselves, This form of brainwashing is spreading fast, the youngsters coaxed into buying king sized RIZLA will be co-opted and peer pressured into a new body clock by the unfortunate people who inevitably seeks out the king sized RIZLA addict. Those at the head of this movement however, those who have sent this wave of sloth on decent society, have extremely harsh alarm clocks and rise early every morning.


It is becoming hard for Mr Bimble to find his way around lost; as they would tell him later was his state of being.

Party, the aftermath.

Somehow not late enough to cause offence, Mr Bimble finds himself in a strange place he has had a party, sprout and the Bimble had warmed their house, dancing had been a feature and a grand old time it had been, now he was struggling up and down the stairs to the bathroom to piss too frequently and was falling awake after loosing all control over his spine and neck as he sprawled across many layers of comfort.


It never waits to rain on Mr Bimble, Sprout and their companions, though the deluge they ran to escape discomfort and cold. Most people have the flu at this time of year and the bimbling one has not been immune to the onset of this terrible illness. The warmth of the indoors is less appealing than the warmth of bed, with the added extra of sleep the bed is an asset to the tired. Sprout and Bimble are painting the house a shade of blue, not appealing to the comfort of Sprouts eyes, has appeared in all its rancid hideousness over many of the houses walls and also has spread like a plague of bad breath onto the wood work. This will have to be rectified if there is to be any harmony left within the residence. The adventures of the cafe breakfast are still bothering our would-be if he could be arsed hero and the words of wisdom put forward by the wise old sugar are beginning to ring true as the vile paint is being coerced back and forth across the rising damp of the slightly obtusely angled household. He does not believe in God but as the most knowledgeable bloke in the universe the bimbling one is perplexed as to why God just won't except that he is a nice bloke really, underneath the last months grime and split finger nails, unsuitable for kwicksave employment hairstyle and the never really got on with shaving facial hair. He suddenly becomes resentful of God and pledges the rest of his life to usurping the Holy Father from his post in heaven, after all he has been in office a very long time and elections are most certainly fixed in his favour. The people demand a new God, someone with a taste for free jazz and without an unhealthy obsession for being worshipped. Mr Bimble would make a fine God if he ever had the chance. He is becoming more and more taken with the idea and stops painting to consider an election campaign suitable for heaven, after several moments of pondering his thoughts turn to urban terrorism, the torturing of Gabrielle and the burning of all heavens delicatessens, without cold meats the empire would crumble in a day.


Mr Bimble often finds himself gorging himself on various types of food rich in carbohydrate.


How has Mr Bimble turned into the sorry state of a man that he is on most of these early winter evenings? His communication skills are weak and the longing for the promise of Satan is too fraught with temptation to resist. The thought of the great straight will become reality in the morning. The easy life is fraught with these challenges that lie like discarded shopping trolleys in the canal of indulgence. The great straight is that time spent away from your indulgences, in the loving comfort of one's family life. One finds oneself grimacing in sheer terror at the sheer amount of cleanliness in the lives of respectable people.

Loud music and an intimidating environment are obtrusive on the frail state of his mind, a drone is all that his over raught ears can establish and he is clutching his skull as if his mind would explode out of his temples. He thinks that neon is an evil thing, a thing that was placed on this earth to blind the eyes of those who have not slept properly for months, who, choking on the smoke from cheap cigarettes quiver in horror under the glare of its foul nastiness. All these people desire is the taste of the roughest kebab available and a soft surface on which to lay their tired selves. Instead they are reduced to small elf like items cowering in the corners of dark establishments with not a penny to their names or a hope of focusing on that pissy little RIZLA paper that has eluded becoming a cigarette for so long it has become nothing more than a sweet soaked remnant of what had once been the facility to create a nicotine giving device.

Back in more friendly surrounds Mr Bimble finds his kebab has not settled as well as he might have hoped. "Oh fuck the rice." He thinks to himself as the paranoia sets in. The world just won't stop spinning and his ears are unreactive to anything at all.

"The thing is, you see, is that I can't keep going on, you see, I need sleep, you see, you see, are you even listening? How screwed in the buggering head do you think I am? Is there no length you bloody people won't go to paint me as some kind of fucking fiend? Why do you keep trying to Whig me out? I'm too fucking fragile to take it, you see?"

The manner in which he was presenting himself was just too intimidating for general consumption and he is thinking that he might just keep the bimbaling hole in his face closed for a while to preserve the radiance that beams from every inch of his glimmering skin.

The great straight day one, TRAINS AND CUNTS

Mr Bimble is sat on a train, lacking sleep with the rankness of cigarettes in his mouth, hurt by the price of his ticket and wishing that the holiday season did not exist. He is too late to do what he promised he would. The great straight has begun the terror and paranoia of not being spaced is too much to bear at this time. The bingeing has sobered Bimble. Trains are terribly good at making you wait. Time seems a hundred times longer on a train, stretched out like time had been for Bimble recently but not in the same way, not in the slightest. Those moments sat in your new home, at least for the continuation of the journey anticipating movement is the worst. Mr Bimble had never witnessed someone push their glasses up their nose before, the man with the steal rims in question sitting opposite him had just perpetrated this foul act and with his ribbed roll neck jumper and soft side parting was shaven and reading something intellectual. He was surely a cunt of the worst possible variety.

Mr Bimble is finding the train journey unentertaining the other passengers are all looking forward to the festive season and have sensible hair cuts a lack of facial hair is apparent even on the women travellers. He is in the appalling horror of mainstream society again. Where no man is free from the pressure to fit into a badly made mold. The facility to smoke is a great comfort on these journeys and never before was it more needed. All there is out there is darkness, this happens only at night, but for Bimble it is still too early in the day for his nocturnal being to be a fully functional customer of British rail. The Olympic games has an official beer, maybe it should have an official narcotic, and then maybe it might not just be a spectator sport. One of Bimble's greatest grievances with British rail is not feeling like it is clean enough to take a shit. Unfortunately there is a time in everyman's life when any pan will do.

The hygiene levels have left Mr Bimble feeling extremely ill, mopping up the piss on the seat, trying to avoid the piss on the floor, knowing that not taking a crap right now will prove disastrous, and finding none of the plumbing at all satisfactory for his dietary needs. The Mediterranean type on her way to Manchester was both eating and smoking, all at the same time. She now has a mobile phone; Bimble thinks that cunts always sit near him on trains. It is no accident that the buffet car is next to the smoking quarters. Bimble has had no caffeine today and for a fiend of his nature the nearest stimulant is always desired with a lust that would make Cupid blush with embarrassment and devote the rest of his existence to the horticulture of genetically modified cucumbers deep in the waste lands of industrial Lancashire with a wife and family and a dog called Barney who would never shit on the lawn and would religiously hump the vicars leg when he came round for tea and a chat about the FA cup final which would have been an un entertaining affair in which the referee would be harshly criticised by Gary liniker who would then hand over to John Sucet at the news desk who would report the story of a boy that had been arrested and sent down for stealing a pint of milk and a box of cigarettes from a corner shop somewhere of the south side of Manchester and would be subsequently sent to Strangeways prison where he would learn how to croquet and spend the rest of his life eating scones and chatting to old ladies who, worried about their increasingly problematic incontinence had been glad to have the company of a strapping young lad and where considering getting the Changing Rooms team around to their nursing home which was pleasant but in need of an overhaul and hadn't had a new carpet since the mid sixties when the present inhabitants were trying to control their children who were at the time wearing too much tie-dye for them to bear.

The coffee comes in a familiarly pissy plastic cup, accompanied by three packets of sugar and a napkin. The need in Bimble's eyes must have been overwhelming, as no regular individual would want so much sweetener. The confusing part is not the cup or the sugar but the relentlessly free bag, with handles. There was no need for this pissy plastic cup to be dressed so extravagantly in such a ridiculous means of paper transportation. Why the fucking napkin as well? Let it never be said that the real world is coherent. The cunt gave him nothing to stir with either.

A Northern man sitting somewhere behind Bimble is bullshitting with some authority he is surely a cunt.

The sights and sounds of Wigan have diminished the amount of cunts aboard the train. Two girls bound for Lancaster are discussing 'getting mashed' in their 'party clothes' after grabbing 'a Burger King' once again Bimble despairs at the folly of the populous at large. What these people just can't seem to understand is that in their activities are rendering themselves incapable of conversation with anyone more interesting than themselves, they are then by definition condemned to a life of talking solely to cunts.

A whole bunch of cunts have boarded the train at Preston, arguing about football drunkenly laying into Bimble's facial hair and sitting in at least half of the carriage each. They are surly the worst possible variety of cunt, The lesser spotted and somehow everywhere species of complete and utter cunt.

The train pulled into the station a few moments after the last connection Bimble needed to be onboard. Bimble finds himself drinking and takes another shit this time hopefully in a cleaner environment.

Feeling refreshed after his poo Bimble reflects on the hygiene of the shitter, feeling that no matter how soft the arse wipe is a lack of graffiti makes passing one's stool unentertaining. In motorway service stations they plumb music into the latrine as if Tina turner eases the tension in ones ring piece. The night is still young and if it were not for the pull of food and warmth Bimble would be getting wasted right now, the interior of the establishment is constant with the look of all this chains ale houses. The beer suitably rank but not as bad as the juke box. This is a pub for cunts. The cunts were not plentiful, a board barmaid was shaking her booty to 'raining men', which then skipped straight to the mid section Bimble thought, but it was another song entirely, which shifted swiftly to more horribleness as if Bimble was being punished by the gods. Bimble is trying to imagine the place holding a wedding reception the couple would be a stylish junior executive and his nubile young niece, no blood relation. They would dance badly to hits of yesteryear and have bad, vomit stained sex in a bed and breakfast before divorcing two years later dividing the child in two for use on Sunday afternoons when all other meats where in short supply. Mirrors should not be placed in pubs drunken people often fall through into another dimension. The glitzy appearance of girls taking vodka red bulls to the loo makes Bimble dubious, sickening neck lines and unflattering colures must be the order of the day for those living a real life these people in their practical trousers are now filling the cunt bar. The whole atmosphere reeks of incontinence and the smell of a post bleach bathroom Sunday mornings in a craze of anadin and dimly lit environments. Bimble might well be a cultural snob, but it is these extra-reality experiences that reinforce his belief in his lifestyle. The cunt bar is filling with cunts. In small groups they stand with their pissy bottled beer and their Marlboro lights.

Eventually Bimble gets to his final destination, with the help of all forms of transport, public hotels, respiratory challenged taxi drivers et al bears and nymphs.

A list of instructions.

The instructions Bimble were given were clear;


Have haircut

Change wardrobe for respectables.

Interlude the first; LETTERS FROM THE RAJ

Dearest Satan,

So good to have seen you again on Thursday last. I had a jolly good time; mind you that sweet sherry went straight to my head. Had Tiffin with Genghis yesterday, him and Marilyn are getting on so very well, he says they even went to the pictures together, getting over the language barrier by seeing a Mongolian movie with English subtitles, jolly good thinking. I am concerned about his womanising, he has spread clap round all the local brothels, I would tell Marilyn to steer clear, but when the kids get on so very well you just can't let a bit of syphilis come between them.


Dearest Satan.

God can be so jealous he lambasted me in the bakery this morning for seeing you again, we must meet soon my passion is uncontrollable.

Love and kisses Moses

My dear Beelzebub,

So good of you to have bugered me to within an inch of my life last night. I've just bought some rather special biscuits you must pop in for tea.

Yours always, Moses.

The other relevant information;

Bimble does not function, as he should. The simple things cause so much tension. The sugar packet is proving to be a fucking solid obstacle. The belief in heaven and God is of no importance to him, but he remembers that once the Christian faith was a major feature of his life.

Filed in like a regiment of ear wearing lunatics on the back end of their third tour of Vietnam the kids had sat down on the wooden floor with a reluctance that only comes at this time of day. The middle aged women began to softly caress a C major chord as you would stroke the inside of your lovers thigh and the children tore at the hymn book and wondering why six and nine had to be so godamn similar. They broke into song, the head teacher's spine stiffened, had he been slipped strychnine in the brandy he had just necked? No, it was the distorted tone that was coming from the otherwise loveable but too dirty and smelly children in his tender care. Three lines from the back Bimble was clenching his buttocks to prevent himself from farting, the harder he squeezed the more it craved realise, he was speeding into the second verse of 'all things bright and beautiful, and was shore he had the chorus covered, confronted and put down without a struggle the last verse and string of meaningless choruses were looming in the air all around him, he clenched harder than ever and sang with all his might, he clenched and he squeezed and he tensed and then clenched some more. The song ended the middle-aged woman turned and smiled pornographically at the vicar and the head teacher checked no one had stolen his hip flask from his corduroys during the mid section. The signal came to sit down and in crossing his legs as compulsory, and which always created silence Bimble was caused to fart with the strength of ten men.


Bimble was experiencing the first tentative embraces of spring and had been celebrating by nuttsing it in somewhat of a four-cornered manner. The affects had been fun and the experience a mixture of pleasant and horrific. He knew he loved those over-pupiled demons but he couldn't equate them to himself at the time, his mind was eroding and his body had seen far better days. He was learning much along the way and had at his disposal all he needed but money, yes Bimble was as skint as he had been as a foetus. He couldn't help his loneliness when all were away.

BIMBLE'S DIARY. ..... 20/04

I'm pissed, the fucking woman's been away for a whole fucking week. I'm high and dry, no money, no fags, but bought booze, what a joy, now owe the evil one a whole thirty monetary fuckers for the narcoleptic hybrid of alkaline, paper and strychnine. Twat of a thing but never mind it was lots and lots of fun.

Bimble is lacking the now not sprouted wonders of his partner in crime. Oh dear oh dear, poor lonely, forgetful, head mashed Bimble



Since the New Year one has found one's self out of sync, not out of the sink like clean dishes but not in tune, one needs tuning, one should explain, one will do so, backwards.

Have just returned from Stonehenge, have desire to understand the passage of time, its just beyond the Summer Solstice, memory is sketchy, trying to get on board the surf of ones twisted reality.

Large amounts of bad quality mind bending early in the year had taken its toll, Bimble can't follow things clearly when his mind is sideways.................The discovery of aromatheraputic inhalants was a welcome blessing. The fluffy and sharp two-stage moheican hairstyle had been and gone and the friendly pirate had visited. ...................There is something odd about standing almost completely naked on a freezing beech in March for the benefit of a student film. Spangles and comrades made a very good job of this twisted short, Bimble and Sprout did become desirous of a trailer to hide in and a mirror in which to fix ones make up between shots...............Bimble found himself amongst lights and crawling people, he was submarine-esque.............Stonehenge is a previous life birthright, What is the focus point? The sun? The light? The enlightenment? Purification? Protection of ourselves? Protection of the stones?................ Bimble just wants to play the drums.........Sprout is mending his trousers, she is tailoring in an increasingly professional and organised manner..............


Nice, lit by sunlight. Airy, neat and tidy tree house with small vegetable plot, access to road kill seeks suitable inhabitant with liberal and loose views on modern day living. ..........Fucking it all off.........abandoning the society aspect for anything but the ologys....... no more ologys........ Post cold war examinations of the self gave way to ologys.........insects and incest between ologies and isms ........... Fuck..........How is it possible to disassociate one from this frustrating context to existence in a modern and mechanised world?

A man needs money, without this he is screwed. Fact. A man dose not need any regard for finance, possibly. If one objects to the relentless capitalism around him and spits flem with disgust on those who wish to make money, then one is stuck with an attitude where money means nothing. This is a sound philosophy, but money always slips through the fingers of these people. To live in a tree seems to Bimble the way out of this cycle of frustrations. Just to get the fuck away on one endless holiday, once he planned to live in a caravan. Houses have that certain warm appeal that is just too tempting to the young and reckless. Is it possible? He has the mindset he just needs to settle his score with the rest of the world first. He needs time to spread his philosophies about and then can spend countless hours in meditatious contemplation of weather or not they had any real worth. He could corrupt society, but the cogs and gears that undoubtedly surround him have a firm grip. A man is only the man he is inside the mans head he has, as soon as one steps outside the front door and is bombarded with pre-juxtaposed assumptions that others lay upon him then he is condemned to not being a man, but the man others think he is. Bimble therefore concludes that it matters not what others draw as conclusions from what he does and sees no reason what so ever to take part in something so ludicrous as a group of sixty or so million people who claim to have similar traits just because they were born on the same island and call themselves a society for the simple reason that they are too frightened to have their own personalities and look to some sense of nationalist pride to reinforce the idea that they had some kind of identity before they even came into being. Its all possible he just needs the inclination to steal all the materials and tools he needs to build his new home. But not before he's spent a few more years being comfortable and washed.


Bimble is off to the smoke, increasingly the pace of life at least few a few days. Leaving the bears and nymphs of west Wales behind to suffer in the smog and undoubtedly contract emphysema for the trouble he's taken to enjoy the capitals timeless appeal. Those present chat about televisions; Watercolour Challenge indeed is no good in black and white. Sprout lambastes Elton John, which in Bimble's opinion is a terrible crime with no punishment on earth or hell too great, never mind he thinks, Sprout is let off the hook, but only for this time. The car seems to be on fire, Spangles has closed the windows to make sure, false alarm. Zia thinks Bimble talks of the phallus too frequently; Spangle's father has two women..... A lack of respect for the law is always apparent on these journeys, but strangely not so much on this one. Look Bimble there's a man chopping down a hedge, doesn't it look ugly for the gift of black n Decker?

They are searching for a petrol station in Kidderminster. Things are difficult in life when one is beset on all sides by cigarette lighters that don't work...... The house of god must take in thousands more wankers in sports cars than ever before the confused little bastard thinks to himself. The posse stopped for too long in a service station and had all signed up for credit cards, sprouts application at least would prove unsuccessful. The motorway was pioneered in The Third Reich don't you know.

They arrived. Bimble was left alone with Sprouts mother for half an hour, stunted conversation and being bitten by the cat whilst desperately trying to make some kind of good impression on a very important person to make a good impression on in Bimble's life. They met The Vegetarian in a park with The Bloke Who Bought A Gun, and sat and chatted The Bloke Who Bought A Gun remarking with surprise that Bimble was indeed an advocate of footwear that day. Then Bimble had been informed that drying his strides on the mother of Sprout's furnishings would make her angry, Bimble wondered if he would like he when she was angry...

The boy knew that he had been kept in line when he had sold his labour to the unrelenting capitalist enterprises of this world, and that he had giggled and vedged to the point of aubergine, the king of rooted edibles, the rest of his identity was still a mystery, since he had paid little attention to the details of how he dealt with the world. He had no idea what kind of financial and spiritual hardships might bight him in the arse if he didn't sign up to the SAS immediately. He knew allot about road kill and autumn that was certain. The cells in his grey matter had been snapcracklepopping all that day and no amount of just being his average self with all his usual thoughts could have jumbled his perception of all and everything. Half backed images of him chasing thoughts around a swimming pool, them breast stroking in snorkel and flippers and him flapping and floundering in a rubber ring flashed incredibly slowly before his tired eyes. He mumbled something, almost comprehensibly, until he realised he sounded more like a parrot with half Bernard Manning's voice box and no perch to sit on than any member of any species at all related to the primate...He had been less of a Bimble of late, he'd begun to jaunt, all over the place as if the M6 was some kind of bizarre reflex hammer that made him spontaneously jerk to attention. .

Sat on a mixture of grass and cigarette butts.

Had a filthy look from a Camdenite oike

Wasted time in virgin

Have started getting emphysema

London contains wankers and places these excuses for respiring creatures entertain themselves

Bimble had woken with sweat causing the bed to cling to a proud morning erection of the largest variety possible... Then London had preceded to be hot, hot and sweaty and spread with liberal amounts of emphysema blended into some form of primitive air that was disregarded by God at an early stage because of a lack of any redeeming features. Bimble was surrounded by vibrators, sex toys for deviants, he held back his shy and embarrassed hysteria, until on the sight of a huge rubber fist that would have ruptured the largest of orifice. He screamed in panic and desperately tried to hide behind Sprout, and The Girl Who Is Going To Australia. London smells of cheap aftershave, its incredibly tedious. One could stroll around for days and never talk to anyone; one now understands how Malcolm Mclaren managed to be a success. Lobotomised mice populate the world with their hands clutched firmly around their genitals squeezing just that little bit to hard. He had thought al day with no avail, the problem not being that he couldn't think he just couldn't sustain a notion what so ever, and spent more time pondering this than anything else. Bimble's comforts himself, safe in the knowledge that all business men sniff their secretaries dirty knickers and phone porn lines for several hours each day until their knobs are fit for nothing but amputation. Bimble and Spangles had been informed by some one misinformed that they looked like they knew where they were going. They visited the residence of The Girl Who Is Going To Australia and agreed to transport some literature for the Vegetarian.

Basil had taken out his testicles on a zip slide. Bimble remembers a time he trapped a nut between the bath and his thigh whilst bathing a foot with glass in it. He had also cut his hand on a frozen lasagne and was preparing a law suit against the company who made it, who shall remain nameless, for legal reasons, but their empire shall fall Bimble swears it.

Adult hood is beset on all sides by problems but the more experience eye is able to fool the brain into denial and as long as something is somewhat peachy. It really dose not matter how little it is actually peachy. There is no reason to worry, as long as one's body hair is not yeti like the funny side can always be found. Real cunts do hang about somewhat, if they fuck with you more denial can be utilised. Then there it is reality kicks in harder that ever before and you realise that you are truly fucked, you are in denial. Only one option remains open, complete and utter narcoleptic oblivion and its bastard offspring denial. One can utilise denial in this way for all manner of purposes and crisis's, with no trouble at all. It is the corner stone to keeping your sanity and your personality from hampering your opinion of yourself. When one fucks up for instance it can be denied, thus denying it of any effect on the rest of your day, even though you did just call your boss a fat slut to her face whilst simultaneously mistaking her for your secretary. The rest of your day is then governed solely by what you choose to accept as the reasonable truth, which is only cast aside one day by the notion that one never thought those things to be plausible, clearing space for a more comfortable perspective on things. What had Bimble been thinking about, he'd forgotten, no he hadn't, he hadn't been thinking at all.

Bimble's philosophy;

It is much better to live by the advice one receives on sugar packets than anything the living human mind could contrive, their is no knowledge to gain in living that will make it any easier, so live by the advice given on sugar packets, if this leads to a sugar addiction, do not try to fight it and if weight is put on never mind you were ugly and boring anyway.

Bimble has come by this theory by reading many sugar packets left there especially for him with messages concerning his insecurities about his penis and the best place in town to buy tomatoes

Unsuspecting Bimble be aware, naughty spirits are fucking with you for a crime in a previous life and now you are condemned to being to thick not to take the advice on sugar packets and to eternally fight a desire to lick pavements.


Bimble has been wearing his autumn trousers; they are far too thick and water proof. He had only been strolling but the horror of sweat running down his arse crack was proving a great discomfort. He longed for a sugar packet. It had been a very long time since he had sat in a cafe trying desperately to catch the waiters' eye so as to fulfil the purpose of the venture. It was at this point that Bimble began to long for stodgy fried food but knew that his budget would never stretch again to grace a place of such infinite wisdom. His spiritual quest now consisted of snap shots from motorway service stations and brief thieving from fast food restaurants that did not mind the facial haired from using their latrines, which were never of a desirably hygienic standard. His relationship with God was fucked he knew that but what of the great and wise philosophers which sweetened the warmer beverages that graced his stomach. He had just used such a latrine; he and sprout were a strolling in the evening, stealing a sugar packet was just like the splashing of holy water to the misguided Catholics amongst the world. Bimble had once known a catholic that looked like Tony The Tiger's best mate, a fine fucking Catholic he was too. The packet had read

"There is a difference between shitting and riving your arse."

Bimble felt the pain and dampness of blood between his polished white arse cheeks, bespotted as they were by pimples and interrupted by sprouts of hair.


Bimble was struggling through the pints of flem that accompanied the switching of seasons from that of previous summer to subsequent autumn. He had been fed special brew and Marlboros by The Man With Tattoos, and had sat chatting in the rain to this wonderful man as someone played something reminiscent of jazz in the middle of their town in which it was raining. His chest was hurting and he was trying hard not to smoke with as much joy as a Catholic minister experienced when the Pope was visiting and he was dealing with his latent homosexuality, which was becoming ever so apparent. He wanted another cigarette, a beer, and sleep; no, none of the aforementioned above he craved sugar, Demerara in fact. He had lost track of time that day and the mid afternoon was lurking about him once again, Christianity was becoming an increasing fixture somewhere in his head and as the evil one made pornographic insinuations towards Jesus Bimble realised how close he had come to joining gods little flock of tambourine players and do gooders...................

He had never paid much attention to the arguments put forward by religious folk. In his inside out mind the only difference between Hari Krishna's and Christians was the substitution of small cymbals on strings for acoustic guitars.

The main trouble with the Christian faith is its segregation into many different forms of the same religion, brought about by jealousy, they all love Jesus and are now scrapping amongst themselves to get positions of authority in his heavenly gang of singing mechanics. Surely they will all be sheep when the time comes, or goats, a blindly led flock of half-witted animals who allow their clothes to be stolen once a year and have no individual consciousness of their own, or a bearded creature who will eat anything what so ever with no thought for weather or not it has any nutritional value and with no consideration for the levels of cholesterol within it. God must be awfully happy with his creation of man, limping around with wet trouser bottoms and an empty stomach, strings of hideous snot dribbling from his nostrils onto his clothing and a rasping cough that would deafen any person who was close enough to this breathing sack of shit to be in danger of catching this nasty virus, again displaying nothing but a social persona, with no concern for weather the small hairs on the inside of his nose could prevent the poor bastard from spending the next week and a half in bed.


It is possible to find ways around mountains of dishes,

This requires an ability to stand at the sink for hours,

There may be a need for marigolds,

You will need fairy liquid and a scrubbing utensil,

Good fortunes those of you who seek hygiene.


The fog was being water coulerd in over and amongst the windmills that made electricity for somewhere there abouts, a group of hippies where strolling through the fields, listening to the faint hum of the blades that cut through the late summer moisture with a very polished politeness. The clouds where becoming more and more interesting as the cold bit and the heat faded, occasionally sowing fragments of what it had been just a little time ago. The summer had been mild and damp.

Apparently, or so it would seem to Bimble a day or so later, all narration on natural history programs was exactly the same with the exception of Steve Irwin, who was a cunt anyway and had since become completely defunct as a presenter. The evening appeared at about five o'clock. Bimble was wondering what the passage of time was really about, he was still a very young man but felt passed it somehow, all this talk of marriage and children. His compodres had neglected their cafe lifestyles and where spending increasing amounts of time in a post parental examination of how they were going to raise their own offspring. This is a feature of youth in the species of mankind, the relentless need to reproduce with out consideration to the vast overcrowding of far eastern cities and the lack of supplies, just like Organising a children's party on a bank holiday Monday for all the 12 year olds in the county, when you already know that the corner shop closes at four and there aren't enough bread rolls in the vicinity to feed all those hungry mouths, but justifying the event with a pin the tale on the donkey session. The question of existence and the extension of that there of was a mystery to these people who either wanted to reproduce or saw it as an unavoidable twist of fate. Only human beings have the ability to create the phenomenon of soap operas, a way to discuss the day-to-day life of day-to-day lives in an exsessable and superficial manner. Bimble remembers an advert for literature that had read, "why not learn from other people's mistakes?" The problem lies thus; these fragments of wisdom depicted in front of humanity, a pastiche perhaps of the meaning of life are viewed as entertainment. These words that are starred at even now are not to be taken in a lighthearted manner, Bimble is a wise and learned being with allot to say for himself on the psychological consequences of breathing and being upwardly mobile.

He is sat picking at the dried snot that is encrusting his nose, beyond the pail of boredom he is vacantly staring at the black and white TV set, the program only works in couler as it is concerned with the green blood of a Papa New Guinean lizard. Sprout who is lying in the bed beside him remarks that his nails are filthy, he replies that it was the consequence of climbing on the flat roof of the house of Spangles and The Girl Who Visited The USA's house the previous evening, They had found themselves sitting above the kitchen, The Evil One threw them a cigarette and the tall Spangles who was tall indeed had been able to pass them a cup of tea although his feet where flat on the cracked and weeded tarmac below.


I am a wanker, and I wank alone.


There is a certain kind of gentleman that appears on journeys that take you from one place to another, this is the man with kit and determination that ploughs on ahead of the party with his socks rolled above his trousers and wears a kag in a bag. One example of this walking phenomenon came from Liverpool. His name was Basil and he was a lunch at all other times, those times that his rucksack laid dormant in the wardrobe. He was an anti social person a while ago and had spent much of his time in a small bed-sit room with a sink and a grouping of shelves for company. He was apt at Risk and other strategy games and there remained within him a spark of youth for climbing trees and running through fields of waist high grass, he was by definition a juxtaposed character. This tale takes place during the night and in the early summer.

Basil was dressing, he belted his sturdy trousers and rolled his socks over there cuffs, he filled a rucksack and went to find his compodres, for it was growing dark and they had a walk ahead of them which would take them until the very early hours.

"Are you ready?"

'Yea, on our way." Came the reply from Mr Midlands, who had spiky hair and a dog.

"Lets go."

They hit the night air about half a dozen of them, they had most or all of the things they would need. The Vegetarian had been enthusiastic to partake in the journey earlier on that day but the lure of BBC 2 had delayed them for a couple of hours, others they knew had already arrived at their destination. The Welsh almost certainly complained about the length of their journey, but spurred on by Basil they covered allot of ground.

"Does anyone actually know where we're going?"

"Welsh! Where's the fucking map?"

"Fuck off, I gave it back to you."

"Sorry, here it is, but I don't think it starts for a few miles yet, we're somewhere over here." She waved he hand vaguely off the edge of the paper.

It was a lovely evening, but it was still about that time of year when the leaves were still afraid of the tree branches and the cold came steaming in at sunset.

A military tone had taken over Basil's voice by force and was now ordering the party to march along the gorse and grass framed road which was not quite wide enough for two transit vans to drag race.

The party were discovered by those who had set off earlier collapsed on a piece of ground at their destination, Zia and AI were huddled together to escape the cold; they would soon call for a taxi. The other huddle was Mr Midlands and the vegetarian, who had built a cigarette. Some time would pass, allot of twoing threeing, throwing and froing would be partaken in. Until Bimble and Sprout who had been sat on a hill admiring the beauty in the night sky descended, and as the man amongst the two of them ground his teeth a little they suggested that the atmosphere around them was coming to the close of its interest.

"Right, we're going then." Came the exited and organised utterance from the lips of Basil, even though they had not been at their destination long he jumped up with utter enthusiasm, he liked nothing better we should not forget than to hike assertively. Once again the rucksack was attached but now wrapped around it was a granddad's blanket. He looked strangely familiar to his friends but they had only really witnessed the side of his personality that sat endlessly in a room of smoke. The Evil One had put up some resistance and had had to be persuaded into moving, but Basil as ever was like a shopping trolley full of bricks at the top of a precarious slope. The Welsh, he, The Vegetarian, Mr Midlands and other assorted folk were up ahead of some other people who were continuously being harassed into hurrying, even though the pace of their own journey seemed fine to them. Deep in his heart Basil knew the folly of these people, if they were left alone they would get to their homes very very slowly, they needed, and had by coincidence an assertive influence that would guide them through their Hiking cramps and doubts.

The journey continued, certain members of the pack who were more crazed had been witnessed dancing in the styles of both John Travolta and Michael Flattley. They had reached the point of stopping when they reached their half way house of a destination, which was fortunate or they would have strolled right on past the place where their taxi's for they had walked a long long way that day, even for an assertive hiker, would pick them up jumble them around and spit them out back where they had started that evenings travailing. They mooched and lunched and went to bed steadily and in different locations, a fine day's assertive hiking had been had by all and all thanks to our hero from Merseyside.


Bimble would never give up sugar, that was for certain. The latest piece of advice had read......

"No man is alone, when in the company of others, unless amongst the company of others he takes time aside to ponder."

Bimble looked around the table at his friends and decided to then go and spend along time thinking carefully in the toilet, which was small and hygienic if nothing else.......................................................................................................... On returning he had found his food waiting for his eager mouth but due to the train of thought he had travelled upon in the latrine he had lost his appetite. It was apparent that no matter how lovely and wonderful people were it cannot be helped if one cannot sustain their affections though out the whole of breakfast. He dismissed this thought as pure folly and decided to eat his food as a punishment for his moment's unease amongst these other dinners. His compodres after all were a steadily mixed group with allot of appeal. They also had allot of peel, just like oranges, He dived for the vitamin C and guzzled the vegetarian food on his plate, cursing the day his digestive system came into being as he did so. His stomach's unease and his social unease were one after all.

NOTES ON MEMORIES, (The little known and the half forgotten)

Only a few short days ago, there had been a journey, at night, and to the outdoors of woodland area, things changed and the party of four, being Sprout, Bimble, Zia and The Evil One had then looked down upon a very small version of their town. All as one and out of the usual tree. Bimble left his bag behind and had then proceeded to tell The Evil One about all the very important items that had been placed in it for safekeeping. Bimble remembers little as ever. His health was deteriorating; the cough was the bastard part really, the part that made him sick. His perspective had sharpened and things fell into place once again, a deeper level of understanding, the beauty in everything that had to rise to the surface, had to be at the very forefront of everything. The lack of memory was clear, there was no question of coherence, and the discovery once unearthed must be then re-buried for the benefit of the next person who desires the use of a spade.


One moon-lit day in the depths of a damp August the renowned private investigator and noted anthropologist Tall With Large Sideboards was sat with his feet on a pile of paper he was stroking at his extremely square jaw and pondering with a familiar look on his face which bridged the gap between knowing and not knowing whilst simultaneously trying to work it all out. Suddenly, and just as he had reached the conclusion he sought a young girl burst through the door of his office, putting the whole thought process into jeopardy.

"Tall With Large Sideboards?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Don't you remember me?"

"Walks With The Rain?"

"What can you tell me about this?"

She flicked a small white square towards him, it landed in his lap, on closer examination it appeared to be a matchbook, and on even closer examination it indeed was a matchbook.

"Where did you get this from then?"

"Can't you read?"

He affixed his monocle; he took it off again and wiped away a small amount of moustache wax, which had been clouding his view. He put it back on again and read the address printed in fancy letters.

"Cafe, A Street. A Town. KU9 6OF."

"So, What is it all about?"

"You tell me?"

"Do you really expect me to launch and investigation on the strength of this?"

"Why not?"

"Can you afford me?"


"Do you think I can afford to waste my time?"

"Have you got anything better to do?"

"What makes you ask?"

"Do you really think that I can't see through your whole operation?"

He looked around his office; it consisted of nothing but a chair, a table, a pile of blank paper and a dartboard. He stood up and put on his hat.

The First lead he followed up on was unfruitful; the individual in question had mumbled something along the lines of ......

"Match book?..........Sugar packets?..........Memory?............What's the meaning of it all?"

Tall With Large Sideboards walked through the door of a small house on the corner of two badly kept terraces in an other wise respectable area. The walls where psychedelic colours and a posse of hippies where sat in front of a television set.

"What do you know about this?"


"Why do you think?"

"Are you mad?"

A third party chimed in.....

"Do you know what you're getting yourself into?"

"Do I need to?"

"Haven't you got anything better to do with your time?"

Tall with Large Sideboards spent the next two weeks out of doors sleeping in a cold field, contemplating the mystery of the match book, even though he could well have been in doors. No-one seemed to know anything about this small square of white card, but everyone seemed extremely frightened of whatever or whoever was behind the whole affair. He was sat in a continental but thoughally British cafe when his first breakthrough happened. The man who was sat at the table opposite had left a book of matches behind, exactly the same book of matches that he himself was carrying in the breast pocket of his stinking three-piece suit. He ran after the mysterious gentleman, who was now running down the street. Tall With Large Sideburns sprinted as swiftly as he could and on catching up with the mysterious gentleman rugby tackled him to the ground and beat his face with the nearest object, which happened to be a passing granny's left shoe.

"Where did you get this matchbook?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Does it matter?"

"Why do you think you have the right to waste my time?"

"Why do you think you've got the right to beat my face with someone else's shoe?"

"Isn't that a touch irrelevant?"

"Do you know who I am?"

Tall With Large Sideboards Thought before he made his reply.

"Where did you get the fucking match book?"

"Do you spend all your time beating people's faces with other people's shoes?"

"Where did you get the matchbook?"

"Do you know that it's a touch impolite to beat someone's face? Or hadn't it occurred to you?"

"Where did you get the Match book?"

"Are you a Cunt? Do you get off on chasing down innocent civilians who are late for trains just to beat their faces?"

"Where did you get the fucking match book?"

"Don't you have anything more worth while to be getting on with?"

Still brandishing the shoe Tall With Large Sideboards decided to trawl invesigatory like through all the towns cafes. He found in all of them traces of people with matchbooks, they had in fact left their matchbooks behind. He collected in all thirty-five or so matchbooks, over the course of about a day and a half, all exactly the same and all with no consequence. He discovered along the way that the Matchbooks in question were not supplied by the individual cafes but were planted in the hands of the general public by some insane and twisted individual.

"You don't put matchbooks out on tables for people to use?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"Do you think I have time to waste?"

"Do you have a cafe to run?"

"Isn't that irrelevant?"

"When was the last time you washed?"

"Didn't I just raise the question of irrelevance?"

"What do you think this entire conversation is then?"

"Where do the match books come from?"

"Do you spend all your time asking pointless questions about matchbooks?"

"Why don't you just leave me alone?"

"Why don't you go and buy yourself a Zippo?"

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Don't you realise this type of behaviour is a little psychotic?"

"Don't you realise that I'm a desperate man?"

"Don't you have something worthwhile to get on with?"

After several weeks of similar activity he found himself in a now familiar cafe in conversation with a strange woman who had perpetrated the act of having a matchbook.

"Where did you get that matchbook?" The question had by now become almost repugnant and stank vaguely of shit on his unwashed breath.

"Who wants to know?"

"Does it matter?"

"Why shouldn't it matter?"

"Can't anyone answer a godamn question anymore?"

"What of it if they can't?"

"Where did you get that matchbook?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Do I look like I'm Joking?" His eyes were as red as pokers, his cheeks sunken and his jaw was appearing even larger and even more square than usual.

"Why don't you just look around you?"

As he did just that he saw how far the situation had developed, everyone in the entire cafe was fumbling with match books, they were even striking matches from them with utter ease like old time match book users, who were completely at home with the pissy rituals and incomprehensible methods of getting the shitty bit of wood and phosphorous to fulfil its purpose in life and make fire. He turned back round to find the strange young lady had disappeared. He flew out of the cafe door and gave chase down the street, he caught her up with some effort, and in rugby tackling her to the floor witnessed before his eyes thousands of small white matchbooks spill forth from her handbag onto the street. He began to beat her face with a shoe, but stopped suddenly with a sense of sudden terror. Her face or what had appeared to be her face was made of latex; a small amount had become stuck to the sole of the shoe and had exposed a section of her actual features. He grabbed her by the artificial nose and tore away her disguise.

"It was you all along?"

Walks With The Rain just shrugged and walked away. The passing granny who was now missing a shoe and nursing a broken hip spoke to him.

"Don't you have anything better to do?"


Bimble and sprout had five minutes to kill before they departed on the national express, They sat on a bench in moderate sunlight to share a cigarette, before they second drag was over there was a voice, it spoke at him before he had got the chance to look up.


It was a boy-child. A boy-child who was probably no bigger than Bimbles trousers in height.

"Excuse me?" was the only reply that he could muster. The question came again; the reply in the negative was met with.........

"Why not?"

"If I gave you four quid, are you telling me that you could get served a packet of fags?"

"So what?"

The boy-child was barely out of nappies, yet he was already a hard-core fag smoker, armed with a twenty pence piece and the immortal line "Come on just let me buy a fag off you." Bimble didn't know what to do; he couldn't think this one through fast enough. The boy-child had probably smoked for longer than him, he had been un-impressed with Bimble's argument about his growth being stunted, and had every angle covered in knowing that whatever flowed out of Bimble's mouth was hypocrisy, and Bimble had fags, and he knew how hard life is without fags. Then again, the obvious, the boy-child was about eight years old. His only way out of acquiring extremely bad karma was 'paper scissors stone'. He had realised that the boy-child was way ahead of his years, so he presumed that he could beet him with simple logic. The Boy-child would surely play stone because it is the least anticipated, as your hand is a fist on the count, surely Bimble thought he wouldn't play paper, because in a boy-child's mind that is the pussy option and he wouldn't play scissors in a million years, but before he could rationalise the analysis of scissors he had played paper and the boy-child had produced the gesture of scissors. Bimble had then to hand over a fag, the boy-child lit up and ran as fast as his little legs would carry him into the no smoking bus station and Bimble turned to Sprout and tried to justify the foul act that he had just perpetrated.


"Alright? How are you?"

"I'm fine thanks, what are you on?"


"What do you want?"

"What have you got?"........................


People who lack 20 20 vision always seem to end up loosing the very items which help them to see, therefore not being able to find a bloody thing at all. Weather this is put down to sod's law or just bastard luck; this is a very common problem, which confuses those amongst us who have never worn glasses. The trouble is that we all loose things that we cannot function without, this is the story of my own loss;

One morning I awoke to find myself lacking the very thing which would make my day possible to endure. I wondered about for several hours rummaging through the vast piles of shit and papers and dog ends that spent their time littering the floor of my house, not finding it and then more frantically searching followed accompanied by swearing of the worst possible variety. Trying hard to wake myself up with nicotine, and rushing from room to room, sweating and swearing I cursed the very day it came into my possession............ Looking in places I'd already searched through and throwing the contents of my world around I created abstract sculptures in shit all around my own ears with a narcissistic take on the post-modern philosophy. I found myself sat on my bed, clutching at my throbbing skull. I have a technique when I loose something, I sing a song with the lost item contained somewhere within, usually in the hook line; this frees its placement from the depths of my sub-conscious. I couldn't think of any songs at all......... I was considering going through the day without it, feeling completely gutted and as if the whole day should just stop happening in front of me before the world ended with a cataclysmic eruption of my despair. There was of course no chance of catching up with it in the after life. I was tired and fed up of looking by now and instead turned my attention to finding clean underpants, washing myself very briefly indeed and preparing myself for the day that lay ahead, with or without my double intruder.


There is a certain variety of rainfall that has bothered Bimble and his compodres, it pours from the sky like an unrelenting torrent of filth and shit from the heavens. This rain appears in the autumn and continues until late March or April, some years the rain never stops at all, in the summer it is strangely colder, and in its embryonic state in September it takes Bimble by surprise as he walks almost jovial to town and back again. The sea, well not the sea but the consciousness of the water itself causes this rain. The sea just sits there all placid and calm, until one day it comes over with the sudden urge to move on to get out of its environment and to be air born. It relies apparently on the sun for this although where the sun is no one knows. The sea once airborne then decides to fall onto the exotic pavements of Bimble's town, hitting him on the self as it does so, those droplets that hit the ground then conspire to shoot up Bimble's trousers.


Bimble pushes through a crowd laughing to himself, he has spent most of the evening lent over at somewhat of an angle. He knew that the people that surrounded him were liable to eat him at any minute. He needed a cigarette, badly. His skin was salty and did not fit him any more, he might have had a drink somewhere but he had no idea what kind of liquid it was or where he might find it if indeed he could remember anything other than that he needed a cigarette. Earlier he had needed a cigarette and had crashed one from a group of people all called hippie tippis, they had taught him an irritating and anti social drinking game, then he left and had danced, danced like never before. Sprout was pissed and the two young nymphs had become somewhat uncontrollable, feeding off each other's lack of concern that others around them may have been disturbed by the abuse and anarchic activities of the pair. Anyway they might have been eaten at any moment so they had to enjoy the evening, as it was only a side salad to the slowly grilling corpse of human flesh. Apparently Human flesh tastes of pork and not of chicken as Bimble had thought. Bimble really needed a cigarette, and spying the beautiful Sprout swiped the Super king light from he hand and ran, this of course caused more raucous, and every cannibal in the room turned their hostile and carnivorous eyes towards them.

"Give me back that fucking fag you cunt"

"So you want the cigarette do you?"

As Bimble spoke these words an unsuspecting young man came skipping merrily into the room, the beasts left their pints behind as they pounced upon him ripping lumps of his flesh away with their teeth, and swallowing it without even chewing. Bimble and Sprout fled towards the dance floor only to find that the DJ who had inspired some fine and bizarre movement had been filleted and set to roast over open coals, with onion and potatoes and a strange sauce that seemed at first glance to contain apple.

"It might be time to leave."

Coats were gathered swiftly, they almost got out without incident but Bimble was forced to bite someone's ear of to avoid suspicion, it would be a fine addition to his collection of jelwry anyway.

It was apparent by the time they reached the spar that they knew the security guard and could therefore abuse the place as much as possible. A few cereal packets were re-arranged by Sprout and the customers frightened, before they had to flee again, realising that the cold meat counter bore a strange resemblance to the local football team.


Something was stirring weather this was on an astrological level or just in the individual minds of the populous at large. The summer had been short, Bimble could remember that. The rain had started again and the cold and dark had come along merely to accompany Bimble's lack of activity. Whether this feeling of unease was manifested as it had been suggested in the stars or was the dawn of Revelations perhaps he would never know until he was plunged into the depths of hell. The truth was immaterial and a touch irrelevant. What the individual pawns on fates chess board carried with them as beliefs of there own accord was all that mattered now. One thing was certain, and that was that popular music was improving slowly and slightly in its quality. There were people out there of course who were quite prepared to spend their time on this earth in complete and utter panic and more that craved the secure boredom of the kind of work that serves no purpose to the individual in question. This to Bimble is cast into disrepute by the onslaught of modern day youth culture which had him shackled to a love for baggy trousers, funk music and cigarettes, and as he dragged on his first of the day and the flem in his lungs was hampered from frothing in the top of his throat with continued hacking that sounded more like the gates of Hades opening slowly on their rusted and deranged hinges that a bodily function he came to the conclusion that he would have to start occupying his tiny little mind if he was to bridge the gap between hope and reality. He would have to sort his life out, he needed discipline and he needed application, thanks to a smart new pair of trousers made by the fair hand of Sprout he may well be capable of employment. His mother was concerned that his unemployed state was getting him down, Bimble was more concerned that the weather meant that he could not frolic in the open air as often as he wanted to or had half the energy that he required.

Interlude the third THE RISE OF THE ANTI POLITIC.

What is politics? This was the question that was put to Bimble two years ago and he had been mulling it over slowly ever since. Politics seeks to make life easier, it succeeds only to give one something to moan about. Politicians are in essence people who's lives are so boring that they turn to the beliefs of others and the representation of these beliefs to fill the void of their own lack of imagination, the bate that is laid is power and the effect thereof is an end to the evolution of human thought. Once one has attached oneself to a political party one has then become a follower of that particular parties beliefs and therefore when expressing an opinion of there own is than challenged to weather they follow that party they claim to or not. In Short putting your vote against the claim of a political party is to compromise the right to free thought. To believe in the system of democracy is to hand the right to alter your opinions and to have that change of mind affect the day to day events of your life over to the people of this world who's minds are already made up. The world as a whole is now devoid of the opportunity to change its mind. Its true that as a democratic regime we elect a government and then spend five long years resenting their election only to cast our votes in exactly the same way, not through stupidity this is just a feature of the British culture that we are all so proud of as David Beckham curls in another of his fabulous free kicks.

WE are told that if we do not use our vote we loose our voice. When in reality in not casting a vote we are merely reserving the right to resent any political body who has power over our lives on a day to day basis whenever and however we want without become as twisted and hypocritical as the political system we have turned our backs on. If a government can control the media, as all regimes do however subtaly they claim to be doing it then how are we as voters expected to form a balanced and individual opinion of politics and culture as a whole? We are being herded from one political scenario to another under the guise of being in support of the results of what only half our populous could be bothered to vote upon. When a country goes to war for instance the country as a whole does not make the decision to take up arms, yet we are all then bombarded constantly by the images and knowledge that by holding citizenship to their country they are at war with those who happen to hold citizenship in another. A country at war is a jumbled and laborious image that is perpetuated for the national interest. All forms of political decision are made by a small portion of the populous elected on the majority vote of a portion of the populous as a whole and therefore have to be surrounded in nothing more than nationalist propaganda to present an image of unity behind a decision which is most certainly not in the common interest. The effect of the word "WAR" on the individual consciousness is quiet profound, the gallery of long faces is quiet apparent in any street the day after a declaration of war. The images presented of the jubilation of days gone by after the declarations of war in the early part of the twentieth century are most certainly symptomatic of the myths that surround the justification of those wars to disguise the purely economic and power political reasons that those conflicts took place. War is never in the national interest and whatever grounds the taking of human life is presented on we should never forget that politicians will do anything to justify the taking of human life.

If Life itself can become a victim of a political system and so can the personal security of any individual within is grasp, then how can faith be placed in a political system. We trust those in power to make the right decisions, these are mearly the decisions which take the least amount of explanation. It is true that a politician is more successful the fewer explanations they have to concoct. It is also an unavoidable fact that there is never sufficient explanation given for the establishment of any political system other than the claim that it is "more in the national interest" than the regime that preceded it. All regimes rely on their press releases and propaganda to present a rosy picture of themselves. They all seek unity, which can only be achieved by a succession of either "good" deeds or constant references to the horrors of what went before. The British government has long since decided that it is not in the individual interests of its citizens to smoke cigarettes, yet it is not in the national interest to cut down the amount of tobacco imports into this country. Here we realise slowly that the national interest is often a week and tenuous substitution for the national economic interest. All politics is governed first by economics before it considers other matters. Money is the fastest route to more power, power as we all know is the fastest way to breed resentment, we know this by our constant moaning about individual cogs of our own democracy. Political systems and beliefs are flawed on so many levels it is hypocritical to give ones support to them and then claim any form of individualism or freedom under them, as you have passed the book of controlling your own future to someone else and then have to struggle to make a life for yourself with the options that they then present you with. Politics limits the amount of options in front of you.

These are Bimble's firm beliefs but he would not have you believe them, then he would to turn into a political body. He begs you not to take his ideas on board, they are no different in validity than any other, yes they are only applicable to the individual and therefore he has made up his mind, at least for the moment, and hopes you do to. But don't listen to the deranged fucker at any costs.


In the last six months, since (according to the scales in Boots) he was at his perfect weight has put on five pounds and now weighs in at 12 stone 1. He may have to weigh himself again after a great big shit.


A short time ago, when witnessing the clean shaved head of the former lead singer of Curiosity Killed The Cat, Bimble rushed to the chemist to buy razors and proceeded to shave his head to the skin, no amount of pain he had ever experience could compare although the baby soft smoothness of his scalp made up for some of the rabid stinging which could not even be calmed by the application of Johnson and Johnson's fabulous lotions.


A short while before now The Vegetarian who was extremely fond of tea, but who was also almost certainly going to be hideously late for the activity's her university course, had deducted that taking one's cup off tea with them was certain to decrease one's capacity to miss everything through not being on time. This was proving to be a great comfort, tea whilst on the move, a good strategy. That was all well and good, but The Vegetarian also had a great love of the flared trouser. Bimble remembered the purchase she had made of a very fetching pair of blue denim flares with embroidered bottoms. A fabulous pair of trousers indeed. The problem arises when ones balance is challenged. As Bimble could testify trousers in this day and age are made very long in the leg possibly to exaggerate the length of the leg, for what ever reason the ends of flared or baggy trousers often find their way under the sole of the shoe and cause one to trip over. This had in fact happened to The Vegetarian as she was rushing to get somewhere, a large pint mug of tea in one hand whilst crossing the road. It was a fabulous mug indeed and held allot of tea, which was so plentiful it was often prone to going a bit cold before all the tea had been consumed. The Vegetarian who was half way across the road was suddenly shocked by her fabulous trousers, which were extremely flared, as they entangled themselves around her feet and sent her crashing to the ground, all would not have been so unfortunate if not for a very large cup of tea that was now between her hand and the ground. Carnage ensued and the effects thereof were far from pleasant on the poor hand of The Vegetarian. The moral being it doesn't matter how fabulous your trousers or crockery are, mugs and flares will always conspire to create general havoc throughout the world.


One day a young boy child who had a fond love of drinking copious amounts of the cheapest cider available court his eye in a mirror. He had fallen foul of the variety of youth culture, which condemns its participants to a life of park benches and bus stops and trying to crash cigarettes off otherwise respectable citizens. As this young boy child gazed vacantly at his own reflection the mirror began to pulsate and as we all know the result of such folly he was swept up on a cloud of fairy dust and escorted unceremoniously into another dimension. The story was later retold to Bimble in the following way.

"I was like well fuckin' pissed up last Thursday right, an I when for a piss like when fuck me if I wasn't swept into another dimension the moment I looked in the fuckin' mirror. I mean it was like one minute I was looking in the mirror and the next I was in a whole other fucking shitter with a whole other fuckin' different fuckin' mirror, and the fat cunt who was takin' a piss at the urinal had turned into a whole other different cunt, still as fuckin' fat mind, Jesus this guy was big like a fuckin' whale or some shit, probably hadn't seen his cock in years. Three piece fuckin' suit an' all. Any road It was fuckin' mad mate, like I was not of this world for about another six fuckin' hours, everyone spoke a different fuckin' language an' no-one could understand me or any shit. I woke up naked by the fuckin' A65 mate, maybe I was abducted by fuckin' aliens or somutt, scary fuckin' shit mate, scary shit!"


Bimble was crawling through the jungle on the watch out for the VC; he was dressed in full army regalia, and armed to the teeth, proudly tucking his necklace or ears under his fatigues to protect them from mosquitoes. Three years crawling through this insect ridden sweat pit had taken its tole he had lost both legs and an arm, yet was still the tallest in his platoon. The previous day he had single handedly taken out a whole division of the VC, armed with only a blade or grass and a map which was loosely based on the area of Scarbora and Robin Hood's Bay. He was highly decorated and was being slowly groomed for the position of General he was sure. He remembers his time in Special Forces, winning the war slowly from behind a flamethrower; he had spent thirty years in basic training before his talents had truly been discovered. Then plunged state into the jungle in a strange Platoon with two lieutenants who never really clicked. He later was sent into Cambodia to assassinate one of America's own men, the image of that ox had never really left him. He'd been dragged into an epitome of foxholes and had screamed 'Fire in the hole' too many times to recall. He was now boarding a helicopter, the last napalm drop had been aimed at his division, and the war was over for him now.


Bimble's mother was not happy about him smoking, years before she had sat him down and explained why. He and his then compodres would meet after school hours and indulge in cigarettes, which would soon become unaffordable. Sat in the woods discussing girls in a fourteen year old boy way, and helping each other through adolescence with the guardian of nicotine keeping them all bonded together. Keeping the smoking identity of your self from your certainly disapproving parents is an adventure to be sure. You know for a while that it's all just for show and you discuss the good news that you're not addicted but you all know its secretly a race to see who is hooked first. Bimble quit before this happened or the adventure came to a close at least when he was discovered by his father smoking a B and H, which cost two pounds sixty which he was extremely gutted about the incineration of. Little did he know how the price of these life-giving smokes would rocket. When one of the misled teenagers finally admits addiction, he is scorned upon even more from all sides; the lambasting of smokers is a terrible business, especially at such a young age. Someone else's parents will always be much more liberal about it than yours and you will always be frustrated by just how hard the struggle to smoke actually is for you, other people make it look glamorous, other people are sexy, but your always a spotting little twat with Regal. Inevitable saving one's lunch money for anything other than cigarettes would not be an option, if you need a new pair of trousers your Mother will oblige as well as she can but at the age of fourteen one's parents are highly unlikely to supply you with cigarettes. This is a frustrating state of affairs and with nicotine poisoning and head rushes to deal with you don't need an unsteady supply of fags, although the craving does not break through the disgustingly ill feeling for some time, this is the time that a packet of fags would last you for a couple of weeks. This is far from the world Bimble is in at the present. Though the parents situation is not really any better.


Of late Basil had been involved in the resitting of his second year of university, the problem lay for most students in the journey to lectures, up an extremely steep hill. Bimble had often had to stop unbelivably often, clutching onto his poor coughing chest as his legs gave way beneath him. The mile long incline was of course of no trouble to Basil, who using a rucksack full of rocks as a counter balance sped up the hill at almost a thousand miles an hour to reach his lecture far too early and had begun to establish a rapour with certain lecturers who enjoyed a good old walk in the country too. Since they spent so much time together they had forged an unbreakable bond. They had even started hiking together on Sunday afternoons culminating in a pub meal and brandy and cigars with their stocking feet drying by the inn's fire as they discussed global economics and the best way to incorporate students into the bedroom antics of the teaching staff.

But one rainy Sunday as the thick socks on his feet were steaming before the glow of an open fire it occurred to him that all this sitting about smoking cigars in pubs was not particularly assertive.........

"Bollocks, all this lofty lecturer atmosphere has kept me back from my destiny, you people disgust me taking the assertive out of their natural environment and seducing them with sitting on their arses talking shit. How dare you corrupt me like this, I am the assertive liverpudlian hiker round here and you shall all lag behind me on the way home. I demand to be more assertive than any of you; none of you deserve to ever reach your destinations, you here me? You are all strollers in the walk of life. You spend your lives bringing up the rear and you deserve nothing more you wondering pieces of shit, now put your boots on I'm going to show you what hiking is really all about."

A short time later a band of bedraggled lectures lay collapsed beneath their arch nemesis. They panted heavily occasionally swearing in the worst possible way.

"I'll see to it that none of you ever hike again in this town you pieces of shit. On your feet you bunch of wankers, we're going to have to do the whole route again in half the time thanks to Bill's arrogance. Yes Bill, but you should have kept up with the rest of us, and I don't care if you only stopped for a piss, that's really not the issue when there's a destination to get to is it? Time divided by distance gives assertiveness and with an assertiveness value of just 4.2 you lot will never manage to work off the debts from your sparkly new boots will you, on your feet swine I'm going to make you suffer."


Bimble is sat at the window of a cafe, the street is taking much of his attention, the little amount left that his companion Sprout and the huge serving of pie have not already taken up, glad he was that they did. His problem was thus, he was full to the gills the discarded plate empty in front of him had bloated his belly and had pushed the table four inches further away than it had previously been, yet he still craved the crumble, the elderflower and gooseberry crumble which the mere idea of had lit up his taste buds as soon as he had entered. He knew not what to do. It was true he was full. The plate full of pie had proved too much for Sprout, she had disappeared to the bathroom, he sat there watching people walk up and down the street his mouth and stomach in conflict. He turned his head slightly to the sound of cunts bullshitting with absolutely no authority on the table next to him, and spied the bowl of sugar packets..........

"Its getting colder, buy a string vest"

Bimble knew that he could knit himself a string vest if he really wanted to, he originated from the north of England so should in fact have one already. But in not owning a string vest he is saving himself from a fate of rosy cheeks and exposed flesh accompanied by a strong stench of cheap alcohol and possible meths.

Sprout had returned,

"I suppose you'll be wanting that crumble now, you fat twat."


Bimble has been at piece for a while the university town in which he has taken up residence has been devoid of fresh-faced eighteen year olds with adjendas. Cunts are now everywhere. Bimble is doing his best to hide away from them, for amongst them are cannibals, but that's a different story. The streets are being vomited in once again. But it wasn't this that was the main issue it was the relentless volume of those particular cunts who after getting 'sloshed' in trendy bars prowl the street singing the dregs from the hit parade and leave and endless trail of broken glass behind them. The most disturbing feature of these people is to reflect their own cuntishness onto others..............

A cunt can not be trusted at any cost, as we all know a cunt will take you for a cunt if you give them the opportunity. This is just a fact of life and Bimble is no stranger to this phenomenon, many folk that he believed to be trustworthy, had demanded many things from him in an un acceptable manner, he remembers one particular ex-housemate of his that had neglected his duty of sorting out the electricity bill and had then demanded the sum of one hundred pounds from the poor boy, and in a fit of reasonableness and fear the wretched sod had paid it. Then some other ex-housemate had neglected to pay his share and had then stolen the fucking microwave. These people were somewhat older and more weathered than Bimble in many ways, but they lacked any understanding of what it meant to be a decent and upstanding citizen of this world. These individual angers that would be carried with our hero for the rest of his life are insignificant to others, they are not scarred by the existence of these particular cunts, but we are all familiar with the aftermath of the cunt. What's even more disturbing is that the presence of cunts in this world puts every one on edge. No one is able to trust everyone. So in being an upstanding citizen of this world as Bimble is, he is unfortunately expected to be a cunt by random people who may well suspect that he is actually not a cunt, this turns people who suspect others of cuntism into cunts them selves.

"You may well feel like a god but your just a wanker."

This is the fact of life. This is the cultural glitch that turns us all into cunts. But their are environmental cunts, and real true ideological cunts who act this way on a matter of principle, they are sucked into a boring and unresponsive existence being swept ever faster towards their own demise by the fast flowing current of the majority crowd. These people once accepting of their trendy bars and alcho pop lifestyle then have to inflict the anti social and toughally tedious features of their personalities on every one else. Cunts flow out of the woodwork at every turn; everywhere you look loathsome people are living a poxy existence that disgusts the upstanding citizen. There is not a great deal one can do except stay well clear of Marlboro Lights at all costs, never take your beverage to the lavatory and never talk to any one you don't know on public transport, unless you are sure there is absolutely no chance that you might be perceived in a bad light by them. This is not always possible and occasionally you do meet sound people on trains. This is the time that you start believing that indeed there is a god.

GOD? Part two.

A God is just an essence. The God of water is just the inexplicable essence of the spiritual meaning of water. The essence of what is behind phenomenons in this world that we cannot understand. Yet the problem comes when we worship a god for the simple purpose of self-preservation and not the respect that comes from knowing that something is sacred. God, The God that Bimble is destined never to get on with is a figure of fear and punishment who has the choice to weld what ever fate he sees fit over us. Bimble may try and usurp his power, but God is probably a Black Lesbian Single-Mother. God if she exists within the phallic fallacy of Christianity, is probably so down trodden by centuries of people twisting her words and cunts using her power to further their own, she is probably become agoraphobic and has abandoned any interest in her world for the simple reason that such little genuine faith is placed in her, she is virtually on the dole surviving on titbits of true belief in her, and wondering when to open up a can of whoop-ass on all the planets cunts and those that she perceives to be cunts because of the endless cuntishness of those around them which seems to just rub off on the whole population around their farcical little lives.


The Evil One had broken the toilet handle, flushing was now not half as pleasurable as it was and what with Bimble's passion for hygiene when defecating he was most disturbed. Many many moons ago the shower curtain had been broken, It had fallen on Bimble's head last new year, and had been precariously dangled on thin pieces of wire every since, Sprout had taken apart the sealing around the bath, and repaired it at a later date, and The Girl With Herbal Remedies and since annihilated the shower itself. The four housemates lived in a mountain of filth, the house was slowly falling down like a drunk trying desperately to stay upright whilst clutching to the counter in the kebab shop. Previously another nymph who lived in the house had frequently flooded the kitchen and now there was occasional dripping from the kitchen ceiling under the bath when they showered themselves clean. The stairs were supported by a loosely affixed wood structure, stress fractures were apparent and the walls seemed to be bowing even further every day. One day when Bimble awoke to a kitchen that resembled a landfill site, he divided to over haul the entire room and emptied it onto the street. When escorting the carpet outside Sprout had ordered the death of the shitty rug, which was covered in mould and shit from months of damp. They were left then with a mammoth task. The floor was now a set of beautiful tiles covered in self-levelling concrete. They spent the next four days hacking the concrete away with small hammers; they both thought that they had broken their arms after the first day. It proved to be just a small case of repetitive strain injury. They were covered in shit and dog tired, further more not all the tiles were there and they had had to paint some on in colures that did not match. The security guard at the local twenty-four hour spar who now lived next door had remarked to his friend AI that he could hear banging from next door and had been greatly scarred and perplexed. This did not surprise Bimble who could not look at a small child without the poor bastard bursting into tears.


Bimble hated doing laundry but loved the feeling of clean fabric about him. Most people just cope with having to clean their clothes and get on with it, but The Welsh had found a way out of this via his mother, he even had a system. He had a shirt which hung towards the left of his wardrobe and when he got to that shirt, for he would only wear any garment for no longer than a day, he knew that the next weekend he would have to visit home to get his washing done for him. He had a much more diverse wardrobe and seemingly more garments than any other man that Bimble knew.


Bimble was drinking his second cup of tea; he was perplexed by the amount of milk in beverages. It is true that coffee is acceptable when accompanied by allot of milk, but tea should not contain allot of dairy product for then it just tastes like a hot milkshake. He fiddled with a sugar packet........

'Trim your beard."

There are advantages to having a beard; they are of course that a gentleman with a beard is considerable more dashing than a gentle man who shaves. A beard also breaks up the line of a particularly strong jaw line. Also Beards make you more virile and increase the length of one's penis. The disadvantage lies in sanding away your girlfriend's face over a long period of time.


In GCSE French lessons Bimble's exercise book would not be returned with the rest and the deviant teenagers would joke that their teacher had ceremoniously burnt it. It was a hard time for the unsuspecting Bimble who used to be able to cope with another language but just couldn't process the endless verbs and assorted bastard elements of French. It was all the fault of the British Government for letting the empire slide into a state of disrepute. The empire had not been built on tea but on scones.


There have appeared in the house of The Welsh and The Vegetarian, Spangles and Basil life sized celebrities. The Girl who went to America and Mr Midlands who also lived there were as perplexed as every one else at first as an inflatable Martin Johnson and a cardboard Lara Croft took up most of the space in their Kitchen. But it was soon established that the Lara would live in The Welsh's room and Martin Johnson would guard his door. The kitchen was only then crowded when the rugby was on television. It all seemed pretty pointless to Bimble who had never even understood inflatable chairs.


Mr Midlands, who was built like a brick shit house and who Bimble had once referred to as being as firm as an erect penis, was performing the simple task of carefully drying his testicles after a shower, when a squirrel appeared at the window with some Bournville chocolate. He chatted, though still naked to the squirrel before he departed, Mr midlands opened the chocolate being careful not to break it in two with his super human strength. Inside was a message............

"I am going to take over the world. Lots of love The Evil One."

Mr Midlands sprung into action and donned a singlet and sturdy trousers and then dived headlong through a plate glass window and flew high above the town. Using his powers of eyesight he spotted a clocked figure crouched in the middle of the road brandishing what appeared to be a toffee hammer. It was The Evil One and the dastardly bastard was trying to take up the tarmac. Mr Midlands swooped and landed a few yards away, only to discover the sarcastic smile of Mrs The Evil One there to greet him, she was brandishing a wire coat hanger as was preparing to swing it at his beefy jugular. Mr Midlands switched on his magnetic belt buckle and stole away both the toffee hammer and the coat hanger.

"Damn you Midlands, you have foiled us again." The Evil One shouted at the top of his sinister voice.

"Come on love lets go for a cup of tea," Said his Mrs.

A hurtful gesture followed that implied that Mr Midlands played with his willie, and in the brief moment that he was offended they escaped.

A few hours passed and Mr Midlands found him self on Evil Patrol, he sat down in a field to eat his Bournville Chocolate, when he spotted a dark cloaked figure chasing sheep around the gorse. It was The Evil One and he was shouting "BAA BAA FUCKING BAA."

"So its sheep rustling now is it cunteye?" Remarked Midlands calmly. He delved into his utility cargo pocket on the side of his sturdy trousers and pulled out an inflatable shepherd, which he blew up with one exhalation from his mighty lungs. The Shepherd stood erect on the hillside and suddenly all the sheep were gathered around his blow up sandals.

"Damn you midlands, you have foiled us again you bastard fucker!"

Mrs The Evil one approached Mr Midlands from behind and slipped a crook between his legs before pulling it back sharply into one of his bollocks. In his agony, lying on the floor nursing his balls they escaped.

Later that day as Mr Midlands had stopped to quench his thirst by the reservoir, he spotted a familiar dark cloaked figure stooped over the water with a bottle marked "Poison" There was only one thing for it Mr Midlands reached into his utility pocket once more and pulled out a fuck off bottle of bleach which he tipped into the water to kill off the poison.

"Damn you Midlands you have foiled us again, you shit, you bastard, you fucker, you bastard."

"Why do we have to take over the world today love, its Sunday, Can't we go for a cup of tea?" Mrs The Evil One was pulling on the back of his cloak and kicking him in the arse. Before Mr Midlands could capture the evil couple they had boarded the evil submarine and escaped. A solitary speaker rose from the surface and over this aqua tanoy the words, "Just you wait until tomorrow, you shit, you Bastard fucker" were audible before they disappeared into the water. There was really no need for this and Mr Midlands flew off to church like the fine upstanding Christian that he was.


Bimble is sitting on his arse in a cafe thinking about condiments. He had a loathing for tomato ketchup; it was surely the worst of sauces. The waitress appeared to be a cannibal but he put the thought aside and looked at a sugar packet.........

"Beware the return of the cannibals"


Bimble had been accosted many times by Jehovah's witnesses, who always knocked on his door at the very worst of times. One morning he was stood at the door shirtless after having rushed out of bed only to find the foul beings on his doorstep looking at him with doe eyes and trying to pursued him into giving his life to Jehovah. Half way through the conversation he heard himself saying "For the third time I'm just not interested, its not you its me, I'm just not ready for God." Suddenly their eyes began to glow red, and they leaped at him with their extremely sharp teeth and tried to eat him, all the time discussing how decrepit Bimble's cooker was. Bimble managed to grab a broom and slam it into the face of a middle age woman. He beat them back and swept them out the door, never again would he be happy with one lock on the door.

Basil, when sat it a lecture, woke up to find that the tone of the lesson had changed to how to cook human flesh, he realised that every one in the room was donning napkins and getting out knives and forks. The lecturer pointed to him and bellowed. "You were asleep boy! Eat Him, ALIVE!"

They all leapt for him and the only thing that could save his life was called upon, assertiveness, he dashed from the room as fast as he could loosing a leg as he went but still able to hike no matter what the obstacle.

Sprout was paying in a cheque one Wednesday afternoon when she happened to notice, just in time, before the cashier was about to eat her, that the cashier was about to eat her, and stabbed her through the eye with the cheap pen that she had grasped in her hand. Blood poured out in a huge river across the carpet and was soon being drunk by the other staff.


A world unto itself untouched by human mind hand or endeavour

Three men sit, huddled together under a layer of blankets in a country farmhouse not far from here devoid of heating or furnishings. They probably are not sipping hot beverages because of a lack of electricity or running water. They in fact have taken up residence in the early Stone Age.

I remember my first meetings with the two of them that I know better. Their names as I would discover were Loathing Cheese and his compodre Mr Shit Pants. They were not their real names but they must stay anonymous. Basil and me had bent our minds and set off on a downward stroll towards a dark establishment. We visited Ramases on the way he had been busy. We entered for the fee of two English pounds, which were passed to a tall man in glasses who was as ever dressed in black and as friendly as the day was long. It was small dark and sinister in there; the walls seemed to be made of primitive paper mashe and it felt like the safest and most exiting place in the entire universe. We smoked some rolled up cigarettes and then were joined by the two other young men. Basil had found a small caterpillar crawling around in his hair. This had disturbed him greatly and he has still found no explanation for its presence. I was still a new face in town in those days the Christmas lights were already up around the lamp post but I have no recollection of what time of year it was. Everything seemed a world unto itself untouched by human mind, hand or endeavour. God knows what else happened that night.

I was alone one night in a very dark, small and sinister establishment, which was extremely crowded, I danced there for about three days before finding my self sat below the moon, pretending to be Buddha. Later that year I would meet the Girl With Herbal Remedies, we had headed to the middle of nowhere, to an all night garden party with a strange man who had first exposed me to the wonders of what lay beyond the surface of this world. Quiet casually he did it and with out question or knowing who it was that I was. That summer night was fraught with danger and a run in with a band of swine would put the fear of death in me forever more. I always felt like my life was never going to end until the moment that my indulgences were put under threat.

I was supposed to move into a different house than my present residence, which has become a haven for those without security or a place to live. Unfortunately a potential housemate lost his mind and went AWOL. All madness ensued and I found myself here, I was then joined by Sprout who had lost her way in the capital and had escaped to a more temperate social climate. I was then indulging my self in a seriously misguided way, no one there to guide me in my own little world that no one could come any where near so as not to fuck it all up. I came through the other side and suddenly realised that I had lost an unbelievable amount of time somewhere. The Evil One arrived shortly after, and then The Girl With Herbal Remedies, attached as she was to Loathing Cheese. I had met The Evil One whilst lying on the North American plains and he appeared to me as an old friend Grazing Bull. One night he was almost lost on a hill as a storm was approaching fast and we had met three people I knew strolling around the bracken in a random configurement. It is peculiar how people end up living together I think.

I remember the day that I first met Bimble, he was just the cuffs on the shirt I was wearing and as I walked, or Bimbled they moved around in a swirling motion. This is the root of my identity now. Fragments of the people I know and the events that I have involved myself in have left their mark but I am merely the movement of shirt cuffs when walking.

As for those people who seek to live in a farmhouse in the middle of no-where, I see them frequently now they have moved out of town, it seems that every peak id followed by a trough, and a trough has enveloped the town in which I live. The outside world need have no effect on such a remote placement of community but it seems to none the less. All the people that have existed in these pages are still living quite happy lives; there has been no tragedy; no end to the world around me. The individual is a world unto them selves untouched human mind, hand or endeavour. That first psychotropic realisation is still the most prevalent and wise of all those that have entered my mind. It is applicable perhaps easier for some of those amongst us to create our identities out of thin air and masquerade before the world screaming aloud that we will be whoever we want and do whatever we please. It is by complete accident perhaps that any of us exist, most of our parents are only here because of the Catholic Faith, and allot of us because of power cuts, poor planning and a certain lack of responsibility. Children of the Eighties why do we feel so lost? Is it perhaps because we were not created from a sacred moment of love but by accident? What else is evolution except accident, the mutation of something that achieved existence into the eventual being that can choose whether or not to accept a meaning to our lives? You can live with out purpose, but happiness may never appear. The human race has no purpose, we exist by mere co-incidence. But this is just the cake that we have baked ourselves, do you feel hungry?


A band of dead seafarers

It is true that navy rum helps one in sexual performance, those who spend there entire lives at sea still wake up with a morning erection as if their whole day will be dedicated to reproduction. A certain bunch of these mariners chose to mess with poor Bimble's mind, their bitterness was obvious and they stank. The sugar packet had been their mode of communication and their purpose was unclear to even them. The moistness on tabletops in cafes is not a result of the table being wiped with a damp cloth but testimony to their presence on this earth.


Bimble in space

Bimble does not have any pre-disposition for forward planning and one day decided on a whim when he was smoking his first cigarette of the day that he should go and explore the outer reaches of the universe. He armed himself with the essentials of space travel:















He dressed in his best clothes and set off on foot for the Milky Way, he was last seen flashing his hairy bollocks from Jupiter in 1913. What has become of the misguided fellow, we will never know, what will become of his further adventures in space we will probably never know, but when he returns with his unshaven face to earth, he well might be mistaken for the second coming. How Einstein's theory of relativity will apply we might never know, it may well still emerge that he shot JFK or was the main factor of contention between Elizabeth the first and Mary Queen of Scots, Keep your eyes peeled, search through those historical records, you may well find that Bimble is indeed God after all.