Anti Grav



Captain Roland Boon had been floating around in space longer than his oxygen starved, stimulus deprived noggin could recall. Without the luxury of a spacecraft to noodle around in; stretch his legs once in a while and actually sleep in a blessed human bed, he had become quite inhumanly grumpy.

The last star he saw flying past his field of vision he had called a particularly viscous name. Indeed, it had been the only thing he’d given emphasis to all month.

Boon had been floating in the vacuum of space for four solid years ever since an accident on the station sent his 5ft, hairy little body hurtling light years into space. You see, he shouldn’t have been messing with the generator when he hadn’t read the instruction book. Everybody else had died. Jones the cat had died; burnt up quicker than setting light to a human hair and equally smelly.

But, Boon was wearing his space suit and somehow the blast, rather than splitting his atoms asunder, had sent him like a pinball into the cosmos. And that wasn’t the strangest thing; he had been without oxygen for 3 years, 11 months and 29 days.

It was Christmas day, Boon had always loved Christmas, the family gathered around the naffly decorated tree and Grandpa pissing his pants after too much cherry brandy. Not that he liked his family overmuch, but it was the principle of the thing. Boon had no wife or children himself; who would want a short, overly hairy, foul mouthed pervert? But his brothers, all of whom were well over 6ft tall, extremely muscular and annoyingly good looking, all had wives. However, none of them had Boon’s special gift.

Boon had afforded himself a little present seeing as there was no one else around. He’d messed his spacesuit. After 3 years, 11 months and 29 days of constipation it had flooded out in one go making him look a little like a weeble. Appropriate, Boon thought sourly, the spacesuit was not designed to accommodate human waste and the smell was atrocious, an infinity of drifting through space with the smell of his own excrement for company. At least he’d not been sick.

Seconds later Boon was copiously sick, plastering the inside of his helmet with rancid, bilious green fluid. It was then that Boon’s luck changed.

Boon took a deep breath of nothing, his mush of a brain having already forgotten that he was suspended in his own waste like an immortal goldfish left to swim in a cruelly neglected bowl. The comparison was more apt than Boon could ever give it credit for – for he was in fact immortal – that was his special gift. His organs and functions, however, were susceptible to the ravages of time and space, but he would survive them no matter what. In so many ways it was more of a curse than anything. However, lady luck did shine on him at that moment. A solar wind pushed him in the direction of a small white fleck floating light years in the distance and 10 years later he was floating alongside it.

A small round asteroid that had been following a trajectory for Boon’s privates for quite some time hit Boon at the exact moment he arrived at the object, and Boon gasped in pain, flung an arm out and was from that moment forward attached to a  homing beacon. A homing beacon of dubious origin, but still recognisably a homing beacon. Boon was smart enough to realise that now he was either being gently pulled in the direction of an inhabited planet or, with any luck, a vessel would be out searching for the device.

Boon was over 5000 years old but that pain never got any easier to bear, especially when your spacesuit is so bursting at the seams with waste matter that you can’t bend over and cup yourself at all. eventually the pain eased and the flashing lights went away and Boon took stock of this new development. the beacon looked fairly new but there were no markings denoting planet or spacecraft, odd that, perhaps some military peice of hardware? Either way it said to Boon – civilisation! after all this time drifting alone he had had some outrageous luck.

Unfortunately the beacon was emitting a very low frequency noise as part of its operation. This noise, unbeknownst to Boon, could be otherwise described as the ‘brown note’ whatever or whereever this peice of fortune led him, Boon was going to do it in a sea of his own faecal matter.


Boon ached, a dull gnoaring at his innards as they continously tried to void what was no longer there to void, great heaving retches left him breathless and immense bowel spasms continually racked his poor immortal frame. His spacesuit now resembled a large, odious beachball, in fact Boon was close to drowning in his own filth, it was only his special gift that kept him from dying due to massive internal bleeding, or the effluvia filling most of his lungs. He couldn’t move, he had to do something. Reaching carefully down inside his tortured spacesuit Boon located the knife strapped to his filth matted thigh.
It became a delicate game of cat and mouse. Boon’s trembling fingertips managing to brush the hilt of his dagger, the dagger eluding his grip as the sheath slips down his leg. The exertions forced more gas and liquid to flow from inner space to outer space. Finally he felt the knife come loose, but failed to make a successful grab on the handle, letting it float gently out of reach. Boon tried to whip up a current in the fragrant brown jus within his suit, hoping that the knife would be channelled into his waiting palm. He froze. What if the knife were to sink all the way to the bottom?

Boon relaxed everything lest he disturb the sharp pointy time bomb loose within his suit. He waited a couple of hours until he felt a sharp prod in his nether regions and he made a swipe for the blade. The swipe was wide and swept the knife away in a wave of human compost. Boon cringed at his stupidity.

Adding to his misery, it just seemed to be getting hotter and hotter in the confines of his ballooning space suit, and since nothing could produce such heat internally Boon concluded that the problem must be external. He surprised himself from time to time with such shrewd observation.

It really was getting incredibly hot. And soon the contents of the suit were bubbling away and Boon’s skin was feeling the pinch of 1000 degree temperatures.

The little hairy man had in fact entered the atmosphere of a little brown planet and he was burning up like a boil in the bag salami. The molten waste in his suit was furiously cooking him alive, expanding even more within the taut lining. Something had to give.

As he entered the planets outer atmosphere, the planet’s gravity started to exert its influence on him and more importantly his ‘cargo’ a gently increasing spin was applied to the musty contents of his strained spacesuit. the turbulence of his entry into the ionosphere then added a vigorous shaking to the fetid brew and thus it was that the contents of Boon’s suit became like a filthy espresso martini, shaken and stirred.

His suit exploded.

with the addition of heat and shaking the contents tripled in size and the suit could no longer maintain its valiant fight against pressure and in a final moment of glory exploded in a silent display of Boyle’s law in action. Perhaps fortunately for Boon the contents then immediately flash-froze under the influence of the deep cold of space, unfortunately the sensation of being instantly frozen into a giant ball of your own waste matter was not a pleasant experience and Boon was simultaneously crushed and frozen.

The giant dirty ball accelerated towards the ground, gaining momentum at an alarming rate. Like some sort of god of the dung beetles Boon plummeted towards the unyielding surface of the planet.

Had Boon still been wearing his suit and not caked in three-foot deep compacted shit, a visual display would have informed him that the planet he was serendipitously aimed for was called ‘Herp’s Hive’; a quiet mining town on the outer fringe of the galactic spiral.  The only thing keeping this little conglomerate going was the presence of turbinium, vital to the construction of graviton weapons of immense power.

Devon ‘Handful’ was enjoying a beer after a hard days slog in the mine, squinting against the ever-present swirls of wind-bourn dust he tipped his head back and let the cool liquid cascade down his throat in a stream of gassy refreshment. Between gusts of dust he thought he saw a giant brown iceberg hurtling towards the main reactor, which, by some incredible feat of mine-colony engineering, was at the epicentre of the fragile snow globe they called home. He kept an eye on the clouds of dust where he had last seen the object, and sure enough, a bit further down he could see the comets’ nutty tail. It shattered the protective dome far up in the sky and Devon, unable to take his eyes off the threat, fumbled his environment suit helmet over his head. Shards of dome fell from the sky and for a moment he lost sight of the comet, but there it was, moments away from impact. A siren went off in the cantina, and a calm voice instructed citizens to don their environment suits and gather at the safe zone. Devon braced himself.

But nothing happened.

No huge explosion destroying the main reactor. No giant mushroom cloud engulfing the colony in radioactive ash. Nothing but a large hole metres away from the main reactor that tunnelled deep down into the labyrinth of mine shafts below. An intricate lace work of human endeavour that up until that point was structurally sound and safe to navigate. It had since become a death trap. Devon was one of the first miners to volunteer, despite the risk, on a mission to haul the lump out and repair the network of tunnels. He was a skilled Crawler, and had thoroughly earned his nickname ‘Handful’; which was short for ‘Handful of Dirt’, because he always had his hands full of something dirty.

A team of five disappeared into the dark hole and didn’t resurface for five days, by which time they’d looped a harness around the brown rock that was said to smell like ‘sulphur from Satan’s backside’. It took another day to haul it to the surface, by which time the entire population of Herp’s Hive was stood around the large crater gawping at the careful operation, some even cheered Handful’s name. Then disaster struck. The white speck that Captain Boon had assumed was a homing beacon was in fact a homing missile, and a monumentally evil being had just triggered the detonation sequence remotely. A small red light somewhere within the crystal turd began to blink. Boon had all of 1 second to consider his foolishness before the whole mess exploded into a million pieces of razor-sharp shrapnel…



The Junk Of Many Pearls


Part One


No one could survive here. Let alone a city boy all on his own, abducted by forces unknown, unplugged from all the comforts of living at home.

This place was hell. An island of sharp rock formations that made it one big floating deterrent. It was the thrashing seas’ natural barbed wire, set here in the jaws of hell to make mincemeat of any passing ship without a good lookout. It was less inhabitable than a malignant volcano, and yet here I was, abandoned without hope. Without anything. Not even a shelter or food.

My new home was constantly battered by gale force winds, and lashed by monstrous waves. Any driftwood that turned up was quickly swept away. It was clear to me that survival was a foregone conclusion. If I wasn’t food for the gulls by the end of day one then whoever had put me here was preserving me for a worse fate.

I cast my mind back. Where had I come from? How long had I been here? It seemed perversely fitting that I drew a blank, this barren rock was thus far devoid of any human comfort so why should I be granted the warmth of my memories. The World becomes a different animal when you’re deprived of first physical shelter and then the ability to rationalise and come to terms with it mentally.

With nothing to do but stand on one of the few surfaces flat enough, I looked out at the wild, unnatural ocean. Waves like this had not graced the Earth since the planets had formed and magnificent forces plunged our green planet into perpetual turmoil. This elemental gigantism both terrified me and helped me see my rocky prison as a haven in comparison. For that I was eternally grateful. At least the jagged cliffs surrounding me offered some protection from the certain death below.

I shuddered to think of what God could preside here.

Give up my heart beat. Give up my lungs shrieked. Give up.

Yet, where there is still the beat of a heart and lungs with air to shriek, there is a body that is not ready to give up. And so I stood on that spot looking beyond the horizon with a blind belief that I would be saved.

The sea was so rough it was easy to imagine an almighty sea creature thrashing about just below the surface. I could picture it’s frenzied limbs churning the water up, whipping haphazardly in all directions like a thousand live wires. With no hope of swimming to a safer place, it became a matter of surviving long enough for someone to come to the rescue. I scoured the rocks for barnacles. Searched the meager rock pools for crab and sieved the wet sand at the bottom for anything remotely edible, but there was nothing, not even a juicy bit of seaweed to keep me going. In but a few hours the hunger was bound to set in.

I cast my eyes to the ocean again and banished thoughts of a slow and lonely death.

Some time later, having drifted into a disturbed daydream about ethereal tentacles reaching down from the clouds and engulfing my whole body, I found myself looking upon the ocean once more. This time a long thin boat was carried upon the waves, each crest thrusting it perilously closer to the needle-like rock. This was not a sea-worthy vessel, but something more resembling a canal boat. It was narrow and had all the accoutrements of a floating home. Plant pots rolled around on the top spilling dirt and dead flowers. The curtains on the windows were drawn and bleached a faun colour by the sun.

I watched it get nearer, fully expecting it to smash into a million pieces on the rocks. But that didn’t happen. No, by some quirk of fate, a fluke wave lifted it clear of the first row of pointy rocks and another push from the sea jammed it into a gap so tightly that even the strongest wave couldn’t dislodge it.

Bridge Jumper

Something happened last week that reminded me how much I like public drama. It’s exciting and a break from the norm.

A group of us were loitering by a suspension bridge, it was dark by that time, and apart from the hushed conversation all you could hear was the rush of water over the weir.

As a group we like to visit this place after a night in town, it’s an opportunity to put a seal on another night of drinking and bad dancing. That and we can smoke a joint or two in peace.

This time our peace was interrupted by a semi-naked man, I’d say between 20 and 25 years old, walking past with a suited ‘friend’ in tow. As most things that pass my lips are carefully crafted one-liners (carefully crafted and crap one-liners admittedly) I quipped ‘Nice night for a walk’, a line from Terminator when a nude Arnold Schwarzenegger walks up to a gang of street punks. The twenty-something midnight stripper didn’t respond, but I did get a laugh from my mates. Thanks be to god he was wearing boxers/pants to conceal his gentleman bits and spare the blushes of the females among us, not performing the Full Arnie.

I thought that was that and was about to return to smoking and more crap one-liners, but the guy crossing the bridge stopped about half way and climbed up onto the railings. There was a collective gasp from our group, or more of a nervous will he won’t he moment, which was dragged out for about ten minutes, as we watched the now sobbing man rock back and forth on the rails, never taking his eyes off the rushing water below.

It was a mystery to us what his motives were for such an act. He obviously wasn’t prepared to kill himself because the bridge he’d chosen wasn’t particularly high, and the water not particularly strong. But, there was some risk involved. The way he was facing meant that for a clean jump he would have to clear the weir, which was about ten levels of stone sloping down in steps. Yet, if he was hoping to make the jump in an act of bravado why was he sobbing like he’d just seen a puppy mangled in a thresher? Any chance to find out is now long gone.

About 5 minutes in, my girlfriend decided to go over and play the concerned citizen and negotiate him down from the railings. She failed miserably. From her reports of the conversation he neither listened or replied to anything she said, and she could learn nothing from the increasingly worried suited man who had arrived with him. she came back to the group and we decided to call the police.

I dialed the number and explained the situation and answered a list of questions until the high vis officers came into view at the other end of the bridge. We watched with barely concealed excitement to see what the resolution would be to this midnight drama. Obviously we were all afraid of him getting injured from falling, but at the same we couldn’t tear our eyes away. I guess it’s a product of growing up with shows like You’ve Been Framed and so many so called ‘Fail’ videos on YouTube. Man tries to jump off house into swimming pool and face plants the patio – EPIC FAIL.

The cops closed in and without a word of warning grabbed him by the arms and wrestled him down. It was over. Nobody was hurt. The mystery remains though.We filmed the whole thing so expect to see that here too.

I later discovered his name was Mitch, but what’s in a name…

Mill Bridge in Leamington Spa


Outside Man

This guy has been following me for years. I call him the outside man. I see him so often that I wonder if our destinies are entwined for some inexplicable reason.

He is known as outside man because he has that sailor skin that has weathered and tanned from so much time in the open air. He picks up discarded clothes in the Winter to keep warm, and he is not fussy about wearing women’s shawls. This kind of behavior reminds me of the ‘designer crab’ or ‘spider crab’ that disguises itself from bits and pieces on the sea floor. Not that I can picture a crab in a ladies shawl…but I kind of can, actually.

I don’t know if he sees me. If he notices how often we cross paths. It could be that he has no idea that I exist, which would imply that I was more guilty of ‘following’ than he is.

Either way, I made this video to immortalize this man. This outside man.

Stick it to The Man #1

Toll Box

Any person wishing to use your letterbox must pay a tariff to the owner of the property. The rationale behind such a tariff includes; general maintenance of letterbox and surrounding area (including ‘Welcome’ mat depreciation and indoor mat depreciation) [£0.30], deterioration over time of letterbox hinge mechanism [£0.20] and man hours for said maintenance [£1.10], also; man hours for collection of post and time spent reading articles contained therein (aka ‘junk’) [£0.90].

Average cost for letterbox usage £2.50. Suck on that H.M Revenue and Customs!

New Evidence to Prove That Man Has Always Been a Bastard

According to new archaeological evidence, living in the stone age was not so different to living in modern day America.

A series of digs in the Midwestern United States have uncovered a treasure trove of information on the inhabitants lifestyle. 200 ft below sea level, the site has baffled historians and archaeologists alike, with such unprecedented findings as drive-through style diners and sporting complexes.

A vast majority of the new evidence paints a disturbing portrait of a people encrusted with vice and moral decay. Not too dissimilar from their modern day counterparts living in the surrounding areas.

Huge feasts are said to have been undertaken on any night of the week, with much food going to waste, and morbid obesity rife amongst the adult populace. Giant ribs and other assorted animal bones were discovered near to the stone age dwellings in mass dumps or rubbish tips. It can easily be assumed that these mass tips were potentially hazardous to the native wildlife and even dangerous for the human population.

Signs of animal abuse were discovered in the remains of a saber-tooth tiger buried nearby. Experts have ruled out the possibility of ritualistic sacrifice due to the animals sustained injuries that must have occurred over a long period of time, suggesting that the animal was kept in a domestic setting and subjected to cruel beatings every day of its life.

Primitive banks were also uncovered in the big dig, rendering decades of existing material on the lifestyle of stone age families completely useless. It now appears that money lending and savings accounts were as popular back then as they are now. Archaeologists are still trying to determine the exact method of banking and currency used, but they have indicated that stone age society may have leaned heavily towards a capitalist economy. This is further exemplified by the abundance of furniture and ornamental objects scattered in the (mostly) detached cave dwellings.

Humans and dinosaurs co-existed happily, with an almost symbiotic relationship existing with most species, in some cases dinosaurs were forced to perform the same repetitive tasks day-in-day-out with little to no thought given to their well-being. Again, supporting the unjust animal abuse theory.

Archaeologists attending the dig are pleased to be the first to find a truly modern stone age family.

An Address to the Oppressed

Sticking it to The Man

A very long time ago there was this guy. He looked a bit different to all the other cavemen, you know, he tidied his act up a bit. Decided that he needed to trim that beard. Clean those nasty yellow teeth. And maybe wear an ornamental piece of animal skin around his neck and call it a tie.
This, my friends, was the first prick to walk the Earth.
This guy no longer fought his battles with a large rock tied to a stick, but with smooth words and condescending glares. With one-up-man-ship, intrigue and a business card. He created a divide in the people, a rift in the hierarchy…a dis to the gruntled.

My friends, it is time to bring the stick back to the battlefield. Time to serve up a timely reminder that before that one man donned a suit and tie he was just like everyone else. But, by what means do we lowly creatures of the street have to stick it back to the man?

I have never been one to intrigue, but take it from me, there are countless ways to turn the tables. Even if it is a very minute turn it still counts for something. One turn of the screw requires an equal effort from the man to turn it back. And, friends, we have one thing in our favor. We are many, and we are united.

I’m going to start with an easy one. Every one can do it, and not only does it make a lot of sense, it will change the World for the better and it’s inexpensive. And above all it will really stick it to the man.
Plant lots of trees. Lots of trees, everywhere you go, get down on your knees dig a little hole and plant that sucker!
See more

Grow your own food in gardens and allotments

Be a Freegan (live off found food and reject a consumerist lifestyle)
See more

Upcycle. If something’s broken – turn it into something else useful
See more

So, that covers some of the things you can do to get by without resorting to the man. What else can you do? Follow me and I will post a new idea each week.

The Science of Selling Sleep

Journal article printed on 31st July, 2012

Balancing accounts

For a long time now, the human sleep cycle has remained an untapped vein of commercialization. It is unanimously and universally agreed that sleep is a time of rest, re-cooperation and a chance for the mind to unravel the mysteries of the day. In essence, it is a time of escaping the daily demands of the living. And for some, it is the only chance to switch off from Facebook for longer than five minutes.

Until now!

Sleep engineers at the University of Aalborg have been working on a method of measuring dream events on a scale of how happy they make the subject. Brain waves are closely monitored for feelings of pleasure, satisfaction and general well being. Governments have been swift to set up a dream tax, which would see ‘Slumber Accounts’ being set up in processing facilities off-shore. Here they would debit your account based on such things as distance traveled and food consumed during the period of sleep.

Those with an appetite for dreaming about sex would suffer the steepest charges.

It works both ways too. With sleepers being able to wake up after a session of ‘sleep duty’ having actually earned money. This can be achieved in a number of ways, but the most common is taking part in slumber surveys that can last up to 8hrs. At the other end of the spectrum  are the advanced dreamers who can actually be induced into performing basic tasks like assembling flat pack furniture and packing boxes. So, the midnight hours don’t have to be a drain on your back account, you’ve just got to work for it.

Sleep debtors are in the unenviable position of not having dreams at all or in fact experiencing chronic suffering during sleep. This ensures people keep up with their payments or at least perform a civic duty at bedtime.

Dreaming just stepped out of the dark ages and into the front pages.

Bob Dylan, a great man…

Now, a very great man once said
That some people rob you with a fountain pen
It didn’t take too long to find out
Just what he was talkin’ about
A lot of people don’t have much food on their table
But they got a lot of forks ’n’ knives
And they gotta cut somethin’

Talkin’ New York by Bob Dylan