Feel like this government doesn’t represent you? Then vote Quadrilles, the ethnically diverse, pro-gay trivumvirate. Continue reading “Vote for Quadrilles”
published in Some Think Blue magazine may 2010.
He shuffles behind me, hands clasped behind his back, cold blue eyes looking fixedly at the floor. Is this symptomatic of an anxious first day or something more sinister? Put your hands where I can see them, I want to tell him, before my under-stimulated mind fantasizes they are brandishing something, discreetly wielding the blunt object of my demise. Continue reading “NHS Admin Temps Explained by Mrs Sue Bissett”
Feet are great. You can dance & traipse & trounce with them, plod & pounce with them. Kick and hop and shuffle, leap and bound and scuffle. Whack ‘em into teeny little points with lofty heels, or let them spread contentedly in some fluffy Bigfoot slippers. Feet are even musical; they can stomp and tap and some folk are even blessed with toes that twinkle. Not I. I’ve never really liked my feet. All the grooming that’s required to prune the nail & preen the flesh to make them buffed and beautiful; this was always too much for me. So mine have mostly hidden under socks for the past 26 years. The poor mites have only seen the light of day through a jelly-shoe one childhood summer on the beach at Bognor Regis and briefly from betwixt the strap of some Birkenstocks I found on campus whilst drunk. Until now that is. I’ve decided to say thanks for all their years of good service by burning them alive. So I do hope you’ll sponsor them as they walk gingerly across hot coals for equality between the sexes. Because if you don’t love my feet, who will?
Click here to view my JustGiving page.
A quasi-politico zine with a side of silliness for Pride ’09. Requires MA Photocopying skills to print (double sided back to front and upside down every other page if I remember correctly). Applicant must be educated to at least undergrad level in the art of Origami and stapling. Actually even I couldn’t get the staples to stay so we hand-stitched them on the train into town on the day and I was rubbish at that too!
The next time you find yourself at a bus stop in Kennington, or on a double-decker to Elephant and Castle, stop and take a look up at the sign. Tied to almost every post in this glorious stretch of the capital is a bizarre assortment of foliage. Cuttings of gnarly twig strangle the wobbly metal whilst clippings of weathered leaf twitch precariously in the wind.
At first, one can mistake it for the tragic site of some roadside accident. But I think even a tramp’s offering to road-killed vermin would be more honouring to the memory of a dearly departed one than these puked up clods of earth.
I am inclined to believe that some mystical voodoo sorceress by the name of Madame Bombola, has been boiling chicken feet in pots and dipping said twigs in the rank and thick mix to enchant the whole of SE11. Why would a creature commit such a vile and depraved act, TO PLAY God!?
No. Being a voodoo master in this day and age is not a 9-5 affair, in fact work is so hard to come by that Madame Bombola has established her own bazaar of treats and trinkets. You’ll find her most weekdays in a shanty lean-to by the shopping centre selling all kinds of plastic nick-naks and fancy-thats that would proudly adorn any mantel for at least the 28-day warranty period.
Why else would a consumer with such discerning taste as myself be getting overwhelming urges to buy a giant plastic Buddha head that emits a multicoloured aura from its crown when connected to any mains socket?
It MUST be witchcraft.