Aug 12th

Writing to music

By EzBloke

Does the music you listen to colour your writing? That is assuming, of course, (despite what the Americans always say i.e. never assume anything – it makes an ass out of (yo)u and me; see what they did there? Amazing. You gotta love the Americans. And I always wondered that if the Americans really did “always say that” then how do they say anything else? Could it be an inflection that confers any request? Such as a rising tone on the last “me” infers that a McDonalds fatty-burger would indeed be conducive to reducing the lip leaking precipitation currently caused by hunger and the mere thought of a beef “patty” insinuated snugly betwixt tooth-chipping bird-seed-topped doughy “baps” (not buns, cobs or rolls – all English terms of endearment) and moistened by tomato sauce disguised as “relish” and poisoned by some green slimy roundels of the “pickle” genus…) that you listen to music when you write.

I do.

I have battle scenes written to the full blood tempo of the Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. I am currently replaying the bass heavy and power beat that is 2 Unlimited’s “No Limit” – not to everyone’s taste granted but it’s so stompingly techno that I currently desire to write a Cybermen episode for Dr Who.

And this, as everything does, got me thinking; if I want to write a love scene, Bolero aside (as I mentioned to maryluv recently someone once famously described it as “an orgasm put to classical music” and as no man alive outside of a Viagra tablet (where can I get those bloody things?) can last that long without shooting for the stars and, as there isn’t any “snoring” based instrumentals mid-way, is obviously a masturbatory female orgasm with or without a rampant rabbit (where can I get one of those bloody things? *cough*)…) do I turn to “J’taime”? Or is there another piece of music which moistens the parts that significant others fail to reach? What gets the juices flowing (um…figuratively speaking… ) for you?

Do you find listening to Simply Red sufficient to crop your character list in a gruesome and particularly unearthly manner? Can you thump out a damn good sex scene to Kylie? Do the nightmares begin the minute Cliff Richard opens his throat? Does a piece of music from 40’s transport you back to your childhood? Do you write soul wrenching, tear-jerking plane crashes at the first bars of La Bamba? Let me know if it just me that cannot resist writing business reports to the theme from The Muppets.


Oct 22nd


By EzBloke


You have to love them. After all, as wannabe authors, are we not in some way, liars ourselves? Do we not take the truth and twist it beyond recognition, perhaps beyond reality as they do? We call ours “art” and “entertainment” but surely the basic raison is the same; awe-inspiring, centre-of-attention, look-at-me, admiration. No?

The alternative, and perhaps slightly more polite moniker, is “fantasist” but today’s blog is not about the sword-and-sorcery this word invokes. It’s the other fantasist; the real world, sad and pathetic, one-upmanship loser that occasionally leeches away our lives.

Today is the third day a new colleague has “humoured” me with what can only be described as verbal diarrhoea. Today’s session, thankfully, was brief, but the first instance… oh dear god I will never have that hour and a half of my life back. The thing is, the conversation having been comprehensively overheard, I am now inundated with private emails to encourage my new colleague into more and more vertigo-inducing tales.

This is not my first encounter with a fantasist and so I feel it is time, perchance, to record these memorable instances. Sadly one blog cannot hold them all…

It starts, interestingly, in the same company where I met EzBird some 20 years ago. My new boss in my new job was as young, if not younger, than me. For the sake of protecting the innocent, we shall call him Tod. I have no idea why because in truth he knows who he is, I know who he is, everyone who worked with him at the time (and quite possibly everyone who has worked with him since) knows who he is. And also Tod is quite a funny name for a couple of (un-divulged) reasons.

So… my first casual meet with “Tod” and my alternate-shift workmate and the usual newbie questions were asked. Amongst them was;

“where were you born?”

A simple enough question, you would think, but you would be wrong, oh dear god how wrong you would be. My workmate was born in Leicester, no problem. I, however, with a soldier father, was born in Iserlohn in West Germany.

“So are you German, then?”

“No,” I said slowly and carefully in the manner I have since always employed when talking to the stupid, “I was born on British soil.” (It was at a picnic and EzMum used to carry the soil around in a jar... ok, that’s not true; it was BMH (British Medical Hospital) Iserlohn which made it British. Sigh.)

“Ah” they replied and interested heads nodded.

“Although my father always reckoned I could play football for Germany or England if I wanted.” I added laughing. (I don’t know if this is true... well, I know my father did always say it, but I don’t know if I could. Probably not because I was bloody hopeless at football…) “and besides…” I began.

But Tod interrupts; he steps up to the plate and I’m sure he took a metaphorical big breath before unleashing… “I don’t have a nationality.”

“Hmmm?” Followed quickly by, “How so?”

“I was born on an aeroplane over the Atlantic…”

I didn’t laugh. I was a gullible youngster in those days. Well, that day anyway. And so my fantasist duck was duly claimed and I was anointed into the oh-for-the-love-of-god brethren of needing latter day restraints.

“… besides…” I stumbled on, side-swiped from the left field of ignorant one-upmanship, “… you get your nationality from your father…”

It was at that point, right there, that I perfected my delicate, break-the-silence, faux cough and was to employ it so much in the intervening years that some of my colleagues thought I had consumption.


* * *


Now, to keep this blog brief, I’ll skip to Tod’s piece-de-resistance.

I admit to arriving upon this one half-way through; in other words I was not, sadly, “in” at its gloriously ridiculous birth, and it goes like this:

A young sales lad had been suitably astounded to find out that Tod had an AC Cobra. (A very rare and tasty sports car for those not aware.) Now our wily sales lad had been forewarned and so set a Tod-sized trap;

“Can I come and see it?”

Of course Tod was an expert already and duly turned him down as it turns out this fantastic vehicle “was not housed nearby but at Tod’s grandma’s”.

“No problem,” says me laddo, “I’ll go there, it’s not far as you mentioned she lived nearby just this yesterday.” Pin drop, anyone? No?

“Ok.” Tod agreed, eventually. A date and time one week hence, a Thursday evening, was set.

Every day from that initial agreement the game sales lad would pop by our department and confirm that “next Thursday” was still on. Every, single, day (except the weekend… well… I say “except the weekend” but I didn’t work every weekend and also cannot be certain the lad didn’t “ring” Tod at the weekend just to be a complete pain...)

“Absolutely,” was always the emphatic reply.

“Can’t wait,” the lad says. “I love cars. And I’ve always dreamed of seeing an AC Cobra for real. My dad’s got an inspection pit in his garage…” (No...! Too late…)

“Ah, well, you’ll love grandma’s garage then…” the Tod-meister retorts and then points out that this wondrous car is also ensconced in a custom garage completely fitted out with snap-on gear (a veritable millionaire’s playground for the mechanically minded) including an overhead gantry.

“And we’re still on for Thursday night?”


Well, dear reader, Thursday duly arrives and our star is back; “Still ok for tonight?”

And this was Tod’s classic response;

“Ah. No. Grandma’s garage was burgled last night. They took everything. The car, the snap-on gear. Everything. Nothing left.”

I’m sure somewhere in the background someone asked “Did they nick the inspection pit too…?”

Further conversations, which were not as memorable, revolved around his joy at getting the insurance (“couldn’t afford the insurance; the car was worth over a million pounds…”) and the state of granny (“Nah, she didn’t hear a thing, deaf as a post.” “So neither she nor her neighbours heard an articulated lorry arrive at her house?” “No”) plus a continuing saga of Police incompetence in the ensuing investigation…


* * *


Which brings me to the modern day. This, you will be pleased, is the abridged version. I promise you it took an hour and a half out of my life. We shall also call our new anti-hero “Tod” for the sake of completeness and the fact that I cannot be arsed to think up another nearly-name.

Somehow, Egyptology was mentioned and the following (and it takes some following) trail of gibberish unravelled. (And my life ground to a halt before my wide-eyed disbelief.)

It seems our new Tod always wanted to be an Egyptologist but never got a positive response from the Channel 4/ History Channel (I forget which) team that was showing a programme at the time (?!) I should have bailed here, but I didn’t.

By some jolly happenstance, our hero found his way to Ethiopia, or somewhere suitably 3rd world African poor (again, sorry about this but these were early details that did not survive – I do not, after all, have enough room in my cranium for all the nuances and details of this monstrous quest) on a mercy ticket. (Red cross, I think. And it could possibly have been Nigeria, not Ethiopia…)

Anyway, at some point Tod’s Egyptoillogical calling overwhelms him and off he walks (?) to Egypt. Ok, I may have made up the bit about walking but his journey was remarkably (mercifully?) short and bandit/adventure free. There he finds (because Egypt is such a tiny, teeny, tiny country…) a German archaeologist of such fine standing that he is willing to let our Tod, inexperienced but salary-free, loose upon the hopefully sacred ground.

Upshot is, after three months of finding nothing, our Tod is presented with a trip to Giza on the back of his long, hard, free work where the archaeologist will be even more obliging by giving our man a free tour to boot.

Cut to the pyramid. No camera’s allowed. And the tour is fascinating. No really. Ok. You have me.

“But,” says the German, and I’m paraphrasing now, “how do you fancy a little off-tourist tour?”

“We can do that?”

“Sure! I know the inside of this pyramid like the back of my hand!”


“Great. We’ll come back later. In the dead of night. And break in…”

“Woah, woah, woah” Says Tod, sensibly. “Break in? No. That would be illegal. And we could get locked up for that!”

“It’s ok, we won’t get caught.” Said the archaeologist (obviously in some mystical and ancient language that makes our Tod say…)

“Oh. Ok then.” (!)

So the scene is set (is this dragging on too long for you guys already?) and Tod and his German return in the dead of night (this time, cleverly, with a camera.) They bribe a guard and head down the tourist tunnel as normal.

BUT! Aha! BUT! The German stops halfway down the tunnel and says, “Here we are.”



“But there’s nothing here.”

“Aha!” Says the German, and, from somewhere I dare not ask, a ladder appears. Climbing to the top and, apparently, behind a false ceiling there is another tunnel…

Inside the new tunnel “the German” is explaining that in an intricate maze in the heart of the great pyramid there are thirteen secret chambers cleverly hidden and sealed and, more importantly, off limits to everyone, including archaeologists…

Looooooong story short. Nine of the thirteen are still sealed, “let’s look in one.” Says he.

“No! We could receive the death penalty for that.”

I forget how the silver-tongued German talked Tod round but I’m sure it was fabulously intelligent and inspiring.

So now we are in the pitch black of a previously unsealed secret chamber in the heart of the great pyramid at midnight and in the middle of this great chamber is a statue. Of E.T. …

I swear to god I nearly punched him. One and a half hours that took. One and a half torturous bloody hours. And you know what? I swear if Tod laughed at the end he would have been, eventually, possibly, slightly, forgiven.

Obviously I am still waiting to see the pictures… holding my breath. (Maybe they’ll be in the boot of the Sinclair C5 which is on it’s way for everyone to take a spin around the car park in, but that is another story altogether.)

The sad thing is Tod is a fantasist and for that I can never forgive him. If I look real deep into my soul, here is why; the stories he’s made up so far are waaaaay better than mine but it’s not just sour grapes, honest. Ok, it is, but you don’t know that. Oh… wait… damn!



Mar 22nd

New Tandem Story

By Vin
While I negotiate the film rights on the first Tandem Story - (Daniel Craig is slated to play Jim and Vinny Jones is interested in Gerald) - here's a new one.  Started by Kenty, added to by me and then.....who knows.

Cathy ran crying; from the doctor’s surgery through the main front door and into the high street; it was raining hard; in between the feeling of shock; she realized;

She had just 24 hours to live unless she could find the antidote.  And the only person whose blood could provide that cure was lying unconscious on an operating table in Sweden, about to undergo gender re-assignment.
Oct 2nd

Work in progress

By EzBloke
Right... some of you may be aware that BP challenged me to write a sex scene. Some of you may also be aware that I am somewhat of a rambling writer. Some of you may not be aware of either of these two points and so it is to you I turn my bloggy-eyes, as the others will just scoff at my attempt and dissmiss it as typical EzBloke sewer substance. This, for me, was a serious attempt to write a scene, as AlanP blogged recently, that I just "don't do."

So here it is. Not my genre, not my subject matter and, if you are easily offended, not my problem...

A quick sub-note; it's not finished. In fact, it's not finished at a particularly critical point... I am still awaiting *cough* research to help pad out the female internal perspective at the end.

This is adults only. DO NOT READ if you are not, chronologicaly or intelli-quotiently, an adult. Contains strong language and scenes (hopefully) of a sexual nature.

You have been warned.

Beatrix, Imperatrix Sub Mundi.

               Just as the depth of night passed, and the call of dawn was now fractionally closer than the hush of dusk, Beatrix sat with her knees to her chin on her straw and blanket bedding. She had been thinking about this night for far too long. As her imagination ran wild and her young body responded she had, for too long now, pushed herself beyond the heavens with the swiftest and silken soft touches, leaving her gasping and releasing his name to the world. Not anymore. Not tonight. Tonight she would feel his strong arms tight around her waist, tonight she will feel his mouth on hers, sucking in his hot breath and his probing tongue. That tongue, oh that tongue, what it will do to her, where it will go in her… Already she could feel the heat rising, she could feel the ache between her legs, already she yearned to touch herself, to stimulate herself and to carry on with her wild and vivid fantasy. But not tonight! She chided herself. Her shaking hands gripped each other tighter, locking the arms she had wrapped around her knees ever tighter, her thin shift pulled down to her shins.

                Beatrix sniffed briefly, was there the merest hint of a slightly sweet smell in the air? She snorted as she stifled a giggle when realising it was her own scent. She looked around, her heart beating fast, suddenly anxious that the odour would carry across to the cots around her and rouse her fellow servants. She held her breath for what seemed like an age but none stirred beyond the tossing and turning she was used to seeing at this, her private hour. She leaned forward, consciously forcing her distended and aching nipples into her thighs, hoping for some respite and desperate to smother another round of wanton thoughts.
                Despite her young age, Beatrix was not unfamiliar with sex having lost her virginity to the shepherd Tortop a number of years ago after helping him introduce the households’ one and only ram to the ewe herd he was charged with protecting. Her deflowering was a not too unpleasant experience, the pain of his all too brief entry was nothing compared to the lashings she had endured as an errant child. Since then, Beatrix had enjoyed the tutelage of all three of the stable boys and, once, Emmalina the milkmaid. None of the boys, however, were as well endowed as the master, Borsmir.
                Called to the main house on an errand late one evening she passed his chamber window and chanced to look in just as he stepped naked from his dust covered breeches. His limp manhood hung low and from Beatrix’s side on point of view looked to be a good two hands width long. She stared in through the window, mouth open and eyes wide as he threw his dirty linen into a corner and, turning away from her, showed his powerful, muscle bound back  below which, shining white against his hirsute darkness, were his proportionately small buttocks. He leaned forward and picked clean breeches from his chair and turned to the window.
                Beatrix gasped, her eyes, still wide, flicked up from his limped groin and into his fierce, piercing blue eyes, they connected for the beat of a fairies heart and then she turned and ran, panicked, across the yard and on to the kitchens, her original destination. She strained her ears, waiting with painful heart for the muster that would seal her fate to yet another beating or perhaps worse to be banished from the household altogether. A yell that did not come, and she passed through the door into the heat of the kitchens at such speed nearly sending a young child and her water bucket flying. She rasped her message to the junior cook all the while glancing fitfully up  at the doorway.
                It was weeks later that she next came into the masters’ presence, and it was then that she caught his eye once again, only this time, he was fully clothed. The look that he gave her, however, stripped her naked and rammed her forcibly up against the wall, one leg over his forearm exposing her femininity and opening her up for that huge lance of his to enter unhindered; all in front of his guests and, more importantly, his heavily pregnant wife, the Lady Ethane.
                And now it was time. She rose, shaking from her cot, and padded quietly out the dormitory, her arms crossed tightly against her still throbbing chest, mainly to stop the light shifting of material from dropping her to the floor there and then to violently rub away the itch deep within her groin.
                Earlier in the day, she had prepared the ground, performing oral sex on one stable boy whilst another mounted her from behind like a mare. She felt like a boar roasted at a celebration. It was over all too soon, as was always the case with the boys, and she almost choked as one last lunge took her by surprise and she snorted his semen back up as she attempted to breath. But their gratitude combined with some extra coin in their pockets meant they had hit the town tavern hard and now she just had to check they were sleeping soundly. 
                The heady mix of damp horse and hay assaulted her nostrils as soon as she entered the stables. Meadowknight, the masters stallion and ignorant accomplice in her plans stood, head down in his stall and, stinking of drink and vomit, the two stable boys were dead to the world in theirs.
                Beatrix’s heart skipped and she her hands began to shake, she stumbled as her legs were almost weak with the excitement. She made her way through the house, her belly knotted and her groin practically soaking as she went over her plans in her mind. Wake the master gently, whispering quietly so as not to wake the Lady Ethane, and tell him the boys needed his help to calm a spooked Meadowknight.
                She entered the bed chambers on light feet, her hands still shaking to the beat of her thumping heart and she could barely control her twitching limbs as she made her way stealthily to her masters’ side of the bed. She released her captive breath in a stilted gush of nerves and laid her hand softly on his shoulder.
                “My Lord?” She whispered. “My Lord?”
                “Mmmm.” He barely stirred.
                Beatrix pressed harder. “My Lord? I’m sorry, but you must come to the stables…”
                “Mmmm?” He stirred and rolled over to face her. Beatrix dare not look from his still sleeping face down the bed to his crotch, exposed by a short nightshirt that had ridden up to his waist.
                “My Lord? There is trouble in the stables.” She spoke close to his ear.
                “Mmm? What?” He stirred and opened one eye, frowning.
                “The stables, my Lord. Meadowknight is… restless.” Restless? Restless? Stupid girl, she chided herself.
                “Let the boys deal with it!” He barked, still half asleep. Too loud, the Lady Ethane shifted and roused slightly. Beatrix held her breath. Ethane settled again, her back to Beatrix and her quarry.
                “The boys are drunk my Lord. I fear a fox my have nipped your horse…”
                “What?!” He woke and sat up, looking straight into her eyes.
                “I’m sorry, My Lord…” Beatrix spoke without thinking, “I didn’t want to disturb my Lady, but you must come to the stables and settle Meadowknight. I feared he may be lamed and your journey tomorrow is…”
                “Damn those boys. I’ll have them whipped if that horse is harmed.” He swung his legs off the large bed and waved Beatrix out dismissively. She turned away, reluctantly, her heart beating furiously and her mind racing with what if’s and possible regrets.
                “Borsmir? What are you doing?” It was Ethane.
                “Hush, now. Go back to sleep. I am summoned to the stables, something about a fox biting Meadowknight. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
                “Why can’t the stable boys deal with it?”
                “Drunk, it appears.”
                “Have them whipped. What’s the point of having the damn wretches look after the stables if they do something like this… hmmm?” Her voice trailed off as she drifted back to sleep. Beatrix, at the doorway looking outside in deference to her imminent seduction, relaxed ever so slightly. Until Borsmir, with his strong hand on her shoulder pushed her ahead of him toward the stables.
                Beatrix rushed ahead with images of the two stable boys awake and tending Meadowknight worrying her mind. She felt no sense of relief when she found the stables unchanged from her sortie what seemed like hours before. Now she had to seduce him. She turned, raising her hands slightly to touch his huge chest and slow his approach. The plan was to look up into his big eyes and whisper “If it pleases you My Lord, I ask that you fuck me,” to step back and shrug her own scratchy nightshirt from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground and stand naked before her master. He would, of course take her gently in his arms and kiss her long and deep before dropping both hands to cusp her buttocks and lift her off the ground while she wrapped her long legs around his waist and settle slowly down to be impaled upon his enormous cock.
                Borsmir, however, stepped round her, his eyes only upon the placid Meadowknight. He placed one hand on the horses high rump and leant down like a master blacksmith to inspect the horses hind leg.
                “My lord…” Beatrix began.
                “Hush child.” Borsmir straightened up, and threw her a fierce frown crowned look as he stepped to the horse’s, now alert, head. “Damned if I can see any bites, and I thought you said he was unsettled?” His harsh voice boomed in the large, waste-odour heavy, barn.
                “My… Lord…” She faltered. This was not going to plan.
                “What did you get me up in the dead of night to see child?” He turned to her, the anger in his eyes and the towering physique she spent so long yearning for made her step back, nervous. Her excitement was replaced with fear, with uncertainty. “Well?! Don’t just stand there with your mouth open, child! Answer me!”
                Something inside Beatrix was fighting, deep inside her, she wanted to strip and seduce the man of the house, but its enemy was the overwhelming sense of fear that it would be misplaced, that she was wrong about his hungry desire for her, that one look from him was not enough to be certain this, she, was what he wanted.  And the fear was winning. She had to do something, say something, anything.
                “M…me.” She said in a half whisper, her face flushed scarlet and burning, her throat constricted and dry. She stared at him and time hung seconds on the coat hook marked hours as nothing happened. “Me.” She said again, quietly, waveringly still, but deliberately.
                Before Borsmir could reject her, she shrugged in her nightshirt, the smooth flowing drop failing to occur as planned, as practiced. The shift steadfastly remained on her shoulders, and she shakily moved her hand up to brush it gently, then more determinedly over her pale skin. The shift took it’s course and fell to the ground and Beatrix suddenly realised that maybe summer would have been a better season to stand naked before the object of her lust.
                Borsmir, watched her with a mind still angry at the intrusion, a mind still half asleep and a mind still concerned for his horse. He heard the uncertainty in her voice and the shaking stilted movements of her hands. He watched, unmoving, as she shrugged and one rounded shoulder saw the flickering light of the oil lamps and he couldn’t help the laughter that began in his belly as the young serving girl had to force her nightshift off the other shoulder. He threw his head back and laughed, and when his gaze returned he stared at the naked girl.
                Beatrix felt sick. Borsmir’s laugh made her want to run, the cold against her skin overriding the heat of her embarrassment, the golden-yellow straw beneath his feet in stark contrast to her bright-red tinged porcelain-white skin. She passed her hands over her exposed breasts and covered her small blonde patch of pubic hair. Her head hung low and she was an instant from turning and running away.
                Borsmir drank in the matchless beauty of Beatrix’s naked body. His eyes fed greedily on her large yet self-supporting breasts, the deep crevasse that formed as she forced them together in her faux attempt to hide her body. His gaze dropped to her right hand that, long fingers flat against her pubic mound, covered her sex. And inside he felt the demon lust awake, first visiting his belly, then raising his standard. His mind filled with craven images and wanton acts and penis surged with blood, crudely lifting his nightshirt. He stepped forward, his only thought was to own those soft, wet, bee-stung lips, to taste them, to feel her breath and to lick the roof of her mouth. He would suck her tongue out from its luscious cavern and let it play on the taste meadows of his.
                Beatrix looked up, her breath caught as Borsmir stepped forward. His huge head dipped down and, with one giant hand on the back of her head, crushed her closed lips on his. Their lips worked together and she opened them as his tongue announced its triumphant conquest accompanied by a warm mead-strewn zephyr that filled her widening hungry mouth. His other hand swept round behind her back and pressed across the slight valley above her spine, squashing her tightly onto his chest. Her hands, dropped from covering her shame, reached up and made to hold her new lover but Borsmir broke the embrace, his head rising beyond Beatrix’s searching, gasping reach. He stood up, proud and erect, and held her at arms length, and she searched for meaning in his eyes. She found it; it was lust, unadulterated lust. He almost stared through her, she could see his mind whirling and a look of, what she took as fear of discovery, crossed his face.
                “I’m yours to command, My Lord.” She whispered.
                “Hush, child!” He frowned.
                Borsmirs face took on a look of concern as he scanned the surroundings looking for an empty stall, whereupon he would exorcise the last month’s frustrations upon the altar of this young maid’s virginity. His mind raced with games to play, acts to perform and a perfect body to violate. But first, he had to release the pressure of four weeks of sexless pleasure or even relief as his heavily pregnant wife drew further from bedchamber activity. This girl has awoken something in him that a thousand horses could not stop. He looked around, not for location as much as just delaying the inevitable whilst he considered how he would take her.
                Beatrix, watching Borsmir look about, was beginning to feel the strength of his grip on her arms and whilst she did not bruise easily, his hold on her was dousing her ardour.
                “I have prepared the stall next door with an extra layer of hay, My Lord…”
                She was manhandled around the corner and pushed forward, twisting to land on her back. She giggled nervously as she looked up as Borsmir, framed in the stall entrance against the dim flickering light of distant lamps, and the coarse nightshift which was rendered see-through. Her nipples ached as she stared at the mountain he was making of his shirt hem and, unconsciously, she reached up to release his engorged penis.
                “Oh…My Lord.” She whispered as she flipped his nightshirt up and back to rest loosely at the base of his large cock. She held her breath as her fingers reached slowly out and touched the veined and rugged looking side.
                Borsmir, stood looming over her naked and prone body, sucked in the cool night air as she curled her fingers slowly around his shaft and watched as Beatrix, wide-eyed, stared transfixed at his pride. In an instant he made a decision and reached over, put his large hand on her head and hauled her forcibly up until her face was level with his manhood. He looked down on her, showing no emotion, and stared into her corn-flower blue eyes. He leaned over her and the weight of his cock brought it to the horizontal. He pulled her head back into position and as her lips parted to object he thrust forward and into her mouth. 
                “Suck it.” He demanded.
                No! No! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t what she wanted. What use is this? She wanted him inside her. Deep inside her. She wanted to feel joined, connected, filled by him. This was for him and him alone, and that was no good. Usually, with the other boys, this lasted no time at all and the buggers would roll away leaving her to finish herself off. Or sometimes just curse them and wander back to her chores, unsatisfied and sometimes even feeling decidedly unexcited.
                But if this was all I get, she thought to herself… her mind turned back to the sensations of the head of his cock inside her mouth.


So what do you think then...?

May 14th

Patronise me... please!

By EzBloke

Ok, this is not a serious piece, so no flame wars please; it’s a kind of open begging letter really…

Here goes;

A recent thread asking what, if any, influence did formal education have on a reader’s creativity got me thinking… whatever happened to the old fashioned mechanism of wealthy personal patronage? (Can you see where I’m going here?)

It seems to me that, as a modern society, the world is full to bursting with rich folks who are far too keen to hang on to their money and the rest of us are all the poorer for it… if you get my meanings.

According to Wikipedia (yeah, don’t go there. No, really… don’t) patronage of the arts has been around from the ancient world onwards and is an important part of art history.

The trouble is that whilst patronage does exist today, some bright spark decided that, in the most part, an organisation could mete out dribbles of money to many disparate “good” causes which was better than one lucky sod getting the lot from one wonderful benefactor. I disagree with them. I believe this style of patronage is critical for the subsistence of the arts, true, but its success draws a veil over another key issue; that of nurturing individual genius. Yes, I said nurture.

Without the financial crucible that was Verrocchio and his workshop, would Leonardo Da Vinci ever have been able to unleash the most amazing chemistry (artistically speaking) on the world? I don’t think so. Few doubt his genius, but what I find key is that in those days he was paid to be creative, and handsomely too. Not only that, but he was also surrounded with the tools to be completely… well, him.

How many Da Vinci’s are out there in our modern world, that we will forever remain “blind” to, but for financial support? Has our world moved forward in general but become dilute in specifics? Is there a way in which we can find our modern Leonardo’s and set them free to astound us with new beauty? I know I would dearly love to be one; I am sufficiently narcissistic to believe, given the right environment, I can prove I am Leonardo reborn. I’m full of ideas, me…

I’m not saying that I want a short cut or that I am the greatest at my art and therefore deserve such treatment (well, yeah, ok, I did just say that, but bear with me, ok?), but I read in New Scientist once that what makes the difference between a genius and everyone else is not innate talent per se, but the amount of hours dedicated to their art; at least 20,000; proving the adage that practice makes perfect. By studying the unusual fact that very few child geniuses continue on to be extra special adults, the report found that quite opposite to inherent intelligence, those few that did shine as adults were there by sheer hard work and dedication built on top of their noteworthy start. Of those that fell into obscurity, it was clear to the team that there was a marked difference in the time spent practising or dedicated to their art, whatever it may be. And, the team also discovered a group that did not have that initial spark of genius but their commitment and work ethic transported them beyond the common man (or woman).

To write the most amazing and incredible novel is within us all. And when I say “us”, I mean those people that have begun the second step toward “writing a novel” that is… actually writing it. Although, I will admit that I would not preclude anyone; just grade them by their journey down the path. Good old fashioned self learning through iterative practice or to stretch an analogy; taking a rough lump of rock to De Beers and letting them loose on its ugliness with their cutting and polishing until, lo-and-behold, we have a 15 carat diamond. The danger of course is there could just be a great big pile of dust because of the vast quantity of garbage that is removed…

And don’t give me that crap about publishers doing exactly this – grow up. Publishers are businesses, not charitable genius crucibles; they take a dull diamond, barely buff and sell it, nothing else. How many publishers do you know will take your poor opus and accept it, employ you, explaining that it just needs loads of polish but it will be worth it and it will be saleable in a couple of years? None. They’d go bankrupt at the third stroke. Oh, and while I’m on the subject, publishers don’t know what will sell, and nor do WH Smiths, Waterston’s et al. They know what has sold and from that they extrapolate their business model. The problem with this model, for the wannabe author, is that there is a vast ocean of directions available and most of them, for a publishing business, would lead to death by drowning and so few to a veritable treasure island – which is why you have to admire them when they do indeed choose a rickety first “raft” premise and look to float out into that most deadly of seas. And hate them when they point out your book is so full of holes, it gives colanders a bad name.

*cough* Moving on ....
So why is it that people just don’t take poor artists, such as myself (smiles sweetly), and put them up in their mansions and pay them subsistence (don't forget poll tax) any more…?

How is it that such things were prevalent in the long distant past and yet are no longer practiced in, what we believe is a more intelligent, or enlightened world? Where is our Leonardo, our Verrocchio? How can we call ourselves superior when the middle-ages got it so right and we don’t even bother? It saddens me and not just because I’m not on the list, honest.

And so to my point; I would just like the opportunity to put that New Scientist theory to the test; by a simple calculation, if I dedicated 10 hours a day 5 days a week I would be in the “great” author group in…er…. Five tens are fifty, six fifties in a year (give or take), which is 300, um times ten is – no wait, that’s no good… that’s over six years at that rate… er so, if I worked twenty hours a day… oh wait, no, no, waaaay too much, doesn’t seem to be any sleep in there… er, fifteen hours a day, seven… no five days a week for, er…let’s see… 1,333½  days or about 4½  years… then I’ll be… well, knackered mostly, but according to the magazine article, I’d be the best writer in the world… Umm, maybe I could be the second greatest author…? Put in, say 10,000 hours, and bring that date down to just the 2 years… or, er, 5,000 hours and be quite good in 1… Or did they say 200,000 hours… bugger. Anyway

Practice makes perfect. The trouble is; the practise they advocate is constant, uninterrupted. And that means you can’t go out and work for a living and earn money to exist. Your working life interferes in two ways; time and consistency. The average working day precludes the big “hours per day” figures; if you work 8 hours a day already you’ll be able to put in, what? Another 4 to 6 per day, maximum, on top during the week; let’s average that as an extra 5 a day – that alone means you need three times as long, if you can keep up such a phenomenal pace without burning out. As for consistency, the rude interruption of work means you have to waste a portion of that 5 hours a day, re-discovering your thread and rebuilding your train of thought. You could throw weekends in there too which I excluded from my original calculation as “contingency” (procrastination mostly) which would hasten both your literary genius status and inevitable demise from exhaustion. Now add in “relationships” or “families” and “quality time” and that genius horizon is sailing away from you. I would QED this paragraph with a gentle nod towards those sad, lonely people who we consider true geniuses of an art form; and how so very few were actually in a relationship, were not considered narcissistically self-centred, selfish or just plain old anti-social and the vast array that are, in fact, socially speaking, um, inept… Is it their isolation that frees them up or is their greatness an indication of their introversion? As you can see from the rest of this drivel, I would like to believe… no, I would like to prove, that it is the former.

So, any takers? Six years worth of constant, dedicated, committed, uninterrupted writing? Anyone? No? To prove a point? Anyone? I’m up for it… and think of the…er… why do people patronise…? Kudos? Return on investment? Prestige? Because they can?


By the way, if this ramble does strike a chord with you, and you are occasionally referred to as Croesus by the popular press, and are seriously considering taking me up on this challenge, could I just mention that I find I am most creative when enveloped in warm, idyllic surroundings… like, for example, The Maldives… and I, er, wouldn’t need much by way of dispensation… eighty or ninety grand a year would be sufficient to, er, save for old age an’ all that… *cough*. If it’s not too much to ask…? I’d dedicate all my work to you, mei patronatus. How’s that sound? No? You surprise me.

Apr 30th

Hooray, hooray, it's publication day. Or not exactly...

By EmmaD
So, today is officially the publication day of the paperback of my second novel, A Secret Alchemy. And bugger-all is happening, except for a lovely card from my editor and her assistant. But then I knew it wouldn't be. For a start, 'real' publication was back last November: it's the hardback which garners reviews (you hope); is waved at the book trade; given, lovingly inscribed, to your granny (the rest of the family and friends should bloomin' well shell out); sold to the libraries. But the big sales push has been for the paperback, newly garlanded with those review quotes, and just in time for the festival season.

And such are the peculiarities of the book trade that, actually, A Secret Alchemy has been available for a couple of weeks online and in the shops.  Best of all, last week it was The Times' Recommended Read, available in W H Smith for £2.99, if you bought the paper. It's the kind of promotion you hope and pray and try not to murder your stablemates at your publishers' for, because it can do magical things to sales: according to Bookscan, last week A Secret Alchemy was officially the 14th biggest selling paperback fiction in the UK.

Now that's a one-week-only appearance, obviously. I may be wedged between Katie Fforde and Val McDermid, but they'll still be there in quite a few weeks. But though the promotion costs my publisher a fortune, it means that there are now several thousand people with copies in their hands, who might buy my first novel The Mathematics of Love, or seek out my third. I'm not a total newbie in the sales charts: TMOL made no.7 in the Heatseekers chart, which is made up of the bestsellers among books by authors who haven't appeared in the main charts. But to have my second novel - "that difficult second novel" - an official bestseller, however fleetingly, is amazing. On the other hand it's also disconcerting. What you can't see is that I'm not really blogging here, I'm actually slap in the middle of writing the first draft of a new novel. It's bare, it's bony, I've just realised this chapter has no plot, and I'm not at all sure I like one of my MCs. So how the f***k am I going to get it higher than no.14? And now that ASA is out there, it's no longer - I'm no longer - private. Until now, the only people who held opinions about me and what I do were people I knew. Not any more.

So, what's A Secret Alchemy about? This is my publisher's blurb, so I'll turn away and blush in private, because is there anyone who can take standard booktrade hype without blushing? To quote Four Weddings & A Funeral, "if there is, they're not English":

"Powerful and utterly convincing.'"- Daily Mail

"There is historical fiction - and there is historical fiction... It takes real skill - and devotion - to bring characters blurred by the passage of time into focus, to breathe real life into them... Emma Darwin has managed such sorcery... Passion is the key to the success of this book... Spellbinding" - The Times

Two murdered princes; a powerful queen betrayed; a nobleman riding towards his certain death...

The story of the Princes in the Tower has been one of the most fascinating - and most brutal - murder mysteries in history for more than five hundred years. In a brilliant feat of historical daring, Emma Darwin has recreated the terrible, exhilarating world of the two youngest victims of the War of the Roses: the power struggles and passion that lay behind their birth, the danger into which they fell, the profoundly moving days before their imprisonment, and the ultimate betrayal of their innocence.

A Secret Alchemy, three voices speak: that of Elizabeth Woodville, the beautiful widow of King Edward IV; of her brother Anthony, surrogate father to the doomed Prince Edward and his brother Dickon; and that of present-day historian Una Pryor. Orphaned, and herself brought up in a family where secrets and rivalries threaten her world, Una's experience of tragedy, betrayal and lost love help her unlock the long-buried secrets that led to the princes' deaths. Weaving their stories together, Emma Darwin brilliantly evokes how the violence and glamour of past ages live on within our present.

And if that hasn't put you off, you can buy it in all good bookshops now - really truly, they should have it - or online at The Book Depository, (miles the cheapest) Waterstones, or Amazon
May 3rd

Does Publication Matter?

By Mister Rae

   Mister Rae is not my real name.  I am a Word Clouder but I have created this profile (and rather pompous name, I admit) just to post this blog. I am hiding behind this pseudonym partly out of cowardice but also because my real profile contains a little white lie.  It says I am an ‘unpublished writer so far’ but I only put that because it doesn’t offer the option of ‘published but thinks it sucks.’

    (Some of you might figure out who I am.  I can only ask you not to whip my mask off - but I can't stop you if you do).

   My book was published in 2002 and it did quite well.  It got good reviews in the nationals (apart from the Daily sodding Getalarph) and I did some radio and newspaper interviews.  It also generated a couple of commissions in some broadsheets.   I was subsequently offered two book deals – both of which I turned down. 


    You get a real kick when a publisher phones you (phones you, mind) and says they’d like to meet you.  For a while it’s great to be able to say ‘I’ve got a meeting with my publisher today’ and hopping on a train with a sense of lofty purpose.  And it’s great being the centre of attention as if yours is the only book being published.

    I even did that JR Hartley thing (for those of you old enough to remember the Yellow Pages advert) when I went into a bookshop anonymously and asked about my own book even though it was yet published.  And I remember that sense of panic when they told me its publication date and even its ISBN number – and I hadn’t even finished writing it!

    One day a package turns up and it contains your ten free copies and you quickly post them on to all those people you promised to send one to.  (And you buy more because you always promise more than you get).  You get that real ego trip of writing a personal message on the title page.

    It was great to walk into Waterstones or Ottakers (when it existed) and seeing my book on the shelf.  But after what?

    Is being published such a big deal?  Do you need publication as a final validation of your work?  Publication is a great ambition to have but as soon as your book is inside the machine it becomes public’s taken away.    

    I remember having a big disagreement with my editor over one section and he ruled that it had to be cut.  When it was published an otherwise positive review suggested it needed something else.  It was the very thing I had been told to take out.  The annoying thing is, the reviewer doesn’t say the editor screwed up; it becomes your mistake.

    Writing to a contract or a deadline is like writing a massive essay every day.  And how many of us hated doing that?  It’s so hard keeping the creative fire burning when it becomes an obligation.

    A few years ago I attended a talk by Caroline Blackmore at a Literature Festival.  She was an agent who published  ‘From Pitch to Publication’ – a guide to every step of getting a book out.  She made a very good observation; she said why is it that all writers seem to aspire to publication?  Do all watercolourists aspire to be hung in the Tate?  Writers, of all artists, seem to think professional validation is their reason d’etre.

    Now I write purely for pleasure.  I have no interest in publication any more.  I write as much or as little as the mood takes me.  Some days I’m a literary giant, other days I can’t string two words together.  But I don’t feel bad on my bad days because I don’t have to please anyone.

    I might try and get something published one day, depends if I think something I write deserves a wider audience.  But for now I’m happy.

    Wanting to be published is a worthwhile ambition – but it is not the be all and end all. 

    What you create is yours.  You have made something which didn’t exist before.  No one else could have made what you have made.  Remember that.  You don’t need an agent or a publisher to validate its existence.

    Every day that you write you are a writer.  That is all you need.

Nov 21st

6th form

By The Clockwise Man II
Ok guys I thought Id give you all an update on what ive picked for my A level subjects:
English Language
English Litriture
Oct 13th

A Selfish Lament

By EzBloke

Ok... so I scanned the monthly competition and thought "aww, poetry. I can't do poetry." And dropped the idea of entering this months comp.

This last five weeks have been hell and, don't ask me why, I just wrote this yesterday. It's raw and, almost, as it came to me (two slight edits). So, I thought, I'll wang this into the competition and see what ripples lap on my shore. Then I
read the rules of the comp and realised it didn't fit. Sigh.

So I've blogged it instead. At the very least I'll become the third most blogging blogger on this site.

There are no warnings on this one except, maybe, that it's perhaps not what you'd expect. Of me.

It's called "A Selfish Lament" and it goes like this;

He does not have Alzheimer’s,

It’s not that awful disease,

He’s suffering from brain shrinkage;

His forest is losing its trees.


He does not need treating like others,

Just a nudge once in a while;

To remind him to eat, drink and

One more nudge, sadly, to smile.


What is it with these places?

How can they sleep at night?

The people that surround them,

Reduced to this pitiful sight?


Why can’t I just help him?

Why can’t I stop all his pain?

Give him a tablet or two or three

And bring back my father again?


My God I feel so pathetic.

My God I feel so ashamed.

I’ve screamed at you in the heavens

And by God taken your name in vain.


In truth God is not my problem

In truth it is me that’s at fault

I did not take up medicine

Instead I took up being a dolt


If I had the skills to do it

If I could only find a cure

Only then you’d know I love you

Because right now, I’m just not so sure.


And you know, when this is over

And time hides all that I’ve learned

I’ll still do nothing about it

Until… too late… my turn.


Not quite laureate standard but hell, you get the idea.
Let me know what you think with the usual comments, send knickers in the post (not you Woody) etc.


Oct 28th


By EzBloke

WARNING: Contains foul language and disturbing imagery. Not to be consumed whilst... consuming.

Some of you may know that EzBird has me on one of these new fangled things called a “diet”. Well, I’m here to tell you that, cheese aside, it’s not all that bad. See this is based on lifestyle (sedentary to comatose), height (5’ 10” – and almost that around the belly too; in truth I’m starting to look like a bloody Christmas tree bauble…) and weight (17st 6lb when I started, which is the heaviest I have ever been) and a website that tells you what you should be doing – exercising more (or “at all” in my case) and eating less. (Like I didn’t know.)

It seems that my calorie intake for my lifestyle and height may be a tad… high. According to the website if I want to lose weight (well, it’s not me really, it’s EzBird; she wants me to lose weight. Sigh.) I should be consuming no more than 2000 calories a day. Easy, I thought. Weeeeeeell… no. See before this “diet” do-woppy-thing I appear to have been consuming around about, and not in excess of, some where in the region of, um… *cough*… three, er, calories a day. Oh sorry, my mistake. I mean four. Thousand. Seven hundred and forty nine. Ish.

See bacon sandwiches for breakfast are all well and good and set you up well for the day but they just don’t last. Lunch could wander between MaccyD’s, The Colonel, Subway, Pizza hut or, if I was feeling righteous, another bacon sandwich. Not all on the same day of course. Well… except there was that one time… Anyway… Oh and on Thursday lunch it was “all you could eat for a fiver” at the local Thai restaurant and I’m a sucker for shredded duck. Not that I did that *every* week. That would be silly… *cough*

Then home for tea and whatever delights EzBird had cooked up for me. Or maybe a takeaway.

Then there were the weekends… obviously I don’t drink alcohol. Copiously. So no worries there then…

Not any more.

Now my diet hovers around 2000 calories. I still have a rice crispy square and I still have chocolate; one Rolo in my pack up because EzBird loves me (who made vomit sounds? Who was it? You know who you are! Go on, get out!) and a two finger (steady) kit-kat. I still have crisps; just the one packet though. But most of all I have a hand made salad (with salad cream, granted) of chicken, plum tomatoes, pea shoots, baby spinach leaves and red or yellow pepper. Every day. And you know what? It’s bloody handsome. We eat healthy in the evening too. So food is no longer an issue.


I drink two litres of water every day. Two whole litres. I go to the loo every five bloody minutes and watch it change colour as the day progresses from a deep golden (de-hydrated) to an almost drinkable clear-with-a-duluxable-hint-of-yellow…

See, here’s something I just did not know; the signal “feed me” or “hunger” is the exact same signal for “I’m dehydrated, water me.” What’s the point of that?! Every time I got the munchies, and duly satiated same, it wasn’t bloody munchies! It was drinkies! I was thirsty, not hungry! It’s farcical! Talk about mixed sodding messages. You’d think biological evolution (unless you believe in creationism in which case you should blame God as opposed to blaming Darwin like I am about to…) would have made the two signals far more clear wouldn’t you? I mean, what if your diet only ever consisted of, er, dried food…? Hmm? You’d dehydrate to death… or something…

Anyway, not only that but also…;

I now park far away from work and it takes me ten minutes brisk walk up hill to get to my desk. (A journey I perform at lunch too. I must be mad.)

And I’m rewarded with what? The pleasure of sitting at my desk in my own sweat for five minutes, not daring to go downstairs to the gents because cold damp shreddies are ok when in situ but are gross when they return to position after a brief sojourn floorwards, and five minutes of terror waiting for the palpitations to turn to stabbing pains, for the pounding in my ears to turn to sirens and the flashing lights in my eyes to become blue – the same colour as my lips?

I figure it takes one and a half hours of sweat-free, are-you-sitting-comfortably, chewing and swallowing (easy girls) to chuck four thousand seven hundred and forty calories down your (well, “my”) gullet. A day. However, ten minutes of walking up hill until the sweat seeps through my expensive (£12 from Matalan) shirt and starts to wick into my even more expensive wool (but not a loose knitted) suit and the pedometer reads one and a half miles…vertically (ok, maybe I’m exaggerating but it bloody feels like it) and the calorie counter gloriously exhorts “Congratulations! You have burned 46 calories…” Forty-six?! Forty-fucking-six?! What I just farted would burn more than forty-fucking-six calories! I’m taking in two thousand of the insidious little bastards and nearly killing myself crossing busy roads and walking up half a mountain for forty-pigging-six calories burnt? Give me a break!

On hindsight, though, we decided the calorie counter may be buggered. I think it stopped working after I sat on it. And in four weeks I have lost 9lb’s…

Anyway, according to EzBird, next week I’m going to be jogging round the block after work. God help the local neighbourhood; if their houses didn’t have subsidence before I’m bloody sure they will afterwards.

So, keep an eye on the news and listen out for the words “seven point two”, “Richter scale” and “Kettering.”


You know what? I really need to post a blog about writing...